by Paul Blades
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
The Blue Cantina
Part One: Anna’s Surrender
ISBN 13: 978-1-936173-75-4
ISBN 10: 1-936173-75-1
by Paul Blades
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
Copyright © 2009, All rights reserved
Prelude
In a subterranean lounge in a large, converted mansion on the outskirts of a major, metropolitan, American city, three men sat around a small table, their glasses filled with top shelf booze. They were relaxed, enjoying the show. The men were all either approaching middle age, or had just crossed that amorphous, ill defined border. They were all dressed in sleek, well tailored suits, seemingly, in the dark light of the nightclub, all cut from the same cloth. On their wrists were expensive, elegant wristwatches. Their hair was clean cut and well trimmed as befitted men of substance, with a tinge of grey here and there. They were in a celebratory mood.
On the stage in front of them, highlighted by several strong, small spotlights, about four feet off of the floor, a pretty, young girl, outfitted only in a pair of glittering, sapphire earrings and a pair of bright red high heels, had just begun her routine. A slow, rhythmic beat was being emitted at high volume from the club’s sound system playing one of those forgettable tunes that combine a dulsatory vocal track accompanied by an underlay of unidentifiable instruments. The beat was, however, appropriately languorous for the slow, enticing movements that the girl was making on stage. She stood with her legs spread, her hips undulating and her hands wandering her body as if on a voyage of discovery.
She was obviously aroused, as the glistening of the gaping slit between her hairless love lips indicated. From time to time, she would point a dainty finger at her stiffened clit and give it a loving massage. Each time she did, her eyelids fluttered and her face slackened. She had the men’s full attention.
The nightclub was small, with seven round tables covered by light blue tablecloths and with seats for four or five around each one. The floors and wall were colored a dark navy blue. The short service bar, behind which a heavy set, bearded man dispensed drinks dressed in a crisp, light blue sports shirt and a matching tie, was also blue. Even the small, round paper coasters under the men’s drinks were colored a shade of blue. It was as if, when the below ground level establishment had been constructed, there had been a sale on blue somewhere and the designers had taken full advantage of it. Above the bar, in script, were the words, ‘The Blue Cantina’ in, of course, bold, blue neon lights.
The lighting in the club was low, just bright enough for the men to be able to make out the features of the other men at their table. It was early yet, and only two of the other tables were inhabited, one by a trio of men attired and of similar aspect to the first four. At the other table sat a lone man nursing a neat brandy in a cavernous, elegant snifter. He was tall, a little older than the rest, and seemed put off by the loud, insistent music. A waitress, wearing only a frilly blue thong and matching blue high heels, stood nearby waiting for a signal from any of the men to fulfill their desires.
The stage itself was small, maybe about seven or eight feet all around. It had a runway that led back to a large, steel door from which the girl had first appeared. Sitting on a stool next to the door, his presence obscured by the low lighting, was a tall, well built man in his early to mid thirties. He was clean shaven and wore a dark blue t-shirt, jeans and work boots. His demeanor was harsh and observant as if he were waiting for some faltering in the young girl’s efforts for the opportunity to spring forth and correct her.
The girl on the stage looked about 22. She had ample, but not oversized breasts, clearly all natural by their easy sway and graceful arc. Her head was adorned with mid-length, curly brown hair done up in ringlets. Her lips, painted a deep red to match the shiny polish on her finger and toe nails, were thick and moist. During her routine, she kept them pursed as if inviting their use. On her belly, three or four inches above the top of her excited puss, was tattooed in bright blue ink an ornate, cursive ‘D’.
The song slowed to a finish and the girl paused momentarily until the next one began. The men remained silent during the brief interval, no one wanting to break the lascivious spell that the dancer had exuded into the room. The next song had a sharper, more lively beat and the girl’s ministrations to her body and the wriggling of her smooth, enticing hips gained energy.
There was a gleaming steel pole behind her, and she turned her body towards it. Placing her hands on the pole above her head, she spread her legs and slowly slid down it, her well toned rear cheeks keeping time to the rhythms of the tune. Her feet slipped out as her torso went lower and lower, jutting her derriere out deliciously and creating more room between the upper half of her body and the pole. When she was bent horizontal to the stage, her legs spread widely, her breasts swinging lustfully from her chest, she took a small, delicate hand and slipped it between her thighs. As her hips rocked back and forth, she used her hand to spread the engorged lips of her pussy, revealing an expanse of soft, pink, wrinkled skin within. She plunged her two longest fingers in the tiny hole and began to stroke herself wildly.
All eyes were riveted on her frenetic self pleasuring. Glasses found their ways to lips without sight. Several of the men shifted themselves as if making room for their hardened cocks in the pants of their well tailored slacks.
When the third song began, a return to the luxurious beat of the first, the girl reached down to the side of the stage and produced a six or seven inch long simulacrum of a male member. It was pink and had a wide base. She knelt at the front of the stage and inserted it into a slot so that it was standing straight up. Eyeing her appreciative audience, the girl commenced a languorous stroke of the faux penis. She bent over and, holding the bottom with her two hands, spread her tongue and then her lips over it. She was clearly well practiced in the arts of fellatio and her efforts at stimulating the pinkish prong induced several of the men to engage in casual, surreptitious strokes of their stiffened pricks.
But it was the fourth song that they all were waiting for. Its rhythm, like the second, was hard and fast. The pink prong was now wet with the girl’s saliva. Looking up at the men, who she could barely see due to the glare of the spotlights on the stage, but who she nonetheless knew were out there, she gave her weighty chest a shake, sending her plump mounds into motion and then, slipping forwards and rising to a crouch, she placed the head of the thick penal substitute at the fulcrum of her thighs and slowly lowered herself on to it.
The attractive, naked, young girl let the object fill her. Her knees were spread widely and the men could see the plastic surface push aside her soft labial lips and disappear within her. Placing her hands on the insides of her thighs, the girl began to thrust herself up and down on the faux cock energetically. Her passions were obviously rising fast. One hand drifted to the apex of her distended crevasse and rubbed furiously at her stiffened clit. The other ascended to her jumping breasts and stroked and pinched her hardened nipples. Her lips were parted and her eyes had closed to slits. Her head alternated from leaning back, revealing her graceful, pale white throat and leaning forward, her curly, brown hair hanging down and forming a curtain around her impassioned face.
The music came to a halt. No new tune replaced it. The room was filled now with the sounds of the girl’s developing lusts. She was moaning as she pleasured herself before the men. A rosy aura had spread over her chest above her breasts. Perspiration was beading all over her lithe, shapely, young body.
When the girl’s crisis ca
me upon her, she gave out a loud groan. Her body shook and her thighs quivered. She called out “Oh! Oh! Oh!” as her pussy’s spasms drove her to ecstasy. She seized her breasts and squeezed them harshly. Her eyes rolled back and her lips spread open to allow her utterances of pleasure to escape.
When the paroxysms of her pussy finally faded, the girl took a deep breath. She looked up anxiously at the audience, appearing to her only as dark, male forms. An appreciative round of applause broke out and her anxious aspect turned to one of relief. She rose from her pinioned perch and removed the cum-coated instrument of her pleasure from the stage and tossed it into a bin behind it. Giving the men a respectful bow, she retreated hurriedly back up the runway. She paused before the large, ominous door and placed her wrists together and in front of her, presenting them to the man who sat there on the stool. He took a pair of bright, steel manacles and placed them on her wrists, joining them. She opened her mouth and he inserted a bright red, round ball into it. The ball had long, leather straps affixed to each side and he tied them behind her head.
When the girl was properly outfitted, the man pressed a buzzer next to the door. The door opened from the interior and the girl darted in past it.
One of the men at the first table, the group of four, announced to his friends. “I know which one I want.” The other men laughed.
“You may have to wait your turn,” another replied.
The tall, elegant, older man had finished off his brandy and risen from his seat. He walked slowly and assuredly to the side of the stage and advanced to a large, oaken door. From his pocket he produced a rectangular piece of plastic that looked like a credit card. He slipped it along an electronic device next to the door and its lock clicked open. He pulled the door towards him and entered.
A moment later, a tall, thin, young girl, not much more than nineteen, with long, strawberry blond hair done up in a ponytail with a bright blue ribbon, emerged from behind the large, steel door. Her mouth was distended by a bright red ball gag. She stopped by the man outside the door and raised her manacled wrists to him. Taking a small key, he unlocked the shiny confinements and then removed her gag. The girl then hurried down the runway towards the stage.
When the music started again, the long legged, naked, blond beauty began her undulations.
Chapter One
Anna sat frozen in the driver’s seat of her leased, red, late model Toyota Camry, the radio off, the motor purring, unable to bring herself to commence the process of shutting the engine. Beneath her fur lined, kid leather gloves her hands were sweating and she gripped the steering wheel tightly as if steeling herself to resist some force that might hurl her from the vehicle unwillingly. She was wearing a short, pleated, tan, cashmere skirt and a tight, burgundy, pullover knit sweater under her heavy, black, cloth overcoat. She had adorned herself with a pair of two inch, red high heels, as she had been instructed, and she had on more makeup than she usually wore, having outlined her eyes carefully with dark mascara and painted her lids a subtle, soft blue.
Exactly one week ago, the attractive 29 year old social worker had come to the elegant mansion belonging to Miles Devlin with a trepidation that was only imperceptibly less intense than now. She had been in desperate straights, but had no where else to turn. Just that morning she had discovered that Carol, her best friend and the second in command of the charity that Anna headed, had absconded with approximately $225,000 belonging to the social service agency. As executive director, Anna was ultimately responsible for everything that went on at the Center, a residence home for young girls who had run or been cast away by their families and society. The Center provided them with a loving, warm environment to recover from abuse and neglect and gave them schooling, job training and a hope for a better and more fulfilling future. The money had been the quarterly grant from the county welfare agency and without it operations would come to a grinding halt. The girls who lived and trained there would be cast out into the street or sent back to their abusive homes. It was a disaster of the first magnitude.
Anna had founded the Center five years ago when she was 24 and it was the centerpiece of her life. She knew what the girls had suffered, having run away from her own dysfunctional home when she was sixteen. Life had been hard, and she had skated precariously amongst the temptations of drugs, alcohol, exploitative men and the easy way out of prostitution, go-go bars and promiscuous sex. Anna had been lucky. After a few false starts, she had been taken in by a kindly, older woman who had found her a job waitressing at a local diner, guided her through the process of getting her G.E.D. and then an associate’s degree at the local county college. Anna had gone on to get a B.A. as a social worker at State.
When the old woman died, she had left Anna her large house and about $150,000. Anna started the Center in the house soon afterwards and, through determination, luck and lots of hard work, had gotten the agency recognized as a bona fide charity by the county welfare board. The Center now housed, at any single time, between fifteen and twenty girls ranging in age from sixteen to twenty-one. There was counseling, schooling and job placement. Not all the girls went on to lead productive lives, but a high percentage of them did, moving on to good jobs or colleges armed with a better vision of themselves as worthy of respect and love.
But all of that was set to come tumbling down with a huge crash. Carol had vanished without a trace. She was a few years older than Anna and had had a similar life experience—sexual abuse at home, beatings, an alcohol ridden family, and had run away at fifteen. She had not been as lucky as Anna and had descended into a life of drug abuse and prostitution. They had met while Anna was interning at a local drug rehab facility and had hit it off right away. When Anna told Carol of her dreams about founding what in the old days was euphemistically referred to as a ‘home for wayward girls’, Carol had excitedly agreed to join her once she finished rehab.
But Carol’s addictions had reared their ugly heads again. Anna first noticed it about two months before when Carol started coming in later and later, tired and disheveled. Anna had found a pint of vodka in her desk drawer. She demanded that Carol take a drug test, but the tall, thin, blond haired woman refused. Then, one morning, she didn’t come in at all. She failed to answer her cell phone or respond to text messages or emails. After three days, Anna went to Carol’s apartment to find she had gone. It was with a gnawing, terrible foreboding that Anna had conducted an informal audit of the Center’s books and found that Carol had absconded with all of their quarterly grant money, over $225,000.
Anna had cried, heartbroken that her friend had betrayed her and disconsolate at the thought that her life’s work at the Center would probably have to fold. The worst thing about it was that Anna had endorsed the check that Carol used to embezzle the funds and she knew that she would be implicated, if not in the actual theft, at least in accusations of incompetence and reckless negligence with the Center’s money. There was no way that she could come up with that kind of cash. There was only one hope: Miles Devlin.
Devlin had been one of the Center’s most enthusiastic supporters for years. In addition to his sizable annual contributions, he had helped obtain the financing for the addition of a new wing on the old house that Anna inherited and created a scholarship fund for the girls, which was contributed to by many of his bigwig friends. Anna had some reservations about receiving Devlin’s largesse. His reputation was a little darker than shady. Although he represented himself as a wealthy investor, there were rumors about his underworld connections and alleged mob ties. He was young, a little over forty years old, handsome and suave. He had short, jet black hair and a fit, masculine build. He oozed charm. He had appeared at one of the Center’s fundraisers about a year after it opened and Anna had eagerly accepted him on the Board of Trustees about six months later. Shortly thereafter, the Center received its first County grant and the hand-to-mouth existence of the agency came to an end. He was now president of the Board and was involved in every major decision.
Last Frida
y, Anna had telephoned Devlin and told him that she needed to talk to him urgently. She arrived a little after seven o’clock that night and was ushered into his private office, a sumptuous, lavishly decorated retreat inside his luxurious mansion. She sat in one of the comfortable, elegant chairs in front of his large, finely polished, oaken desk and blurted out her troubles. Devlin took in her message of tribulation calmly, but with a severe, disappointed wrinkle in the brow of his handsome, vital face.
“And what do you expect me to do about it, Anna?” he asked. His voice was stern and Anna shivered at his disapproving tone.
With tears in her eyes, Anna pleaded that the wealthy benefactor replace the lost funds. She promised to repay him, forgo her salary, work a side job, anything to keep the Center from failing and to forestall her personal disgrace.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Devlin,” she eked out. “I know it’s my fault. I should have known better than to give Carol all that responsibility. But there’s nothing I can do now. The Center will have to close. I don’t want to imagine what will happen to the girls. There’s no place else for them to go. Can’t you do something to help?”
“Listen, Anna,” Devlin replied, leaning back in his large, black, leather chair, a frown of disapproval on his face, “I’m not in the habit of rewarding negligence or embezzlement. You tell me that Carol took the money. That’s what you say. Your signature is on the check and it was cashed at your bank. I don’t know whether you’re telling me the whole truth or not. Maybe you’re using Carol’s disappearance to cover up your own crime. Did you owe somebody a lot of money? Do you have a gambling problem or something?”
“I swear to you that it wasn’t me, Mr. Devlin,” Anna answered, panicked. It was worse than she thought. Maybe she would be arrested. She might go to jail. Her stomach quailed at the thought. Her throat grew tight and her hands began to sweat.
There was a lull of deadly silence in the room. Then Devlin spoke again.