Klitzman's Isle (The Klitzman Stories Book 1)

by Paul Blades

  The former Ms. Gardner’s scream was the loudest sound that I have ever heard a human being make. It pierced my ears painfully. She drowned out the sound of her flesh being scorched, but the scent of burned meat soured the room. Her bladder must have loosened from the shock as urine poured from her sex down onto the rug. As she strained to catch her breath after her piteous scream, I could hear the water dripping on the rug, an almost comical diversion from her certainly anything but comical pain.

  The girl, mercifully, fainted. She dangled loosely in the chains. A guard laughed and said something to Rukimo in their native dialect. Rukimo and the other guards joined in the merriment. I was too stunned to wonder what he had said. It must take a cruelly depraved mind to find humor in the reporter’s and her friend’s fates, I thought. Rukimo looked over at me. I tried to look unaffected by the torture I had just witnessed.

  “So Harry, ever see anything like that in Atlantic City?” Rukimo asked me.

  “I can’t say that I did,” I answered.

  The guards were busy draping the bodies of Lois and Delia over two waist high stanchions. Their arms and legs were spread and lashed to the wooden frames. I sensed that their torment was to continue.

  Rukimo slapped one of the guards on the back and then walked over to me. “Now the boys will have their fun. Let’s go back to my office and talk about your new duties.”

  I acquiesced in Rukimo’s command. As we left the room, I turned for a last look at the two females. Lois had been rehooded and both she and Delia had a guard poised behind them, between their outstretched legs, thick black cocks hardening in their hands.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A SLAVE GIRL MEETS HER MASTER

  After she was rehooded and trundled away, the French girl was brought to the slave quarters of the Palace. The Emirate was a small country and the Emir was minor royalty, and so his palace was not quite as lavish as one might think. His current staff consisted of seven slave girls, three wives, fifteen children, his mother, three mothers-in-law, four dogs, eight cats, five horses and a Mazarati. There was a small cooking staff, a cleaning staff and a serving staff.

  There was also one particular individual whose job it was to regulate and control the slave staff. He was a tall, light brown muscular African, with shaved head and a deficit of gonads. The slave girls all feared him, for it was he who maintained their discipline, punishing them for infractions, keeping them ready, willing and able to serve the Emir or his guests. Lately, the Emir’s eldest son, Rashan, the Prince, had taken to enjoying himself with his father’s owned flesh, and it was the African who brought pain and suffering upon them when the Prince was not satisfied with their enthusiastic service of his lusts.

  It was the slavemaster, Ngomo, whose face the French Girl next saw when her hood was removed. She knew at once that this would be the new true power in her life. She had seen the faces of callous men before, men who tokened no disobedience, who demanded precise compliance with orders, who took delight in the administration of the lash. This man was clearly one of those. He was dressed in his standard uniform, a long, white dashiki that flowed down to his thick leather sandals. His face was boney and hard, his eyes, sunk deep beneath his brow, were black as death. The girl trembled before him.

  Ngomo grabbed the girl by her hair and pulled her erect. He perused her charms with disdain. He spun her around and bent her over to look at her ass and to probe from behind her still lubricated loins. The girl was bent over, almost in half, and she could see the gnarled hand of the overseer as it familiarized itself with her cleft. She saw the hand press her labial lips together and squeeze them harshly. Too afraid to struggle, the slave girl whined in pain and humiliation. The guards who had brought her to Ngomo still were standing around and she could hear them exchange witty comments about the new slut. The pain continued in her loins and she moaned loudly, the leather ball in her mouth stifling the full effect of her exclamations. Ngomo took hold of her clit and he was twisting and turning it, pinching it painfully.

  The slave was being taught her first lesson. Ngomo ruled in the slave quarters. She would obey him, his rules or suffer.

  Her head finally released, her loins freed of the harsh grasp of Ngomo, the French girl raised her torso hesitatingly. She kept her teary eyes downcast as she sought to communicate her deference to this cruel man, her understanding of his message. Ngomo shooed the guards away and, grabbing the girl’s left nipple, led her into the harem. Only he and the Emir had keys. He paused to unlock the steel gate that barred its entrance and pulled the girl in behind him.

  The gates led to a large foyer with a shiny green marble floor. Tall white columns held up a broad, circular canopy. Without ado, Ngomo dragged the girl further into the harem proper. They descended a small set of stairs that led to a large, luxuriously decorated room, filled with large, overstuffed cushions of maroon leather, small tables of deep mahogany. There were large, heavily braided pillows decorated with deep reds and carmine flourishes. Spread liberally about the room were scantily clad young females, lounging here and there, talking quietly to each other, brushing each other’s hair. They all looked up when Ngomo entered the room and, as one, ceased their former activities and knelt on the floor, their foreheads pressed to the deep piled, plush oriental rug, their hands pressed palms up behind their backs.

  Ngomo stood tall, and in a deep, resonating voice issued his orders to the abject females.

  “This is the Master’s new slave. You will call her Fatima. She is to be bathed, perfumed and decorated within the hour. You will have two weeks to teach her what she needs to know and to understand commands. If she does not learn all of this within two weeks, you will all be punished harshly.”

  With that, Ngomo released the French girl, now officially called Fatima, and strode from the room.

  Slowly, the seven curvaceous and obedient beauties rose from the floor. They all cast their eyes on their new sister. Some looked with disdain and dislike, jealous of their ranking in the slave hierarchy. Some looked with compassion, remembering their first frightened, disoriented day in the Emir’s harem. And some looked on her with fear, knowing the difficulty of the task ahead of teaching this unknown female what she had to learn to survive, knowing all too well the dire consequences of failure.

  The first to approach Fatima was a yellow haired beauty named Gelela, not her ‘real’ name, of course, but the name issued to her by her master, just like the short, white laced, baby doll nightclothes that she wore. It was more revealing than not, as the tips of her taut, round breasts poked through the gaps in the lace. The garment reached only just below her sex and so the least movement revealed the delightful lips between her thighs. It was, with minor variations, the standard dress for the harem. Some of the girl’s wore sheer, silk chemises, either black or a deep red. Others wore laced garments like Gelela’s, but of different shades and hues.

  Gelela was an American by birth. She did not know exactly how long she had been a guest of the Emir, or how long it was since she last tasted free air. She tried not to think about that anymore. She was a slave and it was a slave’s fate that would be hers.

  The American stepped up to Fatima and solicitously placed her soft hand on the younger girl’s delicate cheek. Her eyes softened, communicating wordlessly to Fatima her empathy with her plight. She saw the leather ball wedged into the French girl’s mouth and tenderly began to remove it.

  “No, don’t!” cried a slender, red headed girl by her side. She wore a red silk nightgown, sheer and short. Her breasts were larger than the American’s, her hair longer. She was British, and spoke in well refined, rounded tones. “He didn’t say to remove the gag!” she said urgently. “Do you want to get us all thrashed!”

  Gelela halted her hand. English was the lingua franca of the harem. The girls were purposely kept as ignorant of Arabic as possible. Any direct communication with them by the Emir or his guests was short and to the point. No one wanted to know what they thought, or felt the need to convey t
heir innermost yearnings to them. They were there to fuck, be pretty, and scream and moan nicely when beaten.

  The French girl’s English was mostly limited to what she had learned in her training and service at Klitzman’s resort. She did not know what the two dolorously clad women before her were saying. She knew what the big coffee colored man had said pertained to her, and she heard the menace in his voice. But that was all.

  The other girls had crowded around their new companion. A tall, black haired girl, with long, lanky legs and bright green eyes pushed Gelela aside. She was top dog here. She had been quite the athlete before she had been whisked off a Madrid street one day shortly after her twenty-first birthday. Three years of life as a slave had toughened her. She knew how to cause pain in ways that didn’t show, and all of the others had witnessed or experienced her ire at one time or another.

  “Let’s get a look at the new cunt,” she said, harshly. Gelela and the redhead gave way to her. She stood before the newly christened Fatima and took in the slender hips, the small, but gracefully formed breasts. She knew competition when she saw it. This one would have to be taught right away who was first in the harem.

  “Do you speak English, cunt,” she asked Fatima as she grabbed the girl’s chin and pushed her head upwards. Fatima looked back wordlessly. “Well,” the Spanish beauty continued, “whether you do or not, I’ll bet you understand this.” The Spanish girl reared back and smote Fatima a solid blow to her midsection. The girl collapsed, her breath taken away, a deep, aching hollowness forming in her stomach. As the Spanish girl walked away, Gelela and the redhead stood back in shock. All the girls remained silent. The only sound was the desperate gasping of the French girl as she knelt on the floor, her bound hands twisting behind her.

  Gelela recovered first and she bent down to aid the stricken new girl. The redhead, whose name was Jamilah, knelt beside her, and together they brought the French girl to her feet. The girl cringed and moaned, fearful of a resumed assault. By gentle stroking and soft cooing, the two women gradually calmed her. The other women had disbursed, going back to their monotonous routines. A small television in the corner of the room showed American soap operas and today they would find out whether Paul was sleeping with Vicki and whether Rosemarie would survive her surgery.

  Gelela and Jamilah gently escorted Fatima from the common room to the sleeping quarters. There was a large bathroom near the entrance and Fatima allowed herself to be escorted inside. Gelela began to run a bath in the sumptuous, oversized sunken tub. There was enough room in the tub for several of the women to bathe at once, and often the girls would languish in it, hot oily water refreshing their skin.

  The French girl had calmed now, as she understood what was going to happen. She looked forwards to a bath, removing the sweat and stink of her close confinement, relaxing in fragrant waters. Slaves took pleasure where they could.

  Fatima fully expected to have her hands unlocked so that she could bath. But she was wrong.

  “Do you think we should undo her hands,” Galela asked the redhead.

  “I’m not doing anything that I haven’t been told to do,” Jamilah answered. “If Ngomo wanted her hands unfastened, he would have done it. Besides,” she said looking behind the French girl’s back at the bracelets that confined her wrists, “we don’t have the key.”

  One of the other girls, a young Asian woman, a mere wisp of a girl, entered the bathroom. Her black hair was short and straight and her small breasts made tiny bumps under the beige, silk, crotchless teddy that she wore. Her lower lips were shaved and sported a large ring. She was a recent arrival, a gift to the Emir from a Japanese consortium looking to win a construction contract. The American Navy was coming and there was going to be plenty of money floating around for a long time. The Emir anticipated many such gifts in the near future.

  The Asian girl’s English was coming along, but she tended to talk in clipped sentences. Her voice was demure, high pitched. “May I help?” she asked timidly. She too had experienced a similar greeting from the Spaniard when she arrived.

  “Oh, thank you Me Ling,” Gelela answered. “Keep her calm while I get a sponge and some soap.”

  Me Ling quickly shed her garment and stepped into the rising water. She was at least a head shorter than the French girl, her figure almost boyish. “Come, come,” she called to her.

  The confused French girl stepped forwards gingerly. It appeared that she was not to be given the freedom to wash herself. As she stepped into the steaming water, the soothing heat spread up her legs. She moaned slightly.

  “Yes, yes,” Me Ling called to her. She tenderly pulled on Fatima’s elbow and urged her into the vast pool like tub.

  The redheaded Jamilah had also disrobed and she joined the other women in the tub. Gelela, returning with a large, soft sponge and a squeeze bottle of scented soap, handed them off to Jamilah and, after removing her delicate babydoll, stepped in.

  The three harem slaves admired the fine curves and delicate contours of the French girl’s body. Gelela ran her hand over Fatima's rear and discovered the indentation of her brand. “Oh, look,” she said to the other girls. They knew the meaning of the red, cursive ‘k’. Gelela turned her back to the French girl and pointed to a matching inscription burned into her body. Jamilah did the same. Fatima looked back with understanding.

  Not all of the slaves had made their way to the Emir’s harem by way of Klitzman’s island. Gelela and Jamilah had, Me Ling and a few of the others had not. All told, four of the seven slaves were graduates of Klitzman’s special resort. With Fatima, that made five.

  Gelela motioned Fatima to crouch down in the water. As Fatima lowered herself obediently, the other three women joined her.

  The hot water was soothing to Fatima. The three girls gently crowded around her, their kind eyes seeking hers, their soft hands rubbing her back and arms. The French girl sighed softly and began to cry. There was no kindness at Klitzman’s island. There had been no delicate, soothing caresses. Life had been hard and cruel. The girl had penned up all of her sorrow, all of her fear, all of her yearnings for peace. And now, as her chest heaved with hearty sobs, she let it all out.

  The three other women circled her with their arms. For several minutes the women sat, conjoined, memories of love and happiness revived by Fatima’s piteous wails. Tears were flowing all around. After a short while, wiping her now reddened eyes, Gelela brushed Fatima’s cheek softly with her hand, clearing away a lock of frizzled hair, and planted her lips directly on the girl’s trembling lips. Fatima, desperately thankful for the show of kindness and understanding she had been shown, yearning to reciprocate Gelela’s affection, opened her lips and absorbed the blonde girl’s gently probing tongue. Me Ling had daringly removed the heavy leather ball that had deprived Fatima of speech since her arrival, and Gelela was free to explore the French girl’s greedy mouth. A hand pressed against the girl’s breast, cupping and caressing the soft orb. Hands spread her thighs.

  The pool had a sloped end, where the girl’s could lie down and keep their heads above water. As of one mind, the three harem girls pulled Fatima towards it and pushed her back. Me Ling sat behind her to ease the strain on her bound wrists, receiving her graceful, round shoulders into her lap. Hands drew Fatima’s legs apart. A mouth fastened on her breast. Gelela’s tongue danced slowly in her mouth. The French girl groaned lustfully. Never since her rude awakening deep in Klitzman’s dungeon had the girl felt the warmth of loving lips, the caress of caring hands. As her place of pleasure was gently stroked below the warm, comforting water, she sensed her orgasm rising inside her. For the first time in many months, she yearned for it, welcomed it, not as a drug, a moment of passionate release from her nightmare, but as a gift to her new found lovers, the three women who were giving her the gift of themselves.

  When she came it was like wave of deliverance washing over her. She moaned into Gelela’s mouth. The mouth on her breast sucked harder on her teat, giving an almost painful edge to her orga
sm. And then, the forceful throbbing in her loins subsided. The three women, sensing the end to her release, calmed their ministrations. Two sets of arms held her tight while Me Ling softly stroked her head, murmuring in her native tongue sweet words of love.

  The women lay entwined for a few moments more when Gelela came alert with a start. They had to get the new girl ready or they would all be whipped to an inch of their lives.

  “Come on,” she said to the others, “we’ve got to get moving.”

  The three women pulled Fatima to her feet and began to sponge her body. Me Ling moved to return the leather ball to Fatima’s mouth. As she did so, Fatima looked into her eyes, tears forming at the edges and whispered, “Merci,” in a low, soft voice.

  Me Ling kissed her lightly on the lips and restored the leather ball to her mouth.

  Fifteen minutes later, Fatima sat on a stool before a mirror. Me Ling was drying and combing out her hair. Gelela was carefully painting the tips of her breasts. Jamilah watched at the doorway for any sign of Ngomo.

  Me Ling finished with Fatima’s hair after combing in a light, perfumed oil. Gelela had painted Fatima’s nipples a dark red and then spread her legs to adorn her nether lips. Jamilah was the expert at facial adornment and so switched places with Gelela. She hurriedly, but expertly, outlined Fatima’s lips with the bright red lipstick Gelela had used on her nipples and outer labia. She worked a line of black around the edges of her eyes and curled her lashes. She applied a dark blush to her cheeks, just enough to highlight the deep red of her lips.

  Me Ling, meanwhile undertook the task of painting Fatima’s fingernails. It was a difficult undertaking since Fatima’s wrists were still conjoined. By the time Jamilah was finished with Fatima’s face, she had started on the toes. When she was finished, the women pulled Fatima from her stool and sprayed her with a light scent of jasmine, applying the spray to her breasts and her loins.