by Paul Blades
“Get up you cunt,” Morianos yelled at her, kicking her with his foot. “Take off the rest of your clothes. You don’t need them anymore.”
Less brave now, the girl readily complied with Morianos’ orders. She drew her socks and underwear off of her feet. Since her hands were still tied, Morianos assisted her by tearing through her open blouse with his knife. He snipped off the remnants of her bra.
“I’m taking these cunts out to the shithouse. Get yourself some breakfast, you’ll be leaving real soon.”
The old lady appeared mysteriously with another bowl of stew and a huge hunk of bread. She also brought two more beers. “Well,” I thought, “breakfast of champions.”
A half hour later, we were heading back to the landing strip. The women were bound hand and foot, naked, in the back seat of the jeep. They were buckled in to prevent escape. Morianos drove. As we arrived, I saw frantic activity at the airstrip. I could now see that the field was a scar cut out of the surrounding jungle. It seemed strange in the early morning light, like some WWII bomber strip hacked out of the jungles of Borneo or New Guinea. While the night before the runway had been deserted, this morning three large trucks had been pulled up and men were unloading them. From two I saw large wooden crates being unloaded. From the third came bundles of plastic covered blocks of white powder. Cocaine.
Within a few minutes of our arrival, a worker pointed up to the sky. We all looked up and saw the large transport circling the field. You would have to be a pretty good pilot to land that thing on this short runway. I assumed that that was what they had.
The plane landed uneventfully. As it taxied up to the loading area, we walked over. Morianos was leading the two stumbling, reticent prisoners by long, leather leashes that had been tied around their throats. Their mouths were gagged as they had been the night before and I could hear their muffled whines and cries as they were pulled along. When we reached the plane, a lanky, blond haired youth emerged from the cabin door. Naturally, he was chewing gum and wearing an obligatory short leather jacket.
“What you got there Morianos, some new customers?” he quipped.
“Yeah,” Morianos replied. “Two gringas who made a wrong turn. I think the boss will want a word with them.”
“Well, bring ‘em aboard, we got plenty of room. Is this my other passenger?”
“Yeah, he’s a charmer too, like you.”
The two men exchanged the banter of workmates. Obviously this guy had made this run many times before. He was nonplussed at the vision of two naked, bound women and so was obviously aware of the nature of their odious future. He also had to know that the men were loading what looked like a ton of cocaine as well as twenty or thirty large wooden crates on his plane. I didn’t know what was in the crates, but I was sure that it wasn’t anything good.
“Let’s get that stuff loaded and gas me up” the blond kid remarked. “I’m on a schedule you know.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Morianos. “They’ll be done quick. In the meantime, why don’t you get these two bitches settled?”
Morianos handed the kid the leashes that led to the necks of the women. They must have realized that this was the last opportunity they would have to escape and that getting on the plane would spell their doom. They both dug their heels into the dirt in an effort to resist being pulled into the plane.
Morianos got pissed and started yelling and slapping the girls.
“Cool it Morianos,” the kid interjected. “I’ve got just the thing.”
He disappeared momentarily into the plane and emerged with a three-foot long wand. He fiddled with some controls on its side. The women were still resisting and so he reached out with the wand and jabbed it into the rear end of the nearest one. There was a loud ‘zap!’ and the girl fell down in agony. The other girl stood, shocked, so to speak.
“You all coming in girls or what?” the kid said to the women. Seeing that the alternative to boarding the plane was more of the wand’s painful jolts, the women climbed the steps into the plane sullenly.
“That’s the good girls,” the blond kid said. “Now we’ll get you all comfy.”
I followed the two women in, carrying my small suitcase. The kid held out his hand. “Jimmy,” he said. Jimmy, I thought. It just had to be.
“Yeah,” I grumbled back. “Harry.” I shook his hand.
The cabin of the plane was small, sitting about ten people at most. Jimmy sat the women two seats apart from each other in the front row. He pushed them back uncomfortably on their tied hands and belted them in. When he had them settled, he looked at the primitive gags around their mouths. “I’ve got something better than that,” he said.
He went to the back of the cabin and returned with two rubberized hoods. Each sported a spherical tube.
“Watch this,” Jimmy said. He removed the gag around the mouth of the first girl, the one who Morianos had tormented the night before. The now desperate woman took the opportunity to beg and plead with this seemingly all American kid.
‘Oh, please don’t take us. We’ll keep quiet. I’m sorry I came here. I won’t talk to anyone…..”
Jimmy cut her short with a slap across the face.
“Shut up cunt,” he said.
The woman quieted, a bright red mark on her cheek. Her eyes were brimming with tears as Jimmy settled the hood around her head. He had some difficulty getting it over her hair, but, it was flexible and he was able to stretch it sufficiently. Once over the top of the head, the hood was pulled down. The woman’s frantic eyes disappeared behind the face of the hood. There was a hole for the nose and the rubber sphere was pushed into the girl’s mouth. Jimmy linked the straps behind the gag and tightened it in place. The girl was covered from the top of her head to her chin. She shook her head in terrorized frustration. I could hear her mumbled begging and pleading from behind the mask. Jimmy took a small hand pump from his pocket and attached it to a nozzle in the front of the gag, just opposite the mouth. He gave it a few squeezes and the girl bolted upright. Her pleas became panicked murmurs and then were extinguished completely. Jimmy had blown up the rubber ball in her mouth, filling her oral cavity. He snipped off the pump from the nozzle and said, “Voila!”
Only a slight hum could be heard from inside the hood as the girl undoubtedly was attempting to scream frantically from within. Her breasts jiggled nicely as she shook her head and torso futilely.
“Relax, honey,” Jimmy told her. “You’ll be okay. I promise.” He patted her rubber-coated head in reassurance.
Jimmy then turned to the number two girl and removed the cloth gag from her mouth. She said nothing, but she was wide eyed with alarm and shied away as best she could when Jimmy went to apply the hood. She shook her head right and left, making it difficult for him to draw it over her face. Jimmy stood up.
“I’m disappointed in you honey,” he said. He reached over and picked up the electrified wand. That was all he had to do. The girl stopped moving her head and whispered plaintively, “Please don’t. I’ll be good.”
Jimmy looked at the girl and then back at the wand as if he was trying to make up his mind whether to zap the girl anyway. She cringed in her seat, expecting the worst. But Jimmy was magnanimous and put the wand down.
When the hood was placed on the second girl and the gag pumped up, Jimmy patted her head as well. He then reached down and took her pale round breasts in his hands. He squeezed them gently, assessing their worth. “Nice tits,” was all he said.
He turned to me and told me to make myself comfortable anywhere I wanted. He pointed out the wet bar, a rack of old magazines and a TV and DVD player mounted on the ceiling. “There’s some movies in the cabinet there. Help yourself. I’ve got some sandwiches up front when you get hungry. It’s a six hour flight and you may get bored.” He started to step into the cabin then stopped and turned around to me. “Let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t fuck with the merchandise. Klitzman don’t like free lancers. Know what I mean?””
I got
Jimmy’s gist and nodded my affirmation. As I went to pick out a seat, Morianos came aboard and handed Jimmy a small valise. “This is something special for Rukimo. Don’t let anyone else have it or you’ll be dead meat,” Morianos told him. He also tossed aboard the girls’ backpacks, restuffed with their impedimenta. “He’ll want to take a look at this stuff too,” Morianos added.
He stepped from the plane and closed the outer door. Jimmy went up front to warm the engines. I heard the vast cargo doors to the plane shutting. The engines, twin props on each wing, began to roar and the plane started in motion. I picked out a chair as it lumbered down to the edge of the field. Jimmy made a wide turn at the end of the runway and stopped the plane. He looked back at me through the cabin door.
“Here’s the fun part,” he said. “Hope you have a Will.”
The engines began to roar mightily. I could feel the plane trying to move forwards, held back I supposed by the brakes. Suddenly, with a jerk, the plane lurched forwards and started its run. I decided I had to see for myself and so I crept forwards to the door of the cockpit where I could see out the windscreen. The trees at the end of the runway were getting closer and closer. The plane was going faster and faster. And yet I felt no rise in the wings, no lifting off of the ground. I grabbed the edges of the doorway and held on for dear life. My knuckles turned white, my mouth got dry. Suddenly, the plane jerked upwards. Jimmy had lowered the flaps. Almost as if in slow motion, the plane rose steadily. I swore I could hear the branches of the trees at the end of the runway scraping our wheels as we got fully into the air.
“Well,” Jimmy laughed, “I did it again!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A GIRL IS SOLD
The French girl’s body was being meticulously examined by a tall, thin, dark skinned man. He wore a long white cotton caftan and a maroon turban on his head. He was accompanied by a small, fat fellow who was similarly dressed. The girl was naked, her hands held behind her head, her legs spread.
It had been several months since she had found herself a captive of the cruel men who had whipped and raped her. Her brand had healed and the bright red “K” on her rear was now a permanent fixture on her body. The slight baby fat she had exhibited on her first day was gone, replaced with taut, firm muscles. Her slight tan had faded, and her skin now was as white as alabaster.
The thin man lifted her breasts, squeezing them gently. He spoke some words in Arabic to his partner. The partner, meanwhile, was rubbing his hands over her rear, remarking the deep gouge that had been made by the brand. He reached from behind the girl and rubbed the now hairless sex. The girl made no protest at his handling of her, only a slight intake of breath as the fat man jammed a finger into her pussy.
She had been well trained. It had taken much pain and suffering on her part to understand that her old life was over forever. She had to acknowledge her new status as owned property. She had to open herself to all who desired her and to engage in whatever acts they demanded. She had, at the urging of a whip, learned to take cocks down her throat, to lick and suck on them as if every moment that one violated her mouth was a moment of ecstasy. Her rear and sex had been plundered uncounted times until she learned how to move her body to give maximum joy to her possessors. And she learned to stand still, when ordered to, to remain silent unless spoken to, and to address all males as her master.
Her English lessons had been perfunctory. “Spread your legs”, “open your mouth”, “kneel”, were some of the few words of English that she was specifically taught. She had picked up some more like, “slut”, “whore”, and “pussy” on her own.
The girl had stopped crying after about two weeks. At that point hopelessness took its toll. At first, she had thought she was a lonely prisoner of these evil men. But after the first day, she saw that there were more women, imprisoned, branded, whipped and beaten like she was. They brought her another young French girl, a tiny thing, with small breasts and welts all over her body. She translated the big black man’s instructions to her on deportment and the purpose of her presence. Thus, she learned that she had become enslaved; that she would not see France again, not see her family, her friends, not walk freely in the sun, not dance at her favorite clubs, eat at her favorite cafes. Most importantly, she learned that she was now an owned object, no more than an animal of pleasure.
Now, the tall man examined the inside of her mouth, looked into her eyes. “They buy horses like this,” she thought. He took his turn at examining her pussy, rubbing the tender tip of her clitoris with his long, boney fingers until it stood, engorged. He ran his fingers down her cleft, feeling her wetness as her vulva opened. She had learned to respond to the touches of strange men. The whip had taught her that. She learned to take her mind to a place where sexual pleasure would flow. She did it now, knowing that the lash would follow if she was found wanting.
Satisfied at his examination, the tall man stepped away from the slender, curvaceous French girl. He turned to sit at a small, low table, crossing his legs. The fat man stood behind him. Rukimo, the black man who had assaulted her on her first day, was there.
She could not understand the words, but she had guessed at the purpose of her examination. She was to be sold.
“As you have said,” the tall man began in Arabic, “she is a delightful specimen. She is all as you described, beautiful.”
“I sell your master only the best,” the big black man said. “And she is well trained.”
“I could see that by the lushness of her cunt as I rubbed it. My master wants female slaves that will show real passion when stimulated.”
“She has learned to show passion whether she feels it or not,” the black man retorted. “Do you want me to make her come?”
“It will not be necessary. I know that if my master is displeased you will take her back.”
“Of course. And she knows that if she is sent back it will go very badly for her.”
The tall man took a sip of tea. “You have set your price and in these matters my master does not like to haggle. He will remit your fee in the usual way.”
“Good,” the black man replied. “I will have her packaged and ready within the hour.”
From the conclusive tone of the conversation between the men, the French girl knew that she had been sold. To what cruel master would she now belong? Whoever it was and wherever he took her, she would be one more step removed from her home, one more step removed from freedom.
She was taken down to a room below the room where she had been displayed for sale. There, three of the ubiquitous black robed African supervisors were waiting for her. A knot had formed in her stomach. The past months had been a tortuous journey from innocence to depravity. She had been beaten and abused many times. But she had learned to live within the rules. She had learned when to accept instructions docilely and when to energetically apply her new found whorish skills. Now, she was going to an unknown destination. Some of the men she had serviced while on this small African island had been demanding indeed. Some enjoyed the torture of a young woman for its own sake. Had she been sold to one of those men? Would her daily life be one of constant torture and fear? How long could she survive and still be a person?
These questions rushed through the girl’s mind as she was made to kneel. She trembled as a leather hood was forced over her head. It was designed to block all light and hearing from its wearer. A last thought of struggle, as vain as it might be, shot across her mind as the hood descended over her eyes. But it was too late even for that. As the hood slipped into place, the girl was irremediably isolated from the world around her. A rubber gag was stuffed into her mouth and affixed to the outer portion of the hood. Her hands were locked behind her.
Effectively reduced to an anonymous object, she was led to a toilet and, as she had practiced many times, peed when her labia were stroked appropriately. She was douched so that her pussy would arrive at her new home fresh. She was given an enema to prevent an untoward accident on her trip.
Her pac
kaging was simple, but effective. She was made to sit on a base with two dildos attached, one taller and thicker than the other. One of the supervisors carefully aligned them to her sex and rear. They easily slid into place, as they had been greased and, as the girl had been trained, she relaxed her muscles to ease their penetration. Her legs were crossed in front of her and strapped to the base on which she sat. The sides of the crate were now added. Foam pillows were packed tightly around her body to prevent movement. A long tube was run through her gag and into her mouth to facilitate breathing. Its other end was affixed to a special nozzle in the top of the crate.
As the top of the crate was affixed, the girl began to panic. She had suffered her packaging passively, almost serenely, but when she felt the vibration of the top being put in place, she realized that her only link to life was the thin little tube that ran through her gag. Her bonds were too strong and severe to permit any movement except a slight nodding of her head. As she felt the cool air of the room outside her little prison fill her lungs through the little tube, she felt relieved, or as relieved as an enslaved female could be under the circumstances.
The sides of the crate had two handles and it was easy to lift it onto a small dolly. She was wheeled to an elevator and brought up to ground level. As the small, black box appeared, the agents of her new master were waiting and, after shaking the big black man’s hand and exchanging kisses on the cheeks, they stepped outside and entered the van that would drive them to the airstrip. The crate was loaded into the back. The van drove away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HARRY’S EDUCATION BEGINS
As the plane touched down somewhere off the coast of Africa, I contemplated my dilemma. Here I was landing in the middle of god knows where, with a future very much in doubt. The things that Morianos had said about Klitzman’s island were intriguing to say the least. But what would be my role? Would I ever be contacted by the “Agency” whoever they were?