by Syra Bond
‘It’s not true! It’s not true. I’m Sparky. I’m Syra’s friend. You will - ’
‘It is just as well that you have come here. You can stay now. A little training with my two little slaves here will help you be more obedient. We can’t have your new owner disappointed now can we?’
Sparky struggled to escape. He was far too strong for her. He kicked out at the woman on the floor. She fell to the side, still clasping the wet sponge in her mouth. She tried to get back on all fours again but again he kicked her and she fell back. The other woman did not move. I couldn’t tell whether she was frozen with fear at Pastor Wick’s rage, or whether it was her commitment to carrying out his instructions to wait that kept her in place. The scene was bizarre. I felt myself pushing at the door and as I did I realised I would never enter the room.
I moved back from the door, aware that Sparky was struggling against Pastor Wick, aware that my fear was overtaking me and that I was preparing to abandon her. I knew I should rush in and help. I knew I should be faithful to this innocent elfin creature who had made herself my friend, but I was too afraid. But my passport! For a moment I stopped and turned. But no, the urge to run was too powerful!
‘Run, Syra! Run!’ shouted Sparky. ‘Don’t worry about me. The mission. Think of the mission!’
Pastor Wick realised where I was. He let go of Sparky and ran towards the door. Sparky grabbed his leg and sunk her teeth into his calf. He turned and looked at her, fixing his jaw and breathing hard through his nostrils to stifle the pain. She looked up at him, narrowed her eyes, and bit even harder. He raised his hand, preparing to bring it down on her. Everything seemed to stop - as if it was waiting for me to make my decision. I ran.
I heard his hand make contact. I heard the breath knocked from her as it did. I could to tell where it struck her, but I felt the pain as if it was my own as I dashed away and left her behind in his grasp and at his mercy.
I ran back along the corridor and into the club. Again the sound of the whipped woman filled my head. It was as if it had been held back, saved up, and now it all flooded out in a dam bursting rush. She was still hanging on the ropes. Her bottom was covered in burn marks from the tip of the cracking whip. Angry red lines striped her hips and her back. Spit ran from her mouth in a continuous stream. Her body was not so tense now; it had slumped on her wrists, hanging loosely on her bonds, no longer able to tense when the whip struck her, hardly able to allow her enough breath to cry out in pain when it did.
The black haired woman in the audience was lying on her front with her head turned to the side. She had been stripped naked. She was surrounded by men, their cocks in their hands. Semen ran from her mouth. Her back, her buttocks and the backs of her thighs and calves were covered in it. Her hair was sticky with it. It oozed from the crack between her buttocks. Her eyes were wide and vacuous - she looked totally depleted and used.
The other woman, the blonde haired one, knelt by her side, her breasts exposed, her nipples red and marked by pinching. She held her hand underneath the other woman’s face, cradling it, helping her to take more semen as it flowed down from the men’s cocks above her. The blonde haired woman turned towards me. She opened her mouth; I though perhaps she was going to shout, to encourage others to pursue me, to hold me prisoner for Pastor Wick, but she did not. She stretched her lips wide and showed me her teeth. It was enough, and she knew it, just to let me know that her pointed canine teeth would soon be puncturing her friend’s neck and she would be feeding from her greedily until she was satisfied.
I was in a nest of vampires and I didn’t know what to do. All I could think of was escape. All I could feel was blind panic.
I ran out into the alley. Anicka was still standing by the wall. She stepped out and barred my way.
‘Do you want your box back?’
I didn’t know what to say.
‘Didn’t you realise it was us that stole it?’
‘No,’ I said unable to stop my voice from shaking.
‘You can have it back if you want. I didn’t want it anyway. It was Sparky who wanted to take it. She liked it because it was shiny. You can have it back. Here.’
She pulled the box out of the canvas bag at her feet. Its plastic surface glinted in the flashing neon light that hung above the door. I felt vomit coming into my throat. I grabbed the box and ran away as fast as I could.
THE RACECOURSE
I don’t know what time it was when I finally got back to the hotel - it was beginning to get light. I fell asleep within minutes and didn’t wake until late that night. I sat on the edge of the bed in the darkness trying to work out what was going on.
I’d lost the only person I knew here. And I’d abandoned her! I couldn’t believe how I had left her there! I felt terrible. I wondered what was happening to her. I couldn’t bear to think about it. I felt so guilty. And the chance I had for getting my passport back seemed to have gone completely. Surely I wouldn’t be able to trade the box with Pastor Wick now! How could I think such a thing? And why was there another passport for Sparky? What did she mean; it was her but in a different name? And why so many passports anyway? What were they all for? Who were they all for? What had Pastor Wick meant abut going to America as a slave? I couldn’t understand that at all. My head reeled with questions but my mind was a blank with any answers. I felt hopeless, stupid and lonely, and cried as I went to sleep, my finger stuffed in my cunt, slowly trying to ease my pain.
The next morning things felt no better - I was still racked with guilt, still worried about Sparky, and my mind still teamed with unanswered questions. I walked around Hlavné Námestie Square feeling doomed and lost. I wanted to eat but my money had nearly run out, and I had no way of paying the hotel bill. I sat on the edge of the Maximilian Fountain dipping my fingers in the clear rippling water. I looked at the reflection of the sky in the moving broken water. It resembled the confusion of my life - fractured shapes drifting apart, nothing firm to get hold of, everything in permanent disarray - I felt like sobbing.
I don’t know why - I just felt compelled - but suddenly I turned and looked across the square towards the white and pink painted buildings on the other side. I saw a beautiful woman in a red dress walking assertively between the café chairs and tables spread out over the pavements. My stomach immediately filled with anxiety. I recognised her straight away. It was Miranda!
My first thought was to run over to her, to grab her, to ask her for help, but I stopped myself; something held me back - a suspicion, a sense of dread. The same force that had compelled me to look up somehow stopped me from approaching her. I thought of our last meeting on the plane. She had been so friendly and so passionate, but there was something about her that made me feel uncomfortable, somehow suspicious.
I stared at her as she strode to a tram stop. Why was she here? Surely this couldn’t just be a coincidence? Then I remembered what the man from Acme Couriers had said about being visited by an FBI agent in a red dress! Of course, that’s where I had first seen her - coming out of the Acme Couriers office in the airport! And now she was here! Not just in Bratislava but in Hlavné Námestie Square, where I was!
I dodged behind the central pillar of the fountain. Emperor Maximilian stood over me in full armour - the town’s protector. I looked up at him and prayed that some of his protection would spill over onto me. A flurry of wind blew up and some of the spray from the fountain flew up and drenched me. I felt as if I had been baptized, made safe, somehow given a new sense of purpose amidst the confusion that was threatening to destroy me.
I stepped out from behind the fountain. My dress was wet at the front. It clung between my legs - revealing the crack of my cunt, sticking to my breasts, exposing the prominent hardness of my nipples.
Miranda got onto a tram. Just as its bell clanked and it began to move I jumped up behind her. I don’t know how she didn’t see me! I walked straight
past where she was sitting, looking to the opposite side, holding my hand up against my face. I walked to the back and sat down. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t believe it! I was filled with apprehension but I was also burning with excitement! Perhaps I had truly been baptized!
The red and white tram crossed the huge “Pristavný most” bridge over the Danube. It was teaming with pedestrians and cyclists and, on either side of the roadway, passenger and goods trains struggled to enter or exit the city. After clattering for a while along the edge of the river a huge park area opened up. Most of the passengers got off at the same stop, Miranda amongst them. I waited until she was walking along the pavement before I jumped off. I could see where we were heading - Bratislava’s hippodrome, the horse-racing track. Large banner signs on the side of the road told me where I was - “Petrzalka” - a haven of peace on south side of the Danube, in a crook of a long bend, opposite to the main city. It was a fantastic mixture of greens. Trees grew everywhere - some isolated, some in copses, some in woody knots - and the racecourse wound its way between them like a muddy green river. People around me chattered eagerly, many in English. I heard straight away what was going on - it was the height of the racing season, mid-June, and one of the most popular Sundays of the year with more than twenty races scheduled for the day. Everything was buzzing with excitement and anticipation.
I followed Miranda into a steeply banked stadium built alongside the finishing line. The whole place was full of colour - blue, red, gold, silver. Everyone was dressed up; everyone looked perfect - at their best. A fluttering confetti of betting slips thickened about their feet as ever more promised winners came to the post unplaced.
Suddenly, she moved on. It was hard to keep her in my sight as she weaved amongst the thronging crowds. She made her way to the parade ring, circuited it, then went into a small brick built tack room.
Inside a man was waiting to meet her. They shook hands and kissed. Miranda sat down on a low bench with a rounded seat covered in shiny leather. The man stood in front of her.
I squeezed behind a huge weighing scale. I could hear everything they said.
‘How many have you got for me this time, Miranda?’
‘Ten. All beauties. You wouldn’t believe some of them. So naive! I’ve had a couple working for me at the club for months now. They’re so stupid. One of them is called Sparky! So scatterbrained! Anyway, yes, ten. Have we got clients for them all?’
‘Every one of them, and paid for handsomely. There’s never s a shortage of takers. It seems as though every wealthy American wants a Slovakian slave.’
‘The more the merrier. Now, we have the new passports ready - Pastor Wick has organised that. But he’s been getting some trouble from a woman acting as a courier for Acme. We can’t afford to lose them - we’d never get other couriers as good as them to move the girls across the Atlantic. And we need the money - Pacific Heights could not operate without it. So we need to sort things out a bit. This little troublemaker is important to the flock, very important. We need to get her on the next flight out. The shipment leaves tomorrow anyway. But she’s got the box and she hasn’t handed it over. She’s no idea how important it is. I think it was a stupid idea to send it this way, but the Acme people said that using an innocent always makes sense. The trouble is that this “innocent” also happens to be someone we really need. Pastor Wick should never have let her slip away from him in San Francisco. Then, by sheer chance, she walks into Acme Couriers! It’s a good job I was there.’
‘Do we know where she is?’
‘Yes. I’ve been keeping my eye on her ever since we left San Francisco. Pastor Wick says he’ll go to her hotel later tonight, about midnight, and get the box. He’ll be in the club until then. A bit of last minute training with a couple of the girls, he says. He’s never satisfied until they are perfect! Anyway, yes, he will pick up the box and bring her as well, whether she wants to go or not! He says that as far as her use to the flock is concerned she doesn’t have to be willing anyway. He says he will just drug her and transport her back. He will probably keep her like that, he thinks. It does not matter whether she is conscious or not, he says, as long as the flock can feed on her. It is a nice thought - the flock sucking up their nourishment while she sleeps, don’t you think?’
‘So, for now, we’ve got a bit of time.’
‘A bit, yes.’
‘Do you have still any instructions to carry out?’
‘Yes, I have one more before carrying out my final instruction. It is the reason I suggested that we meet here.’
‘Perhaps you should use it now.’
‘You make it sound like the last of my three wishes!’
‘Well, it’s a bit like that isn’t it?’
She nodded. My heart quickened as I remembered what had gone on in the restrooms at the airport at San Francisco.
Miranda pushed her hand into a small leather purse slung from her shoulder.
She pulled out some money.
‘Dollars alright?’
He nodded, took the money and counted it carefully.
She was doing it again, following the same routine that I had witnessed before - paying someone to provide a service that had been prescribed by her absent master. Yes! That’s exactly what was happening! I brought my shaking hands together between my legs. I pressed the backs of them against the insides of my thighs and forced them apart enough to feel the coolness of air against the naked exposed flesh of my cunt.
I pulled myself down behind the huge “Toledo” weighing scale. It was massively built - a big circular dial at the top, a heavy green painted frame, and a shiny metal platform on which the jockeys stood to be weighed. By the side of it was a chair and just beyond that a rack of riding crops, all of different lengths and materials, some with coloured tips, some with differently braided handles, all with loops to wrap around the rider’s wrist. Beyond the rack of crops was the leather covered bench on which Miranda was sitting.
The metal of the weighing scale was cold to the touch. I pressed my cheek against it and breathed in deeply as it cooled my skin.
Miranda stood up, turned around and held her arms above her head. She said nothing. The man took hold of the hem of her red dress at the back and lifted it up. She had a tight black lacy thong pulled between the crevice of her buttocks. He drew the dress above her narrow waist and up along the full length of her arms. She was not wearing a bra and I just caught sight of her breasts springing back tightly as the waist of the dress pulled them upwards and released them as he dragged it higher. She stood perfectly still as he drew it up over her hands. She waited for a few moments after he had tossed it down on the floor - still and silent - before finally lowering her arms and allowing them to rest at her sides.
I tried to imagine what her instructions were. She obviously knew them perfectly. She must have memorized them all. She must know which ones she had completed and which were left outstanding. I wondered what form they took, whether they were written down or whether her master had forced her to recite them until she was word perfect. Yes, I decided that must be it. He had bound her to a chair and left her in a small dark room, visiting her every few hours to rehearse her in his instructions. He would stand over her as she repeated them back to him. When he brought the session to a conclusion he would gag her and draw a hood over her head so that there were no distractions as her efforts continued until again he returned. If when he tested her she made a mistake, he would release her from the chair and tie her down across its seat so that he could cane her or whip her. Perhaps sometimes he would spank her or use his belt, I could not decide. Yes, that must have been how she had been trained to such a level of obedience. And now she was at her last but one instruction - carrying it out as if it was her first; devoted to the detail of it, bound by its perfect achievement, committed to its precision.
Miranda turned sideways to the leather
covered bench, lifted her one leg over to the other side of it, lowered herself forward, pressed her face against the smooth black leather, and rested the flats of her palms on the floor on either side. Her breasts and stomach were pressed against the leather cushion, her bottom rose up in a delectable curve with the lacy black panties outlining them at the top as their narrow waistband ran off at right angles down onto her silky skinned and shapely hips.
I drew my hands from between my thighs and smoothed them along the upright length of the heavy frame of the weighing scale. Its even metallic surface was a delight - cool, lifeless, unresponsive, brutal; a delightful contrast to the warm responsiveness of my own skin. I wanted to lick its hard exterior, run my tongue along its unyielding shell - taste it, smell it, feel myself at one with it. I wanted to experience the interface between the living and the lifeless - the animate and the inanimate. I wanted to feel the bond between that which knew, and that which knew not.
The man ran his hand along the dipping curve of Miranda’s back. She rose slightly against it, pressing back against the pressure of it, responding to it, showing him how sensitive she was to it. It was her first and only signal.
He let his fingers rest on her buttocks. He pressed at them, testing their elasticity, their suppleness. They responded by first giving to the pressure he applied but straightaway returning to their original firm form as soon as he pulled back. A small white imprint, where his fingertip had been, faded quickly - like a puff of mist on a summer’s morning it dissipated leaving only a dewy remembrance of its fleeting presence.
Suddenly, he turned and walked out of the low roofed brick room.
I stared at her as she remained, still motionless and silent straddling the bench. I waited, my heart pounding, my mouth open, my tongue reaching out towards the cool metal of the weighing scale’s heavy frame.