Jack Stone - Deadly Revenge

by Vivien Sparx

  They reached the door. Stone smiled at the security guard. He was built like a footballer carrying plenty of weight and muscle. The guy looked like he was in his mid-twenties. He had a small black earpiece taped to his left ear.

  The door was a massive solid structure, made of timber and braced with huge iron-band hinges. At waist height was an iron handle in the shape of a lion’s head with a ring between its teeth. Stone reached for the handle. The big guy stepped across his path and put a hand flat against his chest.

  “Not so fast,” the security guy said. There was a long desperate silence. Celia felt herself trembling. She held her breath and fought with every fiber of her being against the urge to look up into the guard’s face. Then she heard the guy make a noise like a friendly chuckle. “Opening the door is the only job I got,” the man said.

  She heard Stone laugh. Heard the guard laughing too. Then the door was opening and Stone was leading her into a dark room lit by flashing strobes of light and filled with the thumping beat of loud music.

  They were inside The Cage.

  Fifteen.

  The main room was smaller than Stone had expected – maybe thirty feet square. Against the far wall was a bar area, and next to the countertop, Stone could see the entrance to a dark passage leading to other rooms, and probably offices and toilets.

  The walls around him were all red dressed timber to waist height, and then became rough brickwork up to the ceiling. The walls were decorated with pieces of BDSM equipment hung against the exposed brick like ancient weapons of war.

  Stone stood inside the doorway with Celia standing close behind him, and glanced around the room.

  There was a long low bench seat built into the walls on either side of the room and people were sitting comfortably drinking from red plastic cups. Stone guessed there were maybe thirty people in the room.

  They were clustered in couples, doms with their subs close beside them, and a few scattered women with men on leashes. There was more women standing at the bar area.

  The music in the room was loud, pumping through hidden speakers like it was heralding some kind of event that was about to happen. Stone led Celia towards the left wall and sat down next to a young woman wearing a black corset and not much else. She had a thick red collar around her neck. She was slim, with long black hair and brown skin. Stone gave the leash a gentle tug and Celia sat down obediently close beside him.

  As he watched, the women gathered around the bar area drifted back to their respective masters carrying drinks. Gradually the music began to fade out and the hum of excited chatter rose to fill the silence.

  Stone could feel Celia’s thigh brushing against his. Her leg was trembling. She was sitting quietly, but her eyes were darting to every corner of the room, trying to take it all in at once. He unclipped her collar.

  “Go and get drinks,” he said. Nothing more. No expression, no softness in his tone. Just a stern command issued in a voice that expected her obedience.

  Celia got to her feet, suddenly shy and self-conscious. She could feel the gaze of everyone suddenly drawn to her, and she imagined the men in the room assessing her as a submissive and a sex toy – and the women assessing her as competition. She took a deep breath, clenched her tiny hands into fists, and walked stiffly around the edge of the room until she was standing on polished timber floorboards in front of the bar. She knew Stone was watching her too. Even across the room she could feel him looking at her with those dark dangerous eyes. A young woman had a row of plastic cups lined up on the counter. She pointed to each one in turn and told Celia what was in them.

  The woman behind the bar was topless. She had small, perfectly shaped breasts. Her face was pale, but her lipstick and eye shadow was dark purple, so that she looked almost tragic. Celia chose two cups with mixes of bourbon and coke and scurried back to where Stone waited.

  There was a sudden commotion of activity and Stone turned to see a statuesque blonde woman appear from the darkened passageway. Everyone’s head turned in her direction.

  She was naked above the waist. Her breasts were large and milky white against the light tan of her shoulders and stomach. She cupped her breasts in her hands and pinched her nipples until they jutted hard and aroused.

  The woman stood, framed in the doorway for a moment, with her hip thrust at a voluptuous angle. She was wearing a red skirt, split all the way up the front so that the mound of her naked sex below the garment was exposed. Her feet were thrust into flat red sandals. She parted her legs and slid her hands down within the skirt while the crowd applauded. Her fingers found the soft golden whorls of hair between her thighs and as she touched herself, she threw back her head and gasped aloud.

  It was all a performance, Stone understood. But she was a skilled actress, and the gathered crowd responded to her overt display. Finally she stepped into the middle of the room and undulated her hips in a lewd dance like an uncoiling python.

  Then another woman stepped into the room and stood silent and patient behind the tall golden-haired beauty.

  The second woman was naked. Her body was slim, with a flowing line of waist and thigh. She was young and tender-looking, and she moved with the awkward grace of a child, but also with the fully developed thrust of a woman’s breast and hip. She wore only a black leather collar around her neck. She had short brown hair. Her skin was smooth and golden-brown, her legs long and finely muscled. She stood with her hands cuffed in front of her and waited.

  The tall blonde woman stopped gyrating her hips and turned. She thrust two of her moistened fingers into the other woman’s mouth. Then with slow voluptuous movements she slid her fingers between the girl’s soft moist lips in a gesture that was sexually fraught as an unmistakable parody of penetration.

  “This is our model for the night,” the blonde woman announced to the crowd, her eyes taking in the faces of those gathered. “Her name is Melody, and she is a slut.”

  The crowd applauded politely. The woman named Melody lowered her head. Her cheeks were flushed.

  “We hope you enjoy seeing the way Master Damien deals with such as sexy slut,” the blonde declared. Then she attached a long chain to Melody’s cuffs.

  There was an iron ring bolted into the ceiling above. The chain ran down through the ring. The blonde tugged on the chain until Melody’s arms were raised above her head. Then the blonde turned back to the darkened entrance – and waited.

  Everyone waited. One minute. Two. Then finally a man appeared.

  He was a big man, well muscled. He had broad shoulders and a coarse mat of dark curling hair across his chest. His head was concealed within a black leather hood. There were round eye-holes cut into the leather, and a crude ragged slash for the mouth. He wore black leather pants and shiny boots.

  Celia felt her breath catch in her throat. The man looked positively sinister.

  Stone felt Celia press a little closer against him. He took her hand in his, and put it on his thigh. Held it there, not as a sign of intimacy, but as a silent instruction for her to remain still and quiet.

  Master Damien strode into the room. He went to where the woman was hanging and ran his hand in a gentle teasing caress, all the way from her throat down to the shaved smooth mound of her sex. The woman spread her legs. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open in a silent gasp. Master Damien slid two of his fingers inside the woman and she flinched, bucked her hips, and then groaned softly. She shifted her weight, adjusting to the strain on her chained arms, and began to rock her hips in time with the touch of Master Damien’s fingers.

  The tall blonde woman disappeared back through the darkened passageway. Stone watched her go, but she came back only seconds later carrying a black bag. She set it down on the floor at Master Damien’s feet and retreated to the bar.

  Stone turned back and watched the entertainment.

  Master Damien was applying clothespins to the woman’s body – five to the soft smooth skin of each breast and nipple, and then several more to the taut flesh around her
waist. The woman flinched and bit down on her lip as each peg was applied.

  Celia was entranced. The scene unfolding before her was a world away from anything she had ever imagined or fantasized about. She felt her shock mingle with the perverse voyeuristic thrill of watching the two strangers. A brew of conflicted emotions bubbled up within her. She felt her sex melting, catching fire with excitement, but at the same time she felt almost guilty for being so aroused by the sexual play of power.

  Stone heard Celia give a breathless little gasp, and he glanced at her. She was leaning forward, and her eyes were enormous as she watched the scene being played out. Her lips were parted, and her breathing was a series of short rapid gasps. Stone glanced down and noticed the hardened press of her nipples through the sheer fabric of the bra she wore.

  When he looked back to the middle of the room, Master Damien was cuffing a spreader bar between the submissive woman’s legs. The bar was a couple of feet long, made of aluminum rod, and the cuffs were thick leather. He fastened them and attached small padlocks. Then he started slapping the back of the woman’s exposed thighs and bottom with his hand. The woman gasped and squirmed against her restraints. One by one Master Damien unfastened the clothespins, and the sudden rush of blood was such an exquisite blend of pleasure and pain that the woman cried out.

  When there were no more pegs, the woman was unhooked from the ceiling chain. Her arms fell limp in front of her and she physically sagged with relief. Master Damien put the flat of his palm into the middle of her back and forced her down to her hands and knees.

  Her legs were wide apart. Master Damien crouched beside her and whispered softly to the woman. She nodded, and then lowered her head and straightened her back.

  The tall blonde woman carried a red plastic cup across to the submissive girl and balanced it in the middle of her back. The cup was full.

  “Do not spill a drop,” Master Damien warned. “You must stay perfectly still while our guests use you for their pleasure. If you spill the drink, I will not let you orgasm.”

  Then, gradually, people came from their seats and gathered round the submissive. Men ran their hands over her body, massaging and cupping her breasts. One of the doms brought his slave girl to the middle of the room. She crouched down on her haunches and ran her tongue between the submissive woman’s spread legs. There was a moan of approval, like a gentle sigh of a breeze, as men gathered round and watched the girl lapped and nuzzled the wet folds of the submissive’s aroused sex. Then one of the doms reached for the zipper of his trousers and offered the swollen hard length of himself to the kneeling woman’s mouth.

  It became a gentle kind of erotic sensual orgy, with couples coming and going from the group around the woman and then pairing off in dark corners.

  Stone clipped the leash to Celia’s collar and got to his feet. She stood silently beside him.

  There were two submissive women standing at one end of the bar, talking to each other in hushed tones. Stone recognized the women and saw that both of their master’s were still part of the group gathered in the middle of the room. Stone gave Celia’s leash a gentle tug and led her towards the bar.

  Both the women were collared, and both were about average height. One woman had flowing red hair that spilled in a cascade of fiery curls all the way to the middle of her back. She glanced up at Stone with a flash of emerald green eyes. She was wearing a purple and black corset and a tight leather skirt. The other woman had short dirty blonde hair. She was slim, with over-sized breasts – probably the result of surgery, Stone guessed. She was wearing a white dress, cut very high up on her thigh and made of such thin gauzy fabric that the dark shadow of her panties showed clearly, even under the subdued lighting of the club.

  Stone stopped in front of the two women and drew Celia alongside him.

  “We need your help,” Stone said.

  The woman with the sparkling green eyes flicked a glance past Stone to where her master was standing. “I’m sorry, Sir,” she said. “Our master’s won’t allow us to play.”

  Stone shook his head. “I don’t want a scene,” Stone said, keeping his voice low, but inflecting his tone with sudden urgency. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”

  The women glanced at each other. Stone sensed them wavering. Backing away. The women’s expressions became suddenly guarded with suspicion.

  “What kind of questions?”

  Stone handed the leash to Celia and reached for his wallet. He passed the magazine photo of Katrina Walker to the woman with the blonde hair.

  “Do you know this girl?” Stone asked. “She came to the club. She was someone’s sub. Maybe you girls have seen her or spoken to her.”

  The blonde woman went suddenly stiff with recognition and alarm. Stone saw it all in her eyes. She handed the image back to him and rubbed her fingers, as though the paper had burned. She shook her head. “No,” she said, too quickly, her tone too definite. “I’ve never seen her.”

  “Please,” Celia suddenly whispered, unable to contain her desperation. “Please, help us. She was my sister.”

  Stone held the photo up to show the woman with red hair. “Do you recognize her?” he asked.

  The woman balked, and looked suddenly furtive. Stone pressed her. “You recognize her, don’t you,” he said, and then leaned in closer. “I just want to know the name of the man she served,” he said. “That’s all. Just tell me who her master was.”

  “Was?”

  Stone nodded. “She’s dead.”

  The two submissive women exchanged scared, panicked glances. There was real fear in their eyes. The blonde haired woman began to step away. Stone caught her elbow, his grip so tight that the woman gasped in pain.

  “Please,” he said.

  The woman trapped her lip between her teeth and flashed an anxious look over her shoulder.

  “The Dom,” she whispered. “She served the Dom.”

  Stone frowned. “Who is he? Is he here tonight?”

  The woman looked at Stone like he was insane. “Of course,” she said. “He owns the club.”

  Stone heard a sudden growl of angry noise behind his back. He turned. One of the men who had been gathered around the kneeling submissive was buckling up his belt and zippering his jeans – and he was staring at Stone.

  Stone let the blonde woman’s elbow go. The man broke from the group and strode towards him. He was a big guy, maybe in his mid-thirties. He had long straggly black hair and a scruffy beard. He was wearing a black biker’s t-shirt and jeans. He was solid but not fit. He had weight, but no muscle.

  Stone turned to face the man. Celia stepped close behind Stone’s back like she was sheltering from an approaching storm.

  Stone held up his hand like a cop stopping traffic.

  The biker guy growled. “You don’t touch my bitch,” he said. He was still coming on like an avalanche of bad attitude. The blonde haired girl started to shake. She tottered out of the way unsteady in her high heels. The biker guy shot her a malevolent glance that read like she was going to be punished – just as soon as he dealt with the stranger in the suit coat who had touched her.

  “No one touches my bitch,” the biker said.

  Stone shrugged. “I didn’t realize she was yours,” he said.

  “You should have asked,” the biker spat back. He was toe to toe with Stone now, conceding a couple of inches in height, but with a clear weight advantage. Others in the crowd were turning suddenly, drawn by the guy’s raised voice. “You should have asked her if I was her master.”

  Stone looked amused, but he felt his anger changing up through the gears. “You mean I should have walked up to her and asked if the fat hairy pig with the dick that is smaller than my little finger was her master?”

  The guy roared. Stone saw broken stumps of yellowed teeth, and then a fist the size of a football swinging towards him. Stone stepped forward and snapped out a hard right. The biker’s punch died in mid air, and Stone’s fist had his weight, and the momentum
of his forward step behind it. It wasn’t his best. It wasn’t a blow he would look back and remember fondly – but the biker wasn’t the biggest or the baddest man he had ever rumbled with either.

  Stone’s punch landed on the point of the man’s chin. The guy went backwards, his arms pin wheeling for a hand-hold that wasn’t there. He lost his balance and he crashed into the bar counter. Stone hit the guy again, swinging his left fist from low down near his hip and punching upwards into the biker’s unprotected ribs. The guy made a gasping sound as all the breath exploded from his lungs. Then he sagged to the ground and didn’t get up again.

  “Stay down,” Stone warned the guy. “If you get up, I’ll take you apart and see what makes you work.”

  Stone wheeled round, his fists still bunched to confront anyone else who might be coming to the biker’s aid. There was a wild animal ferocity about him.

  No one was. Everyone was standing back, standing still – because the big friendly doorman who had greeted them when they arrived with a big friendly smile and a big friendly laugh was standing in front of Stone holding a big ugly gun.

  Stone paused. Slowly raised his hands.

  “We’re going,” he said slowly.

  The doorman nodded. “Yes you are,” he said. Right now. And don’t ever be dumb enough to come back.”

  Sixteen.

  They drove back to the hotel in silence. Celia sat in the seat, small and subdued, but bristling with some kind of energy and emotion that seemed to make her body hum.

  They walked up the stairs in silence. Stone opened his door and Celia followed him inside. Stone flicked on the light, tossed the room key onto the counter and went to the bathroom. His knuckles were grazed and smeared bloody. He ran his hands under cold water.