Lorenzo inclined his head towards a battered battleship gray metal door at the read of the three-story brick building. “You kidding me?” he cozied up to Blake, making the young man cringe. “This is the safest fucking place on earth. Trust me. Behind those doors is more firepower than the 82nd Airborne.”
“This is a dive,” snorted Trevor. “Come on, Blake, let’s just blow.”
“Yeah,” agreed Blake, tugging at his sweat stained white school shirt. “We’re not dressed right, anyway.”
“Don’t worry about it. Anything goes in there…Five minutes,” pressed Lorenzo, “give me that long. After that, I guarantee I’ll have to drag you boys out of there with a crowbar.”
Blake muttered under his breath, but he was committed by now. “Come, on,” he told Trev. “Let’s get this over with.”
Trevor pulled the solid pewter flask from his pocket. “At least we won’t have to go in sober.”
Blake continued to swig at the whiskey as they walked over the damp, sorry ass blacktop. The liquor burned his throat pleasantly, steeling his nerves and steadying his shaking body. “Fuck it,” he scowled as they passed the dumpster. “What a shit hole!”
“Ambience,” insisted the irrepressible pimp. “It’s all part of the ambiance. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Lorenzo employed a complicated knock to get in, prompting Trevor to ask if it was some kind of freaking clubhouse for kids. When the door finally opened, though, it was hardly a kid who answered.
“Hey, Al, what do you say?” Lorenzo grinned, giving a fake punch to the gut of the six-foot-five muscle man.
The stone-faced giant barely nodded, his eyes glued on the two high school kids.
“It’s okay, Al, these guys are with me. They’re cool, believe me.”
Trevor was about ready to piss his pants. The mountain-sized man was holding some kind of machine gun. He was so big, the thing looked like a child’s toy in his hand.
“So, Al, how’s the floor tonight? Any fresh meat?”
“Got a shipment,” Al told the pimp, employing the absolute minimum by way of facial expressions or lip movements. “This afternoon. From Russia.”
Lorenzo elbowed Blake who was trying to stand as close as possible to the pimp without looking like a pussy in front of Trevor. “Russian virgins…you’re in luck.”
Al stepped aside now, letting the trio pass. They were in a kitchen, dark and unoccupied.
“That dude’s like Lurch on steroids,” muttered Trevor sotto voce as they followed the giant through the rows of pots and pans.
Blake didn’t answer. He was busy wiping his palms on his pants legs. Maybe they’d been a little short sighted, trusting the sleazebag pimp like this. People turned up dead all the time, especially rich white kids. His heart began to pound as he heard the music. There was a swinging door with a tiny circular window at the end of the kitchen. On the other side of it were lights and colors and, from the sounds of it, a lot of people.
“After you, gentlemen,” Lorenzo grinned as Al turned back around to cover the back door again.
“No funny business, dude,” Blake narrowed his eyes at the pimp. “My dad is the biggest lawyer in the city; anything happens to me and you can kiss your ass goodbye.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Lorenzo replied dryly, pushing open the red, leather-upholstered portal. It was a doorway, literally, to another world.
Trevor was the first to speak. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed, voicing exactly what Blake was thinking.
The place was incredible. Three stories high, with catwalks and balconies running around the edge of the mammoth, open space. Everywhere the eye traveled, there were women, nude or nearly nude, performing and on display. Some hung in cages, their bodies gyrating to the funky electronic beat: a mix of reggae, salsa, rock and some shit Blake could only characterize as techno tribal. There were three different stages, the first on the main floor, where a petite blonde was writhing on top of a mechanical bronco wearing nothing but a g-string. The thing wasn’t set to go too fast, just enough to make her sweat, tits jiggling as she clung for dear life. She had incentive, because right behind her was a man with a bullwhip, slashing her every time it looked as if she might fall.
Men were watching, looking amused, sipping drinks at small tables, wearing expensive suits and looking like high rollers all the way around. On the second stage, which was suspended on all four sides by steel cables like a chandelier just about at the level of the second floor, Blake could just make out a squatting brunette, pleasuring herself with a large, very black dildo.
The third stage, more like a holding tank, was glass encased and built into the back wall near the ceiling. Inside it three women were wrestling each other, waist deep in a yellowish, goopy substance.
“That’s creamed corn,” Lorenzo explained, seeing the young man’s interest. “They’ll be at it for hours. And trust me, the girls play to win.”
“What the . . .?” Trevor was the first to spot the man over the tank, leaning over a railing set against the wall. Trevor stopped dead in his tracks. The man was opening his fly and taking out a very healthy-sized willie. Without batting an eyelash, as if he was standing at a urinal in the men’s room, he began to let loose his stream, right into the goop where the girls were grappling and tossing one another.
“The bouncers are going to trash him,” Trevor predicted.
“Yeah, I want to see this,” said Blake eagerly, who’d stopped himself to see.
“Actually, he’s within his rights,” Lorenzo countered. “That little arena happens to double as a urinal. It’s especially fun when they use the corn; it’s a nice mixture. There’s also mud night, garbage night and pudding night. Sometimes we don’t add anything, but it takes a while to fill up that way.”
Blake swallowed. “You mean the girls…”
“…entertain the customers by cat fighting in a tank of piss?” Lorenzo completed his thought. “Absolutely. And you should see the crowd go wild when one of the sluts gets nailed by a stream of it—right between the eyes or on the top of her head.”
Lorenzo put his arms on the shoulders of the stunned young men. “Didn’t I tell you this was no ordinary club? Come on, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Blake and Trevor let themselves be led across the bustling, action packed floor. Close up, they could see the workings of what in some ways looked like an ordinary strip club. Men sat at their tables, with their drinks, admiring the women, while the women while the females themselves, scantily clad bustled about to serve them. The difference was in how the servers seemed to be acting and how the men were treating them.
Fondling and groping seemed to be the order of the day, as was taking a girl over one’s knee. One man had a buxom blonde down on her knees, his hands tightly yanking her hair as he lectured her about some mistake in his order. Tears in her eyes, she begged forgiveness, even as he began to stuff the wrongly prepared mushroom appetizers into her mouth, faster than she could chew.
A Black man in a white turtleneck knit shirt and nearly the size of Al, intervened, though it was the girl who was in trouble, not the customer. Taking her over his shoulder, he carried her off the floor, presumably for some secret punishment.
“There she is,” Lorenzo exclaimed, recognizing a grass skirt covered ass, long sexy legs and a mane of tightly braided jet-black hair that hung well past the girl’s waist. She was smooth and lightly tanned, with a ring of flowers around her head and another circling her slim ankle.
With the music and carryings on, she hadn’t heard him approach. Lorenzo greeted her with a firmly placed hand on her buttock, his fingers digging into the sweet places beneath her mockery of a garment. “I’d know that crack anywhere, Lita.”
Lita offered no resistance, backing her ass up for easier access. “Mmm,” she sighed. Master Lorenzo, is that you?”
Lorenzo pivoted the female on his impaling finger, pulling her naked torso against him. Lita opened her mouth for his tongue, indicating wi
th her movements and sighs that she was his for the taking.
“Lita,” he released her at last. “This is Trevor and Blake. They’re a couple of junior partners of mine. I’m taking them under my wing, so to speak.”
The lovely bare-breasted girl, her face a mixture of Polynesian and European moved swiftly to kneel at the boys’ feet. Blake felt a tug in his crotch—as if he weren’t having enough trouble fighting back an erection in this super charged atmosphere.
“Lita greets you,” she put her delicate lips to Blake’s sneaker. “Master.”
“Holy shit,” Trevor said, mostly out of nerves as the girl repeated the gesture on his boots.
“Lita,” Lorenzo, drew her attention. “Is Maki around?”
“Yes, Master Lorenzo.” She rose swiftly and gracefully to her feet. “I will try and find him. Would masters like to wait for him at a table?”
“Good idea, Lita. Why don’t you lead the way?”
Lita moved deftly across the carpeted floor, padding on bare feet. Blake was doing his best to keep his cool, but he was definitely on sensory overload. The blonde on the main stage had been taken off the mechanical bronco and was being fitted to a new machine that had just been rolled out. It resembled a stationary bicycle, except that there were straps to hold her ankles and wrists in place. At first he thought it was broken, but then he realized the seat had been deliberately removed and replaced with a vibrating shaft.
“No,” the naked girl cried. “Please, no.”
The men ignored her, lifting her into place over the cruel shaft. A roar went up from the crowd as the device was turned on. There were wires attached from it to a light bulb and in order to avoid being whipped, the girl had to keep the light lit. That meant generating power, which meant peddling, pushing the shaft in and out of her cunt like a piston.
She was crying, and begging, all the while obviously having a tremendous orgasm.
“Faster,” the man snapped the whip against her pretty straining ass, drawing laughter from the audience. “Earn your keep, slut.”
Lita led them into the glass elevator, where a little Asian woman was tied on her knees, her arms bent tight behind her back, her neck angled back painfully from the knot that was binding her hair to the ropes binding her ankles. Her mouth was held open by a kind of metal ring, attached to leather straps that ran round her head. There was rope all up and down her torso, coils of it wrapped tightly round her small breasts, distorting them into swollen red apples. She was alert, her soft brown eyes regarding the men as they entered the small enclosure.
Trevor pointed out the sign, on the wall behind her. “Oral Relief,” it said simply, as if she were some mere convenience, like a towel rack or a shoeshine stand.
“There’s nothing going on here the girls themselves don’t want,” Lorenzo said, answering the questions in their eyes. “Beg for, actually.”
“That girl on that bike thing didn’t look too happy,” observed Trevor.
“That’s training,” shrugged the pimp, checking the shine on one of his garish gold rings. “You have to get at a female’s true submissive nature. You have to take away her choices, punish her, conquer her, till she knows, absolutely without a doubt that you’re the master and she’s the slave.”
“Slavery’s illegal,” Blake pointed out, as the doors slipped quietly open.
“Tell that to your dick,” Lorenzo quipped, urging Lita forward with a smack to her gorgeous, totally fuckable ass.
Lita led them to a reserved table on one of the third floor balconies. It was right up front and they could see everything very clearly now. The brunette with the dildo was below them on the platform, thrashing and rolling on the corrugated steel platform, making herself come over and over. Blake was afraid she might fall, but then he noticed the silver cable attached to her leather collar. She might go over the edge, but she wouldn’t hit the bottom.
From this view he could follow the corn wrestling more closely, as well. There were four girls now, two black and two white. They were tearing and biting at each other. One ebony beauty had a white girl’s tit between her tightly clamped teeth. The athletic blonde was trying to break free, digging her hand into her opponent’s crotch. The second white girl was trying to upend the black girl by tackling her at the waist. She was up to her waist in the thick yellow soup, the second black girl on her back, trying to tear out her long, disgustingly coated auburn hair. Three men were lined up at the rail, making a sport of shooting their streams onto the comely wrestlers.
“You said they play to win,” Blake asked, curious. “What’s the prize?”
“A lot of cash,” Trevor quipped. “It’s gotta be.”
Lorenzo shook his head, signaling for a server. “These girls aren’t allowed money. They compete for more humble things—things appropriate to women of their station. Lita, here,” he snapped his fingers. “It’s been ‘way too long since I’ve had my hands on those tits of yours.”
Blake watched as the girl knelt beside him, arching her back to offer up her perfect, pear-shaped tits. “Such as?”
“Oh, it varies,” he massaged a moan from the submissive female, manipulating her nipples to hard nubs. “Small treats—a cookie or an apple, an extra hour out of their cage. Sometimes, if it’s a really hot match, they’ll even cut up a little steak or veal in their food bowls.”
“Bowls?!” Trevor’s eyes were bugging—the pressure behind them looking about as intense as what Blake was feeling on his cock.
Lorenzo took the table knife from his setting. “They’re slaves; what else would you expect?” he scorned, employing the cold hard metal to tease Lita to distraction.
“May I serve you, Masters?” chimed the tall and lovely waitress, her straight, glossy hair set just so over her shoulders, her ripe, perfect body clad in silk bra and panties, black with garters and high heels.
Blake looked her up and down. She had the figure of a swimsuit model and a thick accent. Where the hell did they get these girls, anyway?
Lorenzo glanced up, briefly interrupting his sweet torture of the slave Lita, who had bent herself back, head to the floor, allowing the man to flick her clit with the flat of the merciless blade. “You’re new,” he observed. “How long have you been here, honey?”
“Three days, Master,” she bowed. “From Slovakia.”
Lita was whimpering. “I beg to come, Master. Please may your slave come?”
Lorenzo ignored her. “Slovakia, huh? How you liking it so far?”
“Very much. I am going to be a movie star,” her eyes lit up. “Master.”
It’s clear the woman had no clue, thought Blake. From the looks of this place the only movies she’d be in would be triple X.
“Sure you are,” Lorenzo abandoned the begging slave. “Either of you boys got a pen on you? Good,” he nodded as Trevor handed him one. “Come here,” he snapped his fingers at the black-haired knockout.
He made Lita get up now, unsatisfied, so the new girl could take her place. Instead of making her kneel, though, he had her bend over and touch her toes.
“M-master,” the broken, tearful Lita called piteously.
“That will be all, Lita. You’re dismissed.”
“Y-yes, Master.”
Blake watched her walk away, aroused, defeated and thoroughly conquered…just like Lorenzo had said a woman should be. Licking his lips, Blake imagined what the girl’s silky hole would feel like to his agonized and needful cock right about now.
“I don’t trust her to remember,” Lorenzo explained, having pulled down the Slovakian girl’s panties so he could write on her pure white ass. “I want a rum and cola. How about you boys?”
The girl squealed as Lorenzo made the first incision, pressing the point down hard to transfer the ink. “Damn cheap pen!”
“Vodka and tonic. Just a splash,” Blake managed, parroting his father’s standard drink.
“A lot of letters in that,” chuckled Lorenzo, making her squirm. “What about you, Trev?”
Lorenzo had taken up most of both cheeks by the time he’d added his own drink and thrown in a couple of appetizers. For good measure he wrote across her toned, flat belly, “Order behind,” with an arrow pointing across her hip
“Behind,” he chuckled, sending the girl off with a ritual swat. “Get it?”
The girl stumbled forward, the panties still gathered at her thighs.
Blake’s attention was momentarily diverted by the wrestling. One of the corn and piss covered blondes was squealing her head off as the two black women held her fast between them, putting her head directly under the flow of a particularly large arc of urine. He looked for the second white girl to rescue her, but she was face up, floating unconscious in the sickening fluid.
“Ooh, that’s a tough break,” Lorenzo whistled. “The goldilocks twins look like they’re going down for the count already. Maki doesn’t like it when the matches go that short. It may be a night out for those two.”
“A night out?” Trevor inquired, clearly hanging on the man’s every word.
“If Maki isn’t pleased with one of his girls, he puts her out the back door; as is. She has to fend for herself till he decides to let her back in.”
Blake tried to picture the pretty young white girls, naked, their bodies filthy and disgusting, smelling like piss, forced to defend themselves in this burnt out neighborhood.
“A lot of times they get picked up by some neighborhood pimp,” Lorenzo explained, “or maybe a crack dealer looking to have a little entertainment in one of his houses. Twenty-four hours a day, tied down to a stinking mattress, your holes stuffed non-stop: that’s what that gig will get you. If the girl is smart, though, she’ll find a good hiding place. Like the dumpster. That also takes care of her nutrition problems, too.”
Blake’s head was swimming. Could a woman really be desperate enough to do that? To crawl naked, or near naked into a stinking garbage receptacle, sleeping there, eating thrown out slop, hoping the garbage truck didn’t come before her cruel owners decide to let her back in to her life of misery and abuse.
Punishing Pamela Page 8