Klitzman's Predators Book One

by Paul Blades

  I was bound, confined, trussed up for use. I knew it. I wanted to scream, but couldn't. I wanted to fight off this hulk, to punch and scratch him, but this too was forlorn. The giant didn't wait for me to gain my equilibrium, he pulled me to the wall across from the door and, using a ring on the outside of the gag, chained me to a hook about a foot above my head. The effect was to pull my head backwards and up, giving me a view of the ceiling and little else. My back was to the door and my captor. After affixing me, the man stood there admiring his handiwork. I felt his hands descending my back, feeling the globes of my rear end, circling in front of me and grabbing my breasts. I could feel him press close to me. He leaned over and whispered in my ear.

  "Soon we will dance, little one. Very soon." He left. He turned out the light.

  An hour, two, I don't know for sure, went by. I swayed gently at my bonds, my neck aching, my jaw pulled up. I couldn't ignore the feel of the cock-gag in my mouth. Was this what Nicky wanted for me? Did he know what was happening to me? Would I ever see him again? The darkness served as a cloak and a comfort in a way. The trappings of my enslavement, my collar and other bonds, could fade away in the darkness. I could pretend, as strange as that may seem, even momentarily, that this was not happening to me, but was a dream, a nightmare, part of the dark which would vanish when light once more was let back into my life. That my nightmare was in fact real would soon be made very clear to me.

  The door flew open again without warning and the room was filled with light. I felt my head being released and I was pulled by the chain affixed to my gag out of the room and into the hallway outside. Two other women stood in the hallway, bound and gagged as I was. With them was the young girl from the cellar, the one whose eyes had haunted me in my imprisonment. The women were lined up, one behind the other, the chains from their gags affixed to the collar of the female in front of them. They were, as was I, naked.

  The lead woman was affixed to my collar and we were pulled down the narrow hallway. Door after door was passed. We stopped at two more to recover the inhabitants for our forced march. Did all of these rooms hold women awaiting their fate? How and why did these other women get selected for this trip? I knew that all of these women could not have been brought here willingly and I began to understand the depth of the trouble I had let myself in for. Slaves, slavers, could this really be, here in the twenty first century?

  We were led through another door, down a dark hallway and up a small set of stairs. We entered a large room, large overstuffed furniture, sofas and chairs against the walls, a plush red rug. Six chains descended from the ceiling in the middle of the room. These, I knew, were for us.

  We were each affixed by the rings on our gags to the chains from the ceiling. The chains were pulled tight enough to elevate our heads slightly. Our legs were chained together, left to right, causing our legs to spread. We were displayed.

  As we stood bound and silent, the room began to fill with activity. A large divan was pulled out in front of us, some drinks were brought in, chairs pulled from the walls. The men who circulated through the room, all dressed in red shirts and canvas pants, would stop on occasion and admire the showcase of flesh before them. More than once a mouth fastened on one of my nipples, or a finger explored my sex, gently rubbing until, lubricated, it could penetrate. I saw some women enter the room as well, two slender, dark haired women, dressed in flowing skirts, bodices that reached up to the tips of their breasts. Collars on their necks, and, around the wrists, the same bracelets we wore.

  Suddenly the room snapped to attention, the men around the room stopped their meandering, the serving women knelt on either side of a large stuffed chair that had been placed before us. In walked a thin man, slight of build, but carrying himself with the air of command, a self assured authority. He strolled to the chair before us and sat himself in it, his hands wandering to heads and chins of the women kneeling at his sides. The room was silent. The lights went down except for small spot lights which shown directly on the six of us, displayed, proffered for this cruel looking man's intentions, whatever they were tonight.

  After taking us in from afar he stood and approached. Standing next to him was a handsome, dark haired woman, about thirty five, tall, with gleaming black eyes. She deferred to the man before us, but, collarless, dressed in a dark floor length gown, she clearly had some special role to play, not a slave, a mistress.

  The man walked slowly down the line of women. Feeling, pinching, caressing. It was clear that our faces, our visages were of little interest to him. Our bodies, our breasts, the curve of our hips the strength of our thighs, these were what he sought to know. And most importantly, our responsiveness, the feel of our loins.

  He chatted amiably with the woman, discussing the charms of the women he passed, she apparently telling him something about them, their age, their lineage, their names. As they reached me, the woman spoke quietly to the Man. "Mr. Diskare, this one is from Mr. Krikorian, for training. She enslaved herself to him at his request. She is to get special treatment since Mr. Krikorian is a special friend of our friend."

  "Yes, yes, I agree. You shall have her, initially anyway. I want Nicky to be especially satisfied," he said, looking at me, his hand on my sex, probing, penetrating. My fear and anxiety made me tremble at his touch. I felt the fire within me warming. I despised myself for it. I knew the whole room was watching me. His eyes bore down on me, fixating me as he probed deeper and deeper. My breath was rising, I could feel the flush of my skin.

  "I see that Nicky has made a very good choice. She seems quite passionate,” he told the woman.

  Just as my passion had begun to rise, despite myself, he released me. I struggled to gain my breath. The woman smiled at me, reached out and stroked the side of my head, my hair. "Oh, yes, she will be exciting to train,” she replied. Her voice was smooth as silk, deep, with a slight edge that carried a hint of her inner cruelty. “I will enforce a very strict regimen for her," she added.

  I could feel the fear climb from the pit of my stomach through my chest and down my arms, chills, trembling, sweating, my palms hot and wet. I knew I should fear this woman. She had cruelty written into her brow. What demon ate at her, I never knew, nor, did she, I think. But I could see it reflected in her eyes, the hollowness there, the lack of warmth, the deadliness of her smile.

  The man she called Diskare walked further down the line, the woman following him, slowly, like an acolyte. He stopped before the young girl at the end of the string. Although my head was slightly lifted, I could see him reach out and caress her tiny breasts.

  "A little token from Estelle I see, Carla. She is going to spoil you."

  Carla, replied, "Well she knows that she will always be welcome when she visits us. She likes to keep me happy. I know she's done well by you, Mr. Diskare." Her tone was respectful, deferential.

  "Oh, yes, very well indeed. But still, I'm sure you won't mind if I taste this little morsel tonight, do you. I'll try not to damage her."

  "Not at all, I think breaking the little ones in right away is the best thing to do. They adapt so well afterwards."

  Diskare stood back now from the half dozen women strung in front of him like so many paper dolls. "Ladies," he clearly wanted our attention, "welcome to our little island." His smile, cold as ice, deadly. An attendant handed him a riding crop. This was a man to listen to.

  "You have all come here to begin a new life. You no doubt have been wondering about your fate ever since a gag was first slipped over your face, or a binding applied to your wrists." He stroked the face of the woman next to me with the riding crop. Her eyes were wide with fear.

  "I must speak plainly and directly. You have been selected to serve as slaves. You have forever lost the right to control your own lives, your actions, your bodies. You are displayed here now before me as what you are now, the property of others. You are persons no longer, although you do have physical value. You are all very attractive and, apparently, responsive females. Your value will improv
e with training no doubt. But do not think for one minute that this value can accrue to your benefit in any way. For what would be the point of granting rights to a chattel, a horse, a dog, or," he paused while he tapped the woman's breasts with the riding crop, "a cow?" He paused to let the force of what he had said sink in. My mind was screaming with protest, remorse, terror. I was so frightened that I felt a trickle of pee roll down my leg. I had lost control of myself.

  Diskare continued, "Tonight, you will begin your training. You will learn to serve and obey. That will be your guiding light. You will spread your legs, open your mouths, offer your backsides, to be penetrated, possessed, by those who might desire you. No part of you remains yours. You will shortly feel the kiss of the lash across your breasts, your bellies, your thighs. This is to bring home to you your powerlessness, your abjectivity. Get used to it, it will be part of your daily lives. And if for any reason, you fail in your training or your duties, or, from time to time, for no reason at all, you will be punished, severely, cruelly.

  "Those of you who respond well to training can expect some pleasure of your own, as we will reward the sensuous and obedient among you. But remember, at any time, your very lives, your very existence belongs to your masters who may take it with no less thought than you might put down an unruly dog or an annoying pet.

  "The rules of the house are simple. You will open yourself at any time to anyone who desires you, and pleasure them in any way they desire. You will remain silent except to cry out in pleasure or pain, or, in those limited circumstances when you are directed to speak. You will never touch yourselves or anyone else without the permission of your masters. You will care for our property, your physical selves, as instructed."

  All during this little speech, the man called Diskare strolled slowly up and down the line of women before him. All eyes were on him and ears pricked up, keyed into his voice. An answer, finally an answer to the question which had become an obsession to me during the last few days, and I am sure to these women, posed and displayed as I was: "What was happening, what was to become of me?"

  I was coming to realize the scale of the forces Nicky had induced me to surrender to. We six women and the others who had been there in the cellar with us but had gone to fates as yet unknown to me, had been collected, stored and shipped to a far away place, across national boundaries and, necessarily, across rivers and an ocean, efficiently and apparently without fear of consequence.

  What remained for me to learn was whether I belonged to Nicky or to this "organization". Nicky was my master, I assumed, since I had surrendered myself to him, something that I now bitterly regretted. These other women, what had brought them here? I could only deduce, correctly as it turned out, that these women had not volunteered themselves to slavery as I had, that they had been kidnapped, whisked away from their lives without consent, without any inkling of what was in store for them. It was bad enough to have to blame myself for foolishness, a tragic mistake, but these women were totally innocent. Their demise, their enslavement, was an act of fate, sparked, do doubt, by the very voluptuousness and beauty they had sought after, fostered and treasured in their former lives.

  But their presence spoke volumes for the power of this organization. Not only did it have the ability to select out almost a dozen beautiful women, abduct them and remove them to a foreign shore, but also it had a use for them, a market. To be in a position to obtain value for them they had to be in a position of power to protect themselves, but also to protect their clients. For how else could the ultimate users of these "chattels", these objects of desire, be convinced to involve themselves in what amounted to international piracy? Protection from their crimes was obviously a major part of the enticement to participate in this modern version of this most ancient institution. The organization and its clients had little or nothing to fear from lawful authority. No government's writ ran here.

  Diskare paced back and forth as he spoke to us, taking in the dangling display before him. The chains which ran from the ceiling to our gags elevated our heads just enough for discomfort and to ensure erect posture, but not enough so that we could not follow him with our eyes. Finally he stopped before the woman to my right, a pale, slender blond. He stepped forward so that his face was inches away from hers. His hand dropped below her waist and from the moans and whimpers she commenced, it was clear that he was forcing his way into her sex.

  She was tall, with long legs, but her spread stance brought her down to slightly above Diskare's height. Her right ankle was affixed to mine and pulled me off balance as she struggled to deny entry to Diskare's hand. I struggled as the chain above pulled tightly against the gag in my mouth wrenching my neck. Diskare had apparently moved from a caress to a more painful stroke with his hand as the young blond began to whimper and moan more loudly. Diskare laughed, "She'll do. Unchain her."

  Diskare pulled back as two men in red jumped forward to obey their leader's command. The girl's ankles were freed and she was pulled out of the line. My ankle was reattached to the next girl in the line, as the line was slid together to fill the gap. I watched as the blonde was led to the black leather divan which had been set before us. Diskare approached her and stroked her hair gently. She stood an inch or two above him.

  I could see his expression turn from admiring, almost gentle, to hard and fearsome as his mind contemplated the crimes he had in store for this poor creature, and, inevitably, for the rest of us, dangling like meat, ready for the butcher. Some dark hatred was welling up inside him, some need to hurt, to humiliate, to punish. The blonde girl stared back at Diskare in wonderment and fear. She could see it too.

  "And now, my pretties," Diskare turned to us, "you will begin to learn the lessons of your new life. Your sister in bondage here will demonstrate how pain can motivate. Will you not my darling?" He lifted her chin with his hand, pinching her face, leering. A moment's pause as his rhetorical question sank in to the blonde's consciousness. With a look of disdain, he then motioned to the two men who had taken the blonde from the line.

  Without ado the girl was dragged to the front of the rectangular divan, her back to us. She was then forced backwards on the black leather, her hands, released from the belt around her middle and refastened to rings above her head set in the divan's side. Her legs were pulled up, her ankles fastened to rings on either side of her head. This placed her rear and sex in the air, elevated above her face, exposed, vulnerable; a shocking view and a harsh reminder of the parts of our bodies, heretofore protected, private, shielded from view, which would soon be open to any who desired to possess them, to dwell there.

  Diskare approached the girl, running his hand down along her thighs to her sex. The little lips were pursed out slightly, peeking through the thin, pale downy cover of hair. Her anus gaped, hairless and pink. It was clear the girl was struggling to contain her discomfort as she was stretched beyond normal limits, her whimpers and moans audible, although faint. Her attempts to deal with her predicament caused her body to rock backwards and forwards in a pitiful imitation of the sexual act, as if some invisible lover were plunging into her. Diskare pressed his hand into her sex, now inches from her face, forcing his way past the delicate lips, inside. Two, three and then four fingers, he caressed and stroked her vagina, cooing softly in the girl's ear.

  Diskare stood to one side, clearing my view as I dangled helplessly, my attention riveted on his hand. I, and I am sure my fellow prisoners, could see it, buried to his knuckles, now moving freely in and out of the blonde's sex. We could also see the girl's face as she looked up watching her own violation, her mouth obscured by the gag, but her face and eyes contorted, graphically displaying her discomfort and humiliation.

  I had certainly never seen a woman in this position and never had witnessed anyone caressing a woman’s sex before, even my own. I was repelled but fascinated by the tableau. After a minute, I could see Diskare's hand move back and forth more easily as the girl's vagina, in an act of self preservation and defense, became lubricated
to accommodate the invasion. He then moved his hand to the other entrance, her rear, and pushed into that portal, his way eased by the juices from the girl's sex. She began to howl beneath her gag, her voice strained and suppressed, but the meaning unmistakable: pain and humiliation, nothing she could have ever imagined, ever expected would be her fate. Her debasement was more than symbolic, it was actual. She was no more than a vessel, condemned to carry the objects of desire, her tits, her pussy, her ass, destined to give them up, open them, use them, at a master's whim.

  Tiring of his exploration of the girl's openings, Diskare leaned over and unfastened the gag from the girl's mouth. Tears were streaming down her face. Diskare smiled at her, the smile of a snake. "Are we comfy?" he asked with false solicitousness. The girl struggled to contain herself, holding back the pleas for mercy, the cries of despair. Diskare, grabbed her face, "Answer me, dog."

  The girl found her voice, "Please, oh please don't do this. Please don't hurt me, please, I've done nothing, I'll do whatever you want, please don't hurt me." Her voice whining, signaling her loss of composure, her desperation.

  "Ah, but my little slut, you will do that anyway. And I think you and your friends here need a little lesson in how we can inflict pain. It may save them later when they have even a wisp of an impulse to disobey, to withhold what is ours. No, I'm afraid you will have to be whipped now. But, please feel free to beg and scream as much as you like. It will add to our enjoyment."