Slaver's Dozen (The Klitzman Stories)

by Paul Blades

  She remembered Cholo’s insult to her. “No,” she thought, “I am not a crica, a cunt, like Cholo called me. I am a red hot Latina chica.” She walked down the steps slowly, her head up, swaying her hips to the beat, smiling.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CODA

  Sheila and Kit were assigned as waitresses in one of the restaurants. Sheila prospered. Her radiant good looks and matching smile garnered her the admiration of many a guest. It was rare that someone did not take her back to their room for the night. She became a favorite of several of the supervisors too. Her obvious enthusiasm for sucking cocks earned her many friends.

  Kit, the proud little rich girl, however, was a different story. She was incompetent as a waitress. She was the recipient of many lashings for her failings. Although amused by her pussy’s copious discharges, the staff soon grew tired of her ineptitude as a whore. After about a month, she was removed from the resort proper. She found herself and three other girls on the boat to the mainland. She was sold to an army brothel, where, six months later, after the officers had had their fill of her, she was assigned to service the enlisted men, averaging between twenty-five and thirty of them a day.

  Mary had recovered from her injuries. She was the last of the aspiring models to be sent upstairs to the resort. Her experience with Huong had nearly broken her. She shivered in fear as her wrists were bound behind her and her gag installed. A tag was placed around her neck, denoting her destination.

  As she was led naked and bound along the red brick pathways that late afternoon, the sky just beginning to darken, she began to cry. Her imagination ran wild with the vision of deliverance into the hands of some cruel master where she would be horribly and painfully mistreated.

  She had no experience of the resort and had no idea where she was being led. She and her escort passed through the main resort area and climbed the hill to the supervisor’s cottages. They passed several and then stopped at one which overlooked the steep cliffs on the western coast of the island. The guard knocked on the door. A brutish looking, well muscled man wearing the reddish brown robe of a supervisor answered the door. He thanked the guard, took hold of her leash, and led her inside. Mary’s body shook as he removed her gag and unbound her wrists. Hoping to mollify any cruel intent he might have, she immediately assumed a kneeling position, her palms on her knees, her beautiful, round breasts proffered to the master. He looked down at her. “My name’s Harry,” he said.

  The End