by Paul Blades
In the corner of the room, a petit, blond headed girl was suspended from the ceiling. Her ankles and wrists were joined together and she had been hoisted into the air so that her body hung like a stilled pendulum. The front ring on her collar was connected by a chain to her wrists and ankles, keeping her head elevated. Every few seconds, she gave out a moan and a jump. As her body swung round, Rene could see that her ass and pussy had been stuffed with thick metal prongs and that the prongs were connected by wire to an electrical box. The shocks to her nether parts must have varied in intensity, because the next time the girl’s body jolted, she gave out a long, loud scream.
Dupre closed the door behind her. “Do you like my little play room, Rene? I think that we can find something appropriate to help you relax and enjoy your new surroundings.”
Rene’s stomach went into a deep dive. Her hands still behind her head, she backed away from the approaching slave mistress.
“Don’t be coy, Rene,” she said to the distraught girl. “It’ll only get you into trouble.”
Reluctantly, Rene stopped retreating away from the cruel woman. Dupre grabbed her by the elbow and led her to the steel table.
“I know what we’ll do, Rene,” she said, taunting the girl. “I think that I’ll whip your cunt. How about that?”
Rene was close to emotional breakdown. She knew it was verboten, but she could not withhold her speech. “Oh, please, madam, please don’t whip me, please,” she managed to whimper. Her body was shaking at the prospect of the resumption of her physical abuse.
Rene felt the hand on her arm grip her more tightly. “You know there’s no talking, Rene. I’ll have to give you extra lashes for that. Come on now,” she said to the cringing young woman. “Hop on the table like a good little girl.”
Her eyes issuing a torrent of tears, Rene managed to sit up on the table. Its surface was cool. She could see her reflection in its gleaming surface. As soon as she was perched on the table, Madam Dupre pulled her down onto her back. She guided the docilely accepting girl’s arms to the top of the table where she affixed both bracelets to a ring in the middle. The black clothed mistress leaned over and stroked Rene’s face. “Oh, don’t cry, little one. We haven’t even started yet.” The older woman ran her long, boney fingers across Rene’s plump breasts. “And you do have such a pretty body, my dear. Such nice breasts!” She pinched Rene’s nipples harshly, drawing a moan of pain from the girl. “I can’t wait to whip your tits, Rene. But maybe later. I have something else in mind for now.”
Dupre went down to the foot of the table. She produced two long straps from a shelf underneath and tied one to each of Rene’s ankles. She then returned to the head of the table, holding the free end of the straps in her hands. She began to pull at the straps until Rene’s ankles started to rise into the air. When the girl was practically bent in two, her ankles up past her ears, Dupre tied the straps off on rings at the corners of the table. The girl’s legs were spread wide and her double clefts were clearly visible. Dupre returned to the foot of the table and producing another strap, tied it around Rene’s waist, pulled it tight, and then tied it off on the ring in the middle of the table’s end.
“There,” Dupre said almost merrily. “This way you won’t fall off of the table, Rene. We want you good and still for your whipping. In fact, I think we can draw the ankles down a little more now.” The tall, slender woman adjusted the ankle straps so that Rene’s knees almost touched the table top. Dupre ran her cool hands down the inner portions of Rene’s thighs and over her buttocks. “Oooh!” she said. “So smooth!” She placed her hand on Rene’s shaven sex.
“Should we get you a little warmed up?” she asked. Rene, miserable and afraid, remained silent. Dupre looked down at her face.
“Didn’t they teach you politeness, Rene? You have to say ‘If it pleases you, madam.’ Come on now, say it.”
Rene’s mind was far away from the niceties of civil discourse. She knew that very soon she would be howling and screeching with pain. But she also knew that this cruel woman would seize on any pretext to extend her suffering. Her throat and mouth were dry with fear. Her whole body was shaking in apprehension of the blows to come. Rene managed to squeak out some words. “If it p,p,pleases you, madam,” she said, her voice little above a whisper.
“Oh, it does please me, Rene. It does very much,” the slave mistress replied. The sadistic woman leaned over and took Rene’s clit into her mouth. She sucked on it gently while she rubbed her hands up and down Rene’s pale thighs. She licked the length of Rene’s moistening gash, tickling the little bud with her rigid tongue. As she moved her head back, she replaced her mouth with her hand, seizing the whole of the pudenda, rubbing and massaging the engorging lips. Dupre leaned her mouth down to near Rene’s. She circled Rene’s head with her free hand and placed her lips on Rene’s. Rene thought briefly about refusing the tongue that was insistently pushing its way past her lips. But she knew that she was powerless to oppose the desires of this seemingly mad woman.
She opened her mouth and let the woman’s tongue mingle with her own. In spite of her fear, her revulsion at the touch of this cruel woman, Rene’s breath began to become labored. She could feel her labia softening and distending. Her breasts were becoming tight and warm. The hand of her mistress continued its expert manipulation of her exposed sex. When she moaned, a wave of growing pleasure washing over her, she knew that she was lost. It was what Dupre had been waiting for.
“Oh, Rene,” she said as she pulled her mouth from the supine girl’s. “You’re a hot slut. That’s good. We’re going to have such fun together.” She released her grasp of Rene’s soaking pussy and walked over to a cabinet where she removed a long birch rod, its tip tapered to a tiny point.
“I was thinking of using the tasseled whip, Rene, but your current position really calls for pinpoint accuracy,” she told the trembling girl. “I wouldn’t want to miss your little love canal, or the little brown rosette between your cheeks. I think that this’ll do much better. Don’t you Rene?” she asked, whooshing the whip through the air.
Rene, hearing the tell tale sound of the whip being prepared for use, could hold back her piteous entreaties no longer. “Oh, please, mistress!” she cried in an anguished voice. “I’ll do anything you say! Anything! Please don’t whip me, please!”
“That’s it Rene,” Dupre answered. “You’ll be screaming like mad in a second anyway. Cry out all you want.”
Rene began to blubber and wail as she anticipated the cruel blows that she was about to suffer. Madam Dupre moved to the girl’s side.
“I think I’ll get a better shot at your cunt from the side, Rene. Let’s see if I can land the tip of the whip right on your clit.” The tall, well toned woman drew the whip back and lashed out with all of her strength. She swung the whip with a backhand stroke and its tip landed just below Rene’s love bud. “Crack!’
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” the poor girl cried. She jerked and strained at her bonds as the pain wrenched her body. The kiss of the whip felt like a knife had been plunged into her loins.
“Ah, Rene,” Dupre shouted with glee. “Right on the money. Let’s see if I can do it again.”
While Rene moaned and cried, begging for mercy, Dupre brought the whip back again and once more swung it backhand towards the girl’s burning loins.” ‘Crack!’
She struck Rene’s clit dead center. “Aiyeeeeee!” the girl screeched. “Oh, God! Oh God!” she yelled. Her little bud emitted a whole world of pain through her body. She desperately tried to bring her legs together, to protect her loins from the cruel abuse.
“Let’s try your little brown star next, Rene. I bet that’ll hurt like the blazes.”
The supple and lithe woman returned to the head of the table. “Oh this is an easy shot, Rene,” she said. “Just up and down. But let’s see how hard I can hit it.”
Rene tried to steel herself for the next blow. She gathered up all of her courage as she saw the whip rise. She closed her eyes tig
htly to block out the sight of its descent. Dupre brought it down swiftly, putting her weight into it. ‘Crack!’
Rene’s voice had grown hoarse with screaming. Her wail was almost guttural. The impact of the whip’s tip on her pursed rear lips was electrifying. Her body convulse in pain. Her anguished voice echoed through the small torture chamber. Ten more blows the slave mistress inflicted on Rene’s body. Her wailing and moaning was almost deafening. The woman struck her dainty rear ring again and then marched the whip up and down the inside of her two thighs.
When she was finished, Madam Dupre had worked up quite a sweat. Rene was in a whirlwind of pain. She moaned and groaned, muttering futile pleas. Dupre took stock of herself. “Ah, Rene, that was wonderful. I think I’ll go take a shower and get one of your friends to lick my pussy. I’ve worked up quite a lust. You’ve been very cooperative. I’m going to let you hang out here a while. I’ll be back a little later and then we can start on your luscious tits.” Before leaving, Dupre shoved a leather gag into Rene’s moaning mouth. There was no talking between slaves permitted in Madam Dupre’s dungeon. The slave mistress patted Rene on her backside. “See you soon, slave,” she said. And then she left.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE WAGES OF SIN
Nicholai Kodar sat drinking his tonic with lime. It was a sunny afternoon. The daily afternoon showers had fled and the sun had burst out again, causing steam to rise from the roofs of the neighboring cottages. He was on the shade porch that sat on a small hill that overlooked Klitzman’s resort and he could note the hustle and bustle of the place as blue, black and brown robed creatures darted back and forth. It was like watching ants.
He had in his hand his bank’s confirmation of receipt of a draft for 1.25 million dollars; his share of the 3.75 mil Klitzman had recovered on the plane. There was another $270,000 bonus for bringing in the girls, nine of them, that is. $30,000 each. Not bad.
He was leaving in a little while and had just one more piece of business to take care of. He rose from his chair, downed the tonic. Nicholai never drank alcohol. It dulled the senses and clouded the mind. He wanted to be in control and at his peak all the time.
The facilities on the island that were made available to supervisors depended a lot upon status. The rough and tumble street guys usually had their stay confined to the supervisors’ dormitory. High achievers, like Nicholai, were allotted cottages, five room units with a full bath and a fully stocked ‘playroom’ where slaves could be maltreated. The cottages, built on a rise that ascended from the main plateau, were ranked by view. Nicholai’s cottage had an ocean view and a view of the resort. Others overlooked the golf course. Some had no view to speak of at all. All in all there were twenty cottages, some reserved permanently for use by specific individuals who might spend significant time at the resort and temporary ones, like the one Nicholai occupied. He had made a big score and had risen in the Klitzman firmament.
Above the cottages, were the mansions. There were four of them. One was occupied by Cholo and Thorndike. Anthony occupied another and two were reserved for the use of royalty, presidents and other heads of state and their guests.
Although smaller than the many roomed mansions, the cottages were not to be sneezed at. The living room was sunken with a large flat panel T.V., a wet bar. There, too, were the necessities of slave abuse, a whipping post, an ottoman surrounded by iron rings. The kitchen was fully stocked and a servant usually assigned to do the cooking. There was a well appointed dining room and a spacious bedroom. Cottage residents were privileged to have slaves assigned to them on long term basis. The slaves were expected to clean and straighten out the house, and wait patiently the return of their masters.
The veranda ran off of the living room and when Nicholai entered it he saw a pair of cringing, woeful eyes staring back at him. They belonged to a skinny, long haired, brunette, with long, slinky legs and tea cup breasts. Her body bore long, thick red welts all across it, with deep purple bruises on her thighs, breasts and ass. She was sitting in the middle of the floor. Her arms had been fed under her legs and then her wrists were affixed to the outside of her ankles. In this posture, the slave was unable to close her legs. There were tight, sharp clamps on her tormented nipples, the lips of her vagina and over the little nubbin at its top. One final clamp gripped her tongue tightly, forcing it to be maintained outside of her mouth.
The girl’s eyes were red rimmed and her face was a picture of abject fear. Nicholai stopped to regard her. He had enjoyed abusing this slut. She had been his for the last three days. Three days was about the limit that any slave girl could ordinarily take with him. Word must have gotten around because this girl had been crying when she was delivered.
But Nicholai did not have time to linger. There were things to do before he left. He had about three hours before the seaplane he had chartered would take him to his own little island resort about four miles off of the Cuban coast. He had performed great services for the revolutionary government there and was left well enough alone. He had a staff of three servants and two slave girls waiting for him. He was sure that the slave girls were in no rush to see him again. But, hey, life was tough all over.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Brenda was still in her cell in Rukimo’s dungeon when the other girls were led away. She, of course did not know they had left because her hood prevented her from seeing or hearing what went on around her. If she was attentive, she could feel the vibration through the floor when cell doors were slammed shut. She had not sensed them being opened and shut for some time. In fact, she had gone through three feedings without being used by the trainers. She was lying down now, chained to her cot. The hissing in her ears prevented any concentrated effort of thought, but she knew enough to realize that the routine had changed.
Suddenly, she felt through the vibration of her bed frame the opening and closing of her cell door. Hands released her ankles and wrists, which had been chained to the cot. She was lifted to her feet, her wrists fastened behind her and escorted out of the cell. Her hood and gag were left in place.
Usually, the hood and gag were removed while in the cell, and Brenda wondered why it had been left on as she was frog marched through the door that led to the training area. But they did not stop at the training area door. They were heading further down the hall. She felt herself brought to a halt, paused, and then through a doorway. She was led along the hallway to another door. She felt the unmistakable sensation of an elevator rising.
The blind and deaf girl was led along one of the winding brick pathways of the resort. She had no idea what was around her, but she did sense, from time to time along her walk, the heat of other bodies passing her, a slight wind as they went by.
Finally, they came to a stop, a door was opened, and she was led into some kind of structure. The tall African handed her leash to a white coated medical technician. “Two hours,” was all he said to the black robed man. He nodded back and left.
Brenda was led down a short hallway and into a little room. The lab tech, after releasing her wrists, settled her into the chair in the center. It was constructed like a dentist’s or barber’s chair. It had clamps on the arms, to which Brenda’s wrists were quickly affixed, and for the legs. Brenda had never felt so vulnerable. Something was happening or going to happen to her and she didn’t think that she was going to like it.
When the tech removed Brenda’s hood, she blinked her eyes rapidly to get the adjusted to the lights. The room was a stark white, much like an operating theater. There were various instruments lying about the room and a glass doored closet containing medications and medical books. Brenda was still gagged, and she shifted her weight nervously in the chair as she looked around. The techie was examining her body clinically, using his hand to examine her breasts and nipples, taking hold of her nose and looking on either side of her face. He pushed a button and the legs of the chair began to spread open. When it was wide enough, he insinuated himself between them and, kneeling down, made a visua
l and physical inspection of her sex.
The tech man was young, no more than twenty four or twenty five. He had a boyish face and dirty blond hair cut short, but long on top so that he had to keep tossing his head to keep it from his eyes. He stood just about Brenda’s height, 5’6”. In the midst of all of her trepidation, Brenda found herself thinking that he was kind of cute. The she realized that this stripling was a part of the gang of men who had kidnapped her and her friends, and who had subjected her to what seemed like weeks and weeks of abuse. Her nervousness and sense of dread returned quickly.
Brenda’s collar was affixed to the back of the chair, so she couldn’t turn around, but she heard a familiar sound behind her. It was the high pitched whine of an electric razor. “What would they be doing with that?” she thought. And then it hit her. “Not my hair! Oh, no, please, not my hair!”
She tried to pull her wrists from their confines, but to no avail. As the buzzing got closer, she began to waive her head back and forth, groaning through her gag to frustrate the young man’s intent. But she felt a firm hand grasp the ring on the outside of her gag and hold her head steady, pulling it back until she was looking at the ceiling. She felt the razor placed against her scalp and gave one last, agonized “Noooooooooo!” through her gag. When she felt the razor run down the middle of her head, sweeping all of the hair in its path away, she surrendered to her fate.
It took the technician less than two minutes to razor off all of Brenda’s beautiful auburn locks. When the last clump hit the floor, he turned off the razor and went to the sink and prepared a small bowl of steaming hot water. Brenda’s head was covered with a rough stubble. She was too despondent to protest the removal of her hair’s remnants. Using a straight edged razor, the man skillfully scraped away every last vestige of hair on Brenda’s head.