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Klitzman's Empire (Paul Blades)


Klitzman

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The story of Harry Wiggins continues in this episode in the Klitzman series.

A lifer in a Federal pen, Harry was given the chance of infiltrating the infamous organization known only by the cursive letter `k` - which stands for Klitzman.

Having infiltrated the organisation Harry is unsure who his contact is meant to be, but as the island has over 200 young, sexy women, all of whom have been stolen from another life somewhere round the world, Harry is able to enjoy life, though there is one thing on his mind.

If one of the girls captured recently was indeed his contact, she is bound to break under the training the young women are subjected to, and that could blow Harry's cover.

Discover what happens next on KLitzman Island, the pleasures that await the fortunate males, and the pain that the young women have to endure to satsify the men they are forced to serve. It's all part of Klitzman's Empire.

Editorial: Formerly titled The Pleasures of Klitzman's Isle

Product type: EBook    Published by: author - self-published    Published: 6 / 2009

No. words: 62860

Style: Sex Slavery / Training, Male Dom - M/F

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle

Click Here For All Books In This Series


Excerpt

I’m 37 years old, I’m on a hot list of escaped felons, a fugitive from a life term for murder one, and I’m living on an island somewhere off the coast of West Africa. I get laid at least three or four times a day from my pick of over two hundred beautiful, compliant women. I get three meals a day, or more, if I want it. There’s a great gym, a tennis court, a nine hole golf course and some fine fishing. The booze is always top shelf and the company is usually interesting, if not pleasant. So why am I complaining? Because tomorrow, if I fuck up, I could be roasting over a low burning fire wishing somebody would slit my throat.
You see, I’m living a charade. My name is Harry Wiggins. When my story began, I was an inmate in a Federal pen doing a life term for murder and racketeering. A couple of government guys came by one day and offered me a chance at the street. Bederson and Mulitieri. They were not from the FBI, they said, and that was about all I knew about them. All I had to do was join up with one of the most ruthless and powerful criminal organizations of modern times. It was an organization that had no name, but went by a simple letter, when needs be, a lowercase, cursive ‘k’. That stands for Klitzman. He’s an obese, gluttonous, greedy, amoral, vicious, insatiable demon of a man. He sits on his little African Island and runs his criminal empire like a modern day Roman emperor. All hail Klitzman!
So my name and profile was fed to Klitzman’s recruiter in the prison and, after doing a little wet job for them to prove my mettle, I was hustled out of the joint and flown here. I was supposed to get a contact from the Feds before I was sprung, but I was left high and dry. While I was in route to Klitzman’s version of the ancient isle of Capri, at a way station in the Venezuelan jungle, two female American reporters named Lois and Delia had been caught by Klitzman’s henchman, Morianos. They were snooping around. I thought it too much of a coincidence and that one of them might be my contact. Klitzman’s second in command, a mountainous African named Rukimo, conducted an initial interrogation of one of them, Lois, in my presence. Her story held up. It was the other one, Delia, I was worried about. I knew that Rukimo had very persuasive ways and if the second girl was a Fed, they would certainly force her to give me up eventually. All it would take was one slip in her meager cover story and I was fucked.
So, on my first full day as a ‘supervisor’ on the island, I was lying in bed, musing over the vagaries of fate and my own tenuous future. I had been lying awake for hours. I watched the light break through the window of my dormitory room as it grew from a grayish hue to full brightness. Since the windows were high on the wall, more functional for light than for viewing, I could not see whether any activity had commenced outside. I imagined little slave girls hustling to their morning stations, bedraggled males staggering back to their rooms.
I was not alone. The girl I had callously used and abused last night was kneeling naked at the foot of my bed, nervously awaiting my pleasure. I had fucked her every which way I could think of. Something about her frightened, vulnerable demeanor had sparked a fury inside me. I did not need poor little slave girls looking up at me, doe eyed, tottering on the edge of tears. I had my own problems.
I looked at her, kneeling there, waiting for a signal from me. She was a fine specimen of a girl. She had long black hair and ample, pointy tipped breasts. He legs were spread, revealing the treasure that lay between them. She was no more than twenty, maybe twenty one. She had been stolen from somewhere, had a life, friends, probably a lover. I didn’t know how long she had been Klitzman’s property, but I did know that she had completed Rukimo’s little boot camp for slave girls and wore the symbol of her captivity, a bright red, cursive ‘k’, branded into her right buttock. The fear of displeasing a master would be, by now, second nature to her. She could look forward to nothing else, probably for the rest of her life. She was a slave at Klitzman’s prime resort. Men paid hundreds of thousands of dollars a year to ‘vacation’ here. She was a commodity that they paid to use, an amenity of the house.
But, she was a valuable commodity who would continue to live as long as she followed the rules and pleasured earnestly and skillfully every cock that was presented to her. But me, my life could be forfeit in a most inconvenient way at the drop of a hat. I sensed that Rukimo already had his suspicions.
As I stared at the rays of soft light that peered into my room, I decided that I might as well just go with the flow. I would get all the pleasure I could, while I could still get it. If I was to be chopped up into little bits and fed to sharks, I wanted my last thoughts to be that it had been worth it. There really wasn’t any alternative. Besides, I knew I was being watched. If I hesitated about exploiting the island’s main attraction, it would only serve to heighten any suspicions they had of me. And, to top it off, having spent almost four years behind bars, I was very horny.
I ordered the girl to my bed. Last night I had learned that she had almost no English. So my order consisted of a motion with my hand. She jumped up to obey. She hopped on the bed next to me expectantly, her breasts pushed forwards in a presentation position, her legs spread apart, and her hands palms up on her thighs. I let my eyes enjoy the sight of her magnificent body. Her stomach was as taut as a drum. Her thighs were firm and graceful, her hips wide, giving her torso a gentle curve. Her skin was dark, definitely Mediterranean in origin. I recalled her smooth, salty skin from last night. Possessing her freely, without thought for her pleasure or pain, had thrilled me. But now I wanted to drink of her passion, to see her roll her eyes and groan with pleasure at my behest.
I pulled her down so that she was lying flat on the bed next to me and I pushed her onto her back. Her skin was hot next to mine. I ran my hand down over her flat belly and over her thighs. She was shaking slightly, nervous as to my intentions. I leaned over her and began to kiss her face softly around her mouth, down her chin. I could smell the remnants of last night’s sweaty orgy on her. I looked into her eyes, which were a deep brown, and were widened with apprehension at my gentle caresses. Holding her head still with my free hand, I parted her lips with the tip of my tongue. I searched out her hot companion and, covering her mouth with my lips, delved deeply within. I felt her mechanically accept her mouth’s invasion and the heat from our twirling tongues. Slowly, her reserve melted away. I lifted my lips from hers. She sighed in response and, for the first time, looked me in the eyes. Her mouth accepted mine greedily when I again lowered my lips to hers.
The girl’s whole body seemed to shift gears. I placed my hand on her breast and found her nipple to be stiff, erect. Moving my head down her body, I took a nipple in my mouth and sucked on it gently. The girl placed her hand on the back of my head, encouraging my exploration of her teat. The girl’s chest began to rise and fall with deep breaths. Slowly, while I seized the other nipple with my lips, I slid my hand down over her hip, down to her thigh. I spread her legs apart, climbing between them, and let my lips and tongue dance across her firm belly. She knew what was coming. Like a good whore, she succumbed to the passionate demands of my lips.
Seizing her little pleasure bud with my mouth, I sucked on it, long and hard. It drew a passionate, almost mournful sigh from the slave girl. Her hips began to squirm beneath me. I placed my hands under her thighs and circled them from beneath, trapping them in my grip. I slipped my hot tongue between her engorged labia and licked the length of her widening slit. The smell of her arousal was overwhelming to me. I pressed my tongue inside her, lashing at the walls of her cunt. When she gasped and began to rock her hips, I withdrew, letting her arousal simmer. When I saw that her crises had abated, I renewed my oral assault.
I delicately tickled her clit with the tip of my tongue. She moaned and took my hair in her hands, pressing my head into her loins. But this was my show. I would determine when she came.
My manipulation of the slave girl’s need for pleasure continued for at least twenty minutes. I would draw my tongue slowly down the length of her hairless slit and then back again. I seized her little nubbin with my teeth and bit and tugged at the tiny, stiff appendage. I explored inside her drenched pussy deeply with my tongue. The girl was moaning with terrible need. I gained a small clue to her native tongue as she called out in it, passionately begging for release.
Lapping up her flowing discharge like it was ambrosia, I reveled in the musky aroma that rose from within her. My cock was stiff and throbbed with its own need. But I was determined to supp fully at this girl’s loins.
Finally, I could hold her back no more. I drew my tongue up the gushing, wrinkled flower that was her pussy and pressed hard against her throbbing clit. Her body began to shake and her legs twitched. She grabbed my hair ever more tightly and called out, “Oh! Oh! Oh!” When she came, her whole torso convulsed. Her back arched and she pressed her heels deep into the mattress. “Oh! Ohhhhhhhh!” she cried again.
When she was done, her body lay quietly, like a pool of recumbent pleasure. But I was not finished with her. I had further need of her body, which was, after all, no longer really hers at all.
I let the girl rest for a few moments and then began to tickle her lower lips with my tongue once more. Her cunt was highly sensitized from my prolonged attentions and she instinctively tried to push me away, but had no strength in her arms. She could not prevent her nascent pleasure from enflaming anew. When she began to cry and moan once more, I drew myself above her and plunged my rock hard cock deep within her swollen sex. She cried out as my thick meat filled her. I pumped my hips furiously, urging my crisis on. The bed creaked and moaned as I slammed my hips into hers. She wrapped her arms and legs around me, drawing me tightly against her body, my cock deeper and deeper into her womb. I cried out when my cock began to throb and spurt its hot load into her deep channel. She cried out too, as she felt my seed awash within her.
My forces spent, I lay almost lifeless in her arms. It took me a few moments to realize that she was crying. I lifted my head and saw the tears flowing down her cheeks. Her eyes delved deeply into mine. I felt that she was not seeing me, but rather some lover from whose arms she had been permanently rent. She touched my face with her hand and smiled, slightly, through her tears. She pushed at me, urging me off of her, muttering, “Please, please.” I rolled off of her only to have her roll over on top of me. She began to kiss my chest, slowly, languidly. I felt her arms reach across me, caressing my arms and my sides. Lower and lower her mouth descended on my body. I felt my cock stir as I anticipated the woman’s design. Her hands rubbed across my thighs, spreading them as she encircled the bulbous head of my now stiff cock with her lips. The heat of her mouth shot through my loins. Slowly, her lips caressed the length of my manhood. I felt her hands cupping my tight sac, gently massaging the tender balls within.
It was my turn to groan and squirm beneath her oral ministrations. She swirled her tongue around my shaft as she raised and lowered her head. Pushing down, she took my cock deep within her throat, holding it there while I moaned with pleasure. I did not last as long as she. When she felt my cock begin to throb, she redoubled her efforts, fucking my cock with her mouth. I felt her moist heat encompass me as I pumped my sperm into her mouth and down her throat.
She did not release my prick until she felt it shrink to its detumescent state. I felt her kiss the very tip before sitting back. When I looked up, she was kneeling between my legs, her head bowed, her hands pressed behind her back.
As I looked at her I realized that we were very much alike. She knew that she was ultimately doomed, as I felt in my heart that I was. Just as I had decided to maximize my pleasure, so had she. If she had to spend her days fucking and sucking off cruel, heartless men, she would take what pleasure from it that she could. She was happy that I had permitted it, virtually forced it from her. All of my abuse of her the night before was forgiven, if not forgotten.
I shook off my incipient feelings of tenderness towards this slave girl. I had to think of her and her sisters as soulless beings, whose only purpose was the serving of their masters. If I did anything else, I would not survive. I needed to be as cold and hard as any of Klitzman’s henchmen. I did not know whether it was inside of me to be so, but for the sake of my survival I would have to try.
The telephone rang and it was Anthony. He had been my escort since I arrived the day before yesterday. He was all bright and chirpy on the phone.
“Breakfast time! Come on out and greet the day.”
“Okay, okay,” I responded somewhat wearily. “I’ll be out as soon as I can shower and put on my best brown robe.”
My crack about the robe was based on the fact that all ‘supervisors’ like me, were prescribed calf length, light cotton robes to wear. Guests, paying guests that is, wore blue. Security guards wore black. The girls wore nothing but their leather collars and bracelets and bright red, pointed, high heel shoes.
So I jumped out of bed and darted into the sumptuous bathroom. It had a sunken tub. The slave girl followed me in, her eyes downcast, ready to perform her duties as a body slave. But I wanted to get moving and abjured for this morning the sensual experience of being bathed by a naked, submissive, young woman. There would be other times.
I took a quick shower and left the girl kneeling by the foot of my bed. I walked down the curved corridor of the supervisor’s dormitory, passing other bright eyed and bushy tailed men coming the other way. I stepped out onto the veranda and saw Anthony waiting at a table for me. I strolled over, ordered coffee and a sweet roll from the slave girl and sat down.
“Have a good evening?” Anthony queried.
“The best,” I replied, and meaning it. I felt like I could conquer the world. It was finally sinking in that I was really out of the joint and back in the world, or at least one strange little part of it.
“After breakfast, Rukimo wants to see you,” Anthony continued. “I think he’s going to interrogate that other girl that came on the plane with you, what’s her name?.....Donna?... Debbie?... Delia?...Yeah, that’s it, Delia.”
I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. I realized that my supposition that Rukimo was harboring doubts as to my loyalty was probably right on. Otherwise, why would he want me at the interrogation? He undoubtedly wanted to watch me to see if I sweated. And, if the girl did out me, then he could deal with me right there and then, down in his little dungeon.
My sweet roll seemed a little less appetizing to me now. But I had to put on a good face for Anthony too. I tried to tough it out. “Yeah, Delia,” I responded laconically. “I wonder if she’s as hot as her girlfriend was,” I said, trying to sound jaunty. I had had the opportunity to join in when Lois had been ‘interviewed’ following her arrival on the island. At Rukimo’s invitation I had partaken of her flesh. “But why does he want me there?” I asked nonchalantly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Anthony replied. “Maybe he just wants you to learn some technique. Anyway, there’ll probably be a fuck in it for you. I hear he’s had her worked over pretty good since yesterday.”
And she’s probably ready to crack at the slightest urging, I thought. I decided to enjoy my breakfast as if it were my last meal. When the girl came with my sweet roll I told her that I had changed my mind, that I wanted three eggs over, medium, bacon, crispy, but not well done, home fries, whole wheat toast, orange juice and another cup of coffee. Anthony looked up at me.
“You in training?” he asked. His question reminded me that I had been challenged to go a few rounds by Thorndike, one of the other supervisors, a foreboding looking fellow, tall and well muscled. After I had accepted, Anthony told me that Thorndike was pretty good in the ring. My experience at boxing was virtually nil, being limited to three punch bar fights usually won by the guy with the most friends or who had grabbed the biggest beer bottle. So if the girl Delia, didn’t dime me out, and I survived my morning interlude in Rukimo’s lair, I could look forwards to being taken apart in the boxing ring by Raging Bull. I caught the slave girl who had taken my order before she went back into the kitchen. “Make sure there’s five slices of bacon,” I told her. No sense holding back.
As I consumed my potential last meal, I took the time to enjoy the scenery. The soft morning light made more luxurious the curvaceous and enticing forms of the many naked women who served as waitresses in this open air cafeteria. Our waitress was a tall, thin girl with long, silken blonde hair. Her long, graceful legs were emphasized by the four inch red pumps that she wore. Her breasts were petit, but firm and round. The slit between her legs was framed by her trimmed blond bush. I made a note to myself to seek her out later, if there was a later, and see how it felt to have those long legs wrapped around my back.
I had noted since my arrival that there was some variety in how the slave girls were permitted to wear their pubic hair, if at all. Some, like the Mediterranean whore that I had fucked that morning, had their sexes completely shaved, presenting two naked and dainty lips to the world. Others, like the waitress here, had their bushes trimmed so that just a little line of hair surrounded their slit. And yet others wore only a tiny beard of hair over their sexes, as if in proof of the natural state of the color of the hair that adorned their heads. I wondered who made these decisions and the psychological effect on the slave girls of not being able to control even this most intimate detail of their bodies.
As soon as I was done eating, Anthony urged me on to Rukimo’s lair. We entered the above ground portal and took the elevator down. Anthony left me off there and as the elevator door closed I wondered whether I would ever see him again.
A large, black robed guard was awaiting me. He motioned for me to follow him and he led me down the white walled corridor until we reached a steel door. He rang the buzzer on the outside of the door and a slot opened. I could see another black skinned guard peer out, nod and then I heard the bolt on the door being thrown open. The original guard stepped aside and indicated that I was to proceed alone. I gave him a little nod and stepped in.
Yesterday, I had been shown the holding cells for girls in training. This corridor contained the actual training rooms. The rooms were each about 25’ x 30’ and there were three on each side. They had full length mirrored walls on three sides and a glass wall facing the corridor. It was actually a two way mirror. Anyone in the hall could watch the goings on in the training room, but from inside, all that was seen was another mirrored wall.
Since the guard who had admitted me to the corridor did not indicate otherwise, I took it that I was to await a summons before proceeding further. I took the time to observe some of the training activity.
All of the girls wore the standard leather collars around their necks and bracelets around their wrists and ankles. In the first room, four gagged, women knelt in a semicircle facing me. Before them, a fifth girl knelt, her forehead touching the floor. Behind her was a huge black guard, buck naked, easing his long, thick, black cock into the small hole between her spread buttocks. Her torso was perpendicular to the line of women and her anguished face was turned towards me. I could see her grimacing as the black log was pushed deeply into her bowels. Her fine set of plump breasts was crushed against her knees.
I moved on to the next room. The sole female occupant was on her knees servicing one of the tall, broad shouldered African guards. Her hands were locked behind her and she was blindfolded. Two more guards reclined languidly in easy chairs, undoubtedly awaiting their turn. The guard getting the bj was holding the slave girl’s chestnut ponytail in his hand and slowly easing her head up and down on his rigid pole. I watched as her mouth descended to the base of his prick. Her hands clenched each time the cock was pressed deep into her throat. She was learning to throat fuck.
I was about to cross over to the other side of the hallway to see what activities those rooms contained when the door at the end of the corridor opened. A guard waived me towards him. As I passed through the door, I was in another long, white corridor. The rug, like the rugs in the other corridors was a bright red. There were several doorways along the hall, each with steel doors and little windows for looking in. I didn’t get a chance to see what they contained. The guard led me to the fourth doorway on the left and used a key to open it. I was given to understand that I was to enter. The guard shut the door behind me.
It was a small room, about 10’ by 15’. There were several cushioned, straight backed chairs strewed randomly about. The walls were white and the floor was of thick, red carpeting. A large wooden chair sat in the middle of the room. It was on a small platform that set it about 6 inches above the floor. There were straps along its arms and legs and along the back and sides. An adjustable headrest was atop the chair’s back. In the corner of the room was a small refrigerator and I took out a cold bottle of fruit juice to moisten my dry mouth and throat. I wondered if I would be sitting in the chair shortly. It was obviously designed to facilitate some kind of acute discomfort.
After a few moments, the door opened again and a naked, hooded female was led into the room. I recognized the style of hood from the day before. It not only kept the victim gagged and blinded, but there were small battery powered speakers that lodged in the ears and produced white noise. It produced an almost total sensory deprivation.
The girl’s body was criss-crossed with evidence of repeated lashings. Red lines covered her breasts and thighs, her back and her belly. Her arms were locked behind her. Auburn hair peaked out from under the hood. She was the right size and shape to be the woman Delia. If so, she had been obviously put in here alone with me to increase my sense of apprehension, that is, if I had any reason to be apprehensive.
The girl stood still for several minutes. She had no way of telling if she were alone. A wrong movement could precipitate a painful response. Her head rolled back and forth as she stood there. I could hear a muffled plea from inside the hood. Cautiously, she stepped forwards, gingerly placing one foot several inches in front of the other. She bumped against the wooden chair on its pedestal and jerked her body back. Stepping slightly to her left, she inched forwards until she reached the wall. Having done so, she turned left and stopped only when she had reached the corner. Having defined the room to some extent, she let her body slide down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, the corner to her back, her long legs drawn up against her chest. She rested her hooded head on her knees and started to sob.
I took a seat in one of the straight back chairs and awaited developments. I tried to imagine what the last 24 hours must have been like for the woman who sat naked, forlorn and broken in the corner of the room. I had watched as the cursive “k” had been burned into her body. She had been gagged and hooded then. She had been beaten and raped, all without knowing by whom or for what reason. She had no clue to her ultimate fate and probably had no concept of how long she had been a sightless, soundless prisoner. The only real sensations she had been permitted were the cruel lashes that had marred her body and the anonymous and unrelenting pricks that had filled her.
It wasn’t long before the door opened again. In walked the mountainous black man I knew as Rukimo. He stood at least four inches taller than me and had broad, muscular shoulders. He reached out one of his large, meaty paws and shook my hand.
“Harry,” he said in his deep melodious voice, “so sorry to keep you waiting. Have you amused yourself?” He nodded at the girl in the corner.
“No,” I replied. “I figured I would wait for you.”
“Good choice, Harry,” Rukimo replied somewhat menacingly. I guessed that any attempt on my part to tamper with the girl Delia before her interrogation would have been taken as a sign of complicity with her. Because I had no idea whether she was an agent or not, whether she was supposed to be my contact, I could not predict what result her upcoming torment would produce. My palms sweated nervously.
The girl had noted the entry of Rukimo into the room, probably by the vibrations on the wall from the opening and closing of the door. Her head bobbed to and fro expectantly. So far, virtually every contact she had had with another human being since her induction here had probably been fraught with terror and pain. She would be anticipating more. My guess was that she was right.
Another black skinned man, garbed in the standard security black robe and somewhat smaller in stature than Rukimo and his ubiquitous giant guards, had followed Rukimo into the room. He was pushing a cart on which sat some kind of electrical equipment. He nodded ‘hello’ to me and proceeded to wheel the cart over next to the wooden chair in the middle of the room. He said nothing as he began to run wires to various points on the chair.
“Harry,” Rukimo said to me, “help me get the girl up into her chair. We are going to learn a few things about our little Delia Fremont, news photographer.”
The girl must have sensed us coming closer to her because her body stiffened and her legs tried to push herself deeper into the corner. She gave out a muffled moan as we grabbed her arms and lifted her to her feet. Her body went limp and it was some job to drag her over to the chair. Her skin was soft and covered with a sheen of sweat, undoubtedly brought on by fear. I resisted the urge to caress one of her plump breasts that swayed and jiggled so enticingly as Rukimo and I manhandled her body.
“Hold her up, Harry,” Rukimo instructed me.
I held the girl’s arms, her torso facing me. She leaned into me, her breasts pressing into my chest, her head lolling on my shoulder. She had physically surrendered to her fate. There was not an ounce of struggle left in her.
Rukimo was unlocking the girl’s wrist bracelets from behind her. When he was done, we turned the girl and sat her in the chair. Rukimo fastened the bracelets to the arm of the chair. He instructed me to fasten her ankle bracelets to the legs. When I arose, he was standing a few feet from the girl, taking in her shivering form.
“Well, Harry, I think Ms. Fremont, or should I say the former Ms. Fremont, is ready to talk. Wouldn’t you?”
I nodded, staring at what might be the engine of my own destruction. Unnoticed, while Rukimo and I were moving the girl, one of Rukimo’s black robed henchmen had entered the room. He stood silently in the corner. If the girl dimed me out, I was doomed.
The small man who had entered the room with Rukimo had plugged his electronics into a wall socket. He gave a gesture to Rukimo that signaled his readiness. Rukimo smiled. “Harry,” he said, “unbuckle Ms. Fremont’s hood, please, and take out her gag. It’s time she saw the light of day.”
I circled behind the girl and unfastened the clips that held the bottom of the hood locked to the girl’s leather collar. The gag had to come off first since it lay partially over the hood around her mouth. I consisted of a long, thick, wad of leather and a wide base that covered the girl’s lower chin and mouth. Then, with some effort, I was able to slip the close fitting hood up over her head. I moved around front to see what two days of sensory deprivation had wrought.
It was Delia, all right. On the night of my arrival at Morianos’ camp in the Venezuelan jungle, she had been dangling from a ceiling beam when I entered Morianos’ cabin. Morianos had offered her to me as he had led her fellow captive to his bed for a night of brutal assaults. I had refrained from touching her out of fear that I would be breaking some taboo of my new boss to be, Klitzman. I had limited myself to jacking off on her tummy. Just the sight of her naked breasts and her fur covered pussy was enough to get me rock hard. It was my first orgasm in the presence of a woman in almost four years. Since then, I had gotten my dick wet quite a number of times. But the sight of her still lit my fire. They say you never forget your first girl.
Delia’s eyes were blinking rapidly, trying to adjust themselves to the sudden appearance of light. Her hair was all matted and the skin of her face blotchy from so long under the leather hood. When her eyesight seemed to be adjusted, her eyes widened and flitted around the room, taking in her surroundings. I thought a saw a brief moment of recognition from her as her eyes flitted over my features. I was sure that Rukimo noticed it.
But it was the domineering figure of Rukimo that caught her main attention. He was so clearly in charge that she naturally looked up to him to see what terrible torture she would soon experience. Rukimo grabbed a chair and sat down next to her, facing her. He motioned for me to sit in front of her. I did so.
“Hello, Delia,” he said in a soothing lilt. “Are you wide awake?”
The girl’s face cringed at the sounding of her name. She tried to shrink into the chair in which she sat. Her lips were shaking and a tear ran down her cheek.
“I asked you a question, Delia,” Rukimo continued in his friendliest voice. “Don’t be impolite. Please, let me know, are you awake?”
The girl nodded her head slightly.
“Good,” Rukimo responded. “Now, please answer me ‘yes’ or ‘no’, is your name Delia Fremont?”
Delia nodded her head again, her eyes darting back and forth, wary of a blow.
“You must speak, Delia, or I will have to put the hood back on you until you’re ready to talk to me. You don’t want that Delia, do you?”
The tension in the room was palpable. I could hear the legs of my chair creak as I shifted my weight. The girl’s face twisted into a tortured grimace and she shook her head ‘no’. Tears were flowing freely down her face.
“Then tell me, ‘yes’ or ‘no’, is your name Delia Fremont?”
It was as if the use of speech was excruciatingly painful for the girl. Her lips twisted, her eyes looked away from the terrifying visage of the huge, fearsome black man who was questioning her. In a small, scratchy voice, she uttered, “Yes.”
Undoubtedly, during those brief periods when her gag had been removed to give her something to drink, or to make her mouth available for a cock, she had tried to enunciate some protest or question. Equally undoubtedly she had been beaten viciously for the attempt at communication. Now, she had to learn to speak all over again.
The, as yet, brief interrogation of the girl had caused her great stress. Her legs were shaking and her arms were straining at their bonds. She kept glancing over at me for some reason. “Christ!’ I thought. “She’s putting me right in the crapper!”
“Would you like something to drink Ms. Fremont?” Rukimo asked her politely.
She nodded her head again, slightly.
“We only respond to spoken words here Ms. Fremont. Please say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
With great strain, the girl eked out another ‘yes’.
“Harry, would you please get Ms. Fremont an orange juice?” Rukimo asked me. I retrieved one from the cooler and handed it to the large black man. The 7 ounce bottle seemed like a toy in his hand. He opened it and proffered it to the girl’s trembling lips.
“Please drink, Ms. Fremont,” he told the girl. “Take a long, cool drink.”
The girl’s mouth opened slowly and she allowed the tip of the bottle to enter. Rukimo poured a little bit on her tongue. She swallowed it and a wave of relief passed over her face. Her lips reached out for another sip.
“Do you want more, Ms. Fremont?” Rukimo asked her, holding the bottle away from her. “You’re going to have to ask for it. Say, ‘Please may I have more?’”
The girl’s tongue emerged from her mouth, licking her lips. She looked at me and then back at Rukimo. “May I have more, please?” she whispered hoarsely.
“Certainly, Ms. Fremont, certainly,” Rukimo answered. He put the bottle to the girl’s lips and let her drink greedily. She took all seven ounces.
“Feel better, Ms. Fremont?” Rukimo asked her as he handed the empty bottle back to me.
“Y…yes,” the girl answered tentatively. Although Rukimo had been almost avuncular to the girl in his approach, she had to know that she wasn’t in this room, sitting in a special chair, so that she could enjoy a polite chat and a drink of orange juice. Now that the preliminaries were out of the way, the real thing was coming.
“Now, Ms. Fremont, my name is Rukimo and I’m going to ask you some questions. I want you to be totally truthful. We already know almost everything about you and if your lie to us we’ll be aware of that right away. Can you be truthful, Ms. Fremont?”
Delia’s eyes seemed to darken. He body, which had relaxed as a result of the refreshment, tightened again. I could see her mind at work in her face. She kept looking at me. “Dammit!” I thought.
For the first time the girl managed a full sentence. She was on the verge of a renewed flow of tears. Her voice was more of a whine than actual speech. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” she said, her eyes beseeching Rukimo. “Please don’t hurt me anymore,” she added plaintively.
“Your name isn’t really Delia Fremont, is it?” the menacing African asked her. Rukimo’s tone had gotten somewhat harsher. There was a blade of steel in his voice.
“N…no,” the girl answered, her face a mask of fright.
“What is your real name?”
“My real name is Marion McMahon,” she answered. Her whole body was trembling. Her eyes darted back and forth.
“And you’re not really a press photographer, are you?”
“N…no,” she stuttered.
“Who do you work for then, Ms. McMahon?
I could see the hands of the girl once known as Delia writhing and twisting at her bonds. She cringed in her chair as if she wanted to disappear, which I was sure that she really did want to do. There are moments in our lives when our physical presence becomes a matter of supreme inconvenience. Like when your old man caught you slipping a twenty out of his wallet, or when the boys from the next street over caught you cutting through their block to get to school. At times like that you want to abandon your physical being, let your body take care of itself. You want to be a million miles away. I was sure that this was what Ms. Marion McMahon was feeling now.
The woman hesitated. She was no spring chicken, being at least 25 or 26 years old, an old lady by the island’s standards. But she looked all of twelve or thirteen as she tried to force out the words that would condemn her. She knew she would tell eventually. She had experienced a small measure of what terrors could be inflicted on her physical and mental selves. But it was difficult to cross the line of no return no matter how certain you were that the line would be crossed in any case.
The girl Marcy mumbled a few letters. Her voice was as low as it could go without being entirely inaudible.
“Please repeat yourself, Ms. McMahon,” Rukimo ordered sternly. “Louder this time and more clearly!”
“DEA!” the girl blurted out. “I work for the DEA!” Tears were flowing freely down her face. She looked like she had abandoned all hope of redemption. At the same time, it was if a dam had broken. The terrible secret was out.
“Tell me more, Ms. McMahon,” Rukimo instructed her.
“I’m on, I mean I was on, assignment to the National Security Council. I was assigned to follow a lead in Venezuela on some cocaine trafficking.”
The girl’s voice, in spite of her terror, had assumed an almost normal tone. It was like she was being debriefed by a superior. Businesslike, professional.
It seemed that she had contacted the other girl, Lois Gardner, a reporter, on the recommendation of her agency to serve as a cover for her surreptitious activities. Her superiors had learned that a trafficking network in Colombia was in contact with a network in Venezuela. Her job was to follow it up. If, as the National Security Council suspected, the contact was illicit within either organization, that knowledge could serve as a lever to squeeze information from the traitor. The rumors had led her to the little village in which Morianos held sway. The two women were picked up by Morianos’ men before they had a chance to ask any questions. She intended to purchase an asset, an informer, within the village to find out where the leak from the Venezuelan organization was. She suspected that it was from the very top.
What it meant was that the NSC believed that Morianos was making side deals for his own benefit with the boys from Colombia. This would be a big no, no.
The girl’s questioning went on for at least an hour. Rukimo went over her story several times. Three times he asked her if she knew me or of me. Each time she denied it. She was asked to name her contact in Caracas. After a long hesitation, and silence throughout the room so thick you could cut it with a knife, she named an Escobar Valencia. After that she named DEA agents in Colombia, Panama, Peru, the names of her superiors, the method by which she was to contact her superiors, her code name, her mother’s maiden name and every little bit of information that Rukimo asked.
Rukimo finally sat back. “Get me an orange juice, Harry,” he told me. I got two. One for him and one for me. The girl’s story exonerated me completely. It did seem to put old Morianos in the soup, however. Ironically, he may have done himself in when he picked up the two “gringas” snooping around the other day. He was gleeful to pillage their belongings, pilfer their Rolex watches, pocket their cash. I hoped he was enjoying it. I expected we would see him on the island soon.
The small man who had come in with Rukimo had sat patiently throughout the interrogation. He got up now and started fiddling with his equipment. He drew a small leather band around the girl’s chest just below her breasts and pulled it tight. It had little rounded metal studs on its bottom. He snapped alligator clips on Marcy’s nipples. She was looking at him nervously. Something was up. When he pulled a board from the middle seat of the chair on which the girl sat, exposing her sex and rear, the girl started to fidget and whine.
“Please, please, I’ve told you everything. I’ll do anything you say. Please don’t hurt me again, please.”
Rukimo was finishing off his bottle of orange juice.
“Ms. McMahon, I’m sure you understand that we need to have assurances that you’ve told us everything you know, don’t you?” he asked her.
“I’ve told you everything!” she screamed. “Please! Please! Don’t do this, please!”
I’m sure that she didn’t know exactly what the little man had planned for her. I wasn’t sure myself, although it didn’t look good.
The little man kept up at his work. Bands were fastened around the girl’s thighs. Straps went around her feet. The thigh straps had the small metal nodules on them, like the chest strap. The foot straps had one large one centered under the foot. I saw the small man take a long, thick, silver probe from a box on his cart and apply a lubricant gel to it. The girl watched him with macabre fascination. When he bent down under her chair to push it into her sex, she screamed.
“No, no, don’t do this,” she whined. “I swear I’ve told you everything! Oh, God, please, please!”
Rukimo leaned over and patted her head. “We’ll see,” was all he said.
The little man produced another silver probe, thinner and shorter than the other. He went behind the seat. I could see the girl’s body flinch as he seated it home in her rectum. Small belts held the probes tightly in her orifices.
Rukimo ordered me to reinsert her gag. The girl looked at him wide eyed. “Oh, please, how can I tell you anything if I can’t speak?” she asked desperately, tears flowing down her face. She had a point.
She tried to resist the insertion of the gag into her mouth. Rukimo leaned over and whispered to her menacingly. “Don’t make it worse, Ms. McMahon.” The girl meekly opened her lips, tears streaming down her face, and I guided the gag home. When I finished buckling the gag in place behind her head, I stood back. I could hear her hopeless, muffled sobs. The little man finished fastening Marion tightly into the chair, straps going over her shoulders and across her upper chest. Wires seemed to spring out from everywhere all over her body. One final wire was attached by an alligator clip to her tiny pleasure bud. She squirmed and her eyes cringed as the man affixed it. He sat in his chair next to his cart and signaled to Rukimo that all was in readiness.
Rukimo moved his chair back so that he could get a better view. He was next to me and he placed his heavy arm over my shoulder. “I hope that this girl has nothing more to say, don’t you Harry?” he asked me.
“It means nothing to me, Mr. Rukimo,” I answered.
“Are you sure, Harry?” he prodded me.
“I don’t know nothing about no DEA, no NSC, no Colombian gangsters, nothing, Mr. Rukimo. I’m just a small time hood from the streets of New Jersey.”
“I’m glad, Harry, because I like you.”
Rukimo nodded to the tech guy and he flipped a switch. “This’ll take about twenty minutes, Harry,” Rukimo told me. “It’s all on automatic. She’ll be dancing to the current in a few seconds, mildly at first, and then, whammo!”
The girl looked at Rukimo miserably. As predicted, there was s slight shifting of her position in the chair, a twisting of her torso. She moaned and tried to squeeze her legs together. Her thighs started to twitch. And then it hit. There were little lights on the various straps and belts. I saw the strap around her upper chest light up and she threw her back against the chair, moaning loudly. The light attached to the invader to her pussy lit and she jumped as if to break the straps holding her to the chair, screaming. Her feet danced as she moaned in agony when the light to her foot straps lit. I could not see the light attached to the probe that had been inserted into her rear aperture, but I guessed that it had come alive when I saw her pitch forwards, her eyes squeezed shut, and no other lights on.
It was strange to sit silently and watch the girl put through her agonizing paces. No one said anything, we just watched. The machine’s program gave her some brief respites from agony. During these periods she would try and plead and beg from behind her gag. When she felt the tingle of the electricity begin to flow through her once more, she would cry out muffled ‘no’s’ and shake her body futilely.
I watched the girl’s performance, entranced. I could not believe that a person could sustain such a constant stream of agony and abuse. My cock had hardened during the girl’s questioning. The sight and sounds of such an abject and supplicant female triggered a deep, dark part of my psyche; and then to watch her squirm and jolt in agony? I knew that I should be appalled. I knew that I should protest, at least mentally, at her cruel and barbarous treatment. But I felt my juices flowing. I was mesmerized by her bouncing and swaying breasts as she reacted to one or another of the jolts sent through her. I imagined her agonized mouth, now covered by the leather gag, pursed around my rock hard prick. This was a girl who, henceforth, would do anything anyone told her to do. She would abase herself daily, every hour, every minute, if that was what was commanded. She would have nothing of herself left but the need to avoid pain.
With one long, intensely painful jolt, the program came to an end. At first, the girl could not comprehend that her agony had ceased. When she realized that she had endured and that her ordeal was, at least temporarily, at an end, she slouched in her bindings and cried. The little man quickly removed his toys from her body. Rukimo removed the gag. He gave her a few minutes to regain her composure. “Get me another orange juice, will you, Harry,” he asked me. I got him one and another for myself. I proffered bottles to the little man and the guard, who had sat wordlessly in the corner the whole time. Both shook their heads.
Rukimo sucked the juice down, smacking his lips when he was done. He saw that the girl was staring at him, abysmal fright in her eyes. She had to be wondering what else this man would do to her. Rukimo dragged his chair back over to her. “Now, Ms. McMahon, is there anything else you would like to tell me? Convince me that you don’t.”
The girl’s face crumbled. “I swear to you I’ve nothing else to tell! I’ve told you everything! Oh, God, please don’t hurt me anymore! I’m not lying, I swear to you by all that is holy, I swear!” She was a picture of abject misery. There could be no question in her mind that if Rukimo had any doubt as to her truthfulness, longer, more intense agony would follow.
Rukimo patted her on the head. “I believe you,” he said.
“Thank you, oh God, thank you, thank you,” the girl cried. I had never seen a more miserable specimen of a human being. This girl was an empty shell. Everything had been taken from her. She was telling the truth all right.
“And now I want to talk a little bit about your future, Ms. McMahon,” Rukimo said. The girl’s head perked up.
“Please don’t do anything to me, please,” she whined. “I’ll do anything you ask, please.”
“All right, Ms McMahon,” Rukimo said. “But first we have to set down some new rules for you, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” replied the girl eagerly.
“No more Marion McMahon. She’s gone. You don’t know her anymore, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” she responded.
“And you will have to stay here on our little island and never go home, you understand?”
“Anything, I’ll do anything,” she called out.
“Okay. From here on in you are a slave. You are the property of Mr. Klitzman. Do you remember that little brand that you got a couple of days ago?” It was only yesterday, but I bet that there was no way that she could figure that out.
The girl nodded.
“Well, that’s his brand. You are his property. He can do with you anything that he wants. Okay?”
“Yes, yes,” she replied almost feverishly. “I’ll be his slave, I’ll do anything he says.”
“Mostly he wants you to give your body to his friends and his guests. Will you do that?”
“Yes, I will,” the girl said. Her face was in a pitiful grimace. She knew that the promises that she was making were real. That they were binding; to refuse ‘requests’ meant only pain or death.
“I’m going to release you from your chair. I want you to go over to Harry here and suck his prick. You remember Harry, don’t you?”
She looked up at me. She nodded. “I’ll do it, anything.”
Rukimo and the little man released her bindings. Rukimo pulled her up by the ring in her collar. He brought her to her knees in front of me and held her head up. “Now, one more time, and I want you to tell me the truth, slave. Is there anything that you want to tell me about Harry?”
She looked at me, startled. She seemed as if she was drawing deep inside herself for some distant memory. She started to cry again. “I don’t know anything about Harry,” she whined. “I swear I don’t. If I did, I’d tell you, I swear it!”
Rukimo looked at me. “Good news, Harry?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. He knew and I knew that if there were anything at all that this girl knew about me she would have given it up without any thought. It was a neat trick, to let her lower her guard and then spring the ultimate question. As far as I was concerned, she gave the right answer.
“Okay, now give Harry a nice blow job. He’s been very patient and needs to relax.”
The slave girl crawled to me slowly. When she got between my knees, she placed her hands on the edges of my robe and looked up for permission to open it. I nodded. As she approached my already stiff cock, her lips were trembling, her hands were shaking. I placed my hand on the back of her head and gently guided her forward. I felt her hot breath on my tool and then her steamy lips encompass me. Rukimo was right. I had been on a razor’s edge. All of a sudden, all of the tension fled me. I let the warm mouth send a flow of relief throughout my body.
The girl took seriously her task. She flicked her tongue under the glans of my prick while caressing my aching sac with her hand. I groaned in pleasure. I was conscious of all eyes on me and my enjoyment of the new slave’s mouth, but I didn’t care. Public sex was becoming second nature to me. Amidst my befogged brain, clouded by the waves of exciting sensation that flowed through me, I was aware that this was one last test. My callous use of this tortured girl would be one more thing on my side of the equation. I let the girl bob her head up and down over my stiff and aching rod. I grabbed her head and started to thrust me hips into her, taking command, serving my need.
The slave girl acquiesced in my command, tightening her lips around my shaft, dragging her tongue down its length at each stroke. This woman had died here today and been reborn a whorish slave. She would serve the whims of Klitzman’s guests with all of the energy and devotion that she could bring to bear. For her, the past was dead.
As I continued to pump my burning cock into the girl’s mouth, I felt my juices begin to rise. She must have sensed my impending climax since her hands seized the base of my cock and she began to fuck me with her mouth. I dug my hands into her hair as my crisis came upon me. “Auggggggh!” I yelled as I shot a stream of hot cum into her mouth. “Auggggh!” I cried again as my cock throbbed and jerked inside her, my whole body tensing with each spasm, waves of pleasure shooting through me. As my spasms subsided, the girl lapped up every drop of my discharge hungrily. I pushed her head gently off of my sensitized tool. She looked over at Rukimo nervously for approval.
“Good girl!” he complimented her. “And now I’m going to have you brought over to my house and get you cleaned up. Later, when I come home, I’ll plow your little furrow with my big black cock, okay?”
The girl gratefully nodded her head. She would do anything to please her torturer. “That’s ‘yes master’,” Rukimo prodded her.
“Yes, master,” she said dutifully.
Rukimo barked a command to his guard in African. He then clapped me on the shoulder and got up. “I understand that you’re going to go a few rounds with Thorndike this afternoon. Is this true, Harry?”
I told him that it was.
“Then you’ve got more courage than brains,” Rukimo replied. “Just don’t get yourself killed, Harry, we need you.”
With that, he opened the door to the little torture chamber and invited me out.


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This story has been self-published by the author


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