Astounded, she shakes her head no.
“It’s only been in the last two years since the death of your father that you changed your persona and turned yourself into a chic, continental wanderer, living off his savings. Your methods haven’t changed, just your attitude. You still feed on the men who you seduce.” Broc puts the dossier down. “I doubt what you do for me—for the organization—will be much different; except, of course, you’ll fuck for survival, this is not a capricious lark. What you do will keep you healthy and alive.” He stares her down until she’s red in the face—as red as her red dress; then he turns to me, leaving me breathless with his question, “Shocked, Miss Monroe?”
I am too stunned to respond.
“It might interest you to know that I am not the stereotypical terrorist. I’m a college graduate with a master’s degree in sociology from the Ivy League.” He chuckles. “And here you thought I was some backwoods riffraff.” His smirk excites me. I haven’t met a man as exciting as this one since Jordan—I think of Jordan now, wondering why I led him on, let him linger, played cool and distant… and now… he’s gone… I’m gone … “I have my reasons, Miss Monroe, for what I do. Just as you have yours for the way you live.”
He exchanges Amie’s dossier for mine, and inspects what looks to be a thick sheaf of papers—many I can see have been printed off Internet websites. He reads the highlights, “Humph. Educated in a rival Ivy League school—few years after I left. Started making documentaries seven years ago. You were lucky, promoted from a grunt position with a travel company, mainly on your good looks and relative poise. But it says you’re not one to socialize with your crew. You tend to be stubborn and often unfriendly.” He looks up, engaging my eyes, which have stared fixated at his powerful thighs and remarkable hands. “I wonder if they’ll even miss you—or mourn your loss?” He mocks me, but there’s nothing I can say. Every word is the truth. He reads on…”You live part-time with Jordan Haversham, a mixed race male—Puerto Rican, Jew, Spanish and Black—amazing how thorough these investigations are (he amazes us both)—weightlifter, undercover cop, who was trained as a classical ballet dancer and has his bachelor’s degree in philosophy and music—then turned to archeology for his masters. Says here, you were suppose to be married last year and you called it off. He’s offered to accompany you on these trips, but you’ve refused to let him …” Broc nails my eye again. “You’ll probably regret that, or at least think you will.
“The good news about the both of you is the few relatives that will care about your disappearance. Miss Monroe does pose some problem with Haversham grieving for her, but it was worth the risk seeing what we’d be able to offer to our customers. But other than the boyfriend, there is just her weakened mother living in Schenectady; and you, Miss Cortez have only a few cousins and uncles who are so busy with their sadly impoverished lives that you won’t be mourned long. Yes, ladies, you are prime for taking this dive into my underworld. Let’s hope you can enjoy the ride as much as we will.”
“How can you do this!” Amie finally shouts. She’s riled again, about to jump from the chair, though the soldier behind her grabs her firmly by the shoulders and pulls her back. She wrestles him for a moment with her black pageboy thrashing back and forth.
“Humm, begging to be punished?”
“No!” she snaps.
“But I thought you enjoyed punishment, Miss Cortez. You let your biker friends abuse you…” he picks up the file again and flips through to the page he wants. “Says you were once the whipping girl in your surly community. Like to be tied up, ass bared, bottom blistered… is that true?”
She doesn’t speak.
“You’ve been in and out of S&M scenes for some time. Isn’t that so?”
Amie remains silent.
“Answer me!” Broc raises his voice for the first time.
“No!” she snaps and shakes her head.
Broc motions to Tahli, who waits on the sidelines observing her carefully—as if his lust builds with each second she remains defiant. It is a beautiful defiance, I think. This Amie is more of a woman than I understood her on the Orient Express, and the scene fascinates my own wickedness.
Tahli moves in front of her, looking oddly intrigued by this red-dressed woman. Their eyes lock as though there is some unspoken understanding between them no one in the room knows about but them. Tahli gestures to the soldier behind Amie, “Her dress,” he says.
The solider reaches to the thin straps of the red dress and pulls them off her shoulders and then tugs on the material until her breasts appear. The full rounds of flesh are lovely, the tanned skin flawless, while Amie’s nipples darken at her aureoles, and turn darker still at the center where two tiny buds grow firm.
Captain Tahli holds a tiny reed-like implement in his fist, which he draws along her skin, as though he’s making an informal map. “Hands behind the chair,” he orders.
She’s too mesmerized now not to obey—even with her jaw tight with anger. All this makes my gut clench with fright. When Amie grabs her hands behind the wood, the soldier is there to wrap them with rope. All the while, Tahli draws his lines across her skin—as though he’s waiting for something, as though he has a plan. The real effect is to tease this bitch into her mindless panting. Her lips part, and when they turn dry, she licks them wet. I stare—feeling almost exhausted by the slow pace of the unfolding scene.
Broc stares with me. It takes some force to keep my eyes from him. I understand this will turn sexual… does that mean we’ll fuck? And will that mean that we’ll be lovers?
I am scared. I’m really scared, but it feels like a dream—and sleep is just around the corner of the next absurd turn. I wait watching the slow moving Tahli as he raises his slut’s attention with the tip of his thin reed.
Swish—Thwack!
The reed slices air and lands on Amie’s right breast.
She shrieks, I shriek and we both pull back.
As Amie twists to get away, another strike thwacks across the top of her left breast. Then Tahli steps away as all our eyes witness the results. Two red welts surface, these cut so deeply that the skin is nearly torn. Amie shudders, tears form in the corners of her eyes, and her mouth grimaces, as she struggles with her anguish.
Tahli then reaches forward with his baton again; this time to gently raise her chin with the cutting end.
“If you’d like, we can make these marks permanent, Miss Cortez,” he tells her. “What you have here will last a few days… maybe a week. But I can cut you permanently. Mind yourself—your bikers in Texas have no clue of the sadomasochistic acts we practice here. Mind your manners and that tongue.”
Amie’s riveted eyes do not move from the man until he backs away for good and Broc takes over again. “This is not a pretty place, but you can survive it without such suffering. Let this be your first lesson.” He looks at me, seeing all the questions I don’t dare ask. “Don’t fret, Miss Monroe, it will all be explained,” he snickers again. He paces for a minute and then stops in front of the desk again. “We have another two days on this train until we reach our destination—the bordello where you will be trained. There are just a few preparations to make you ready.” He speaks to me. “So, White Silk, your turn first, get up.”
Preparations, what does he mean, preparations?
I rise, faltering and scared. I’ve almost forgotten the white sandals and I stumble forward.
“Lie back on the table,” Broc orders.
I balk.
“Yes,” he nods. “Back into the edge of the table.” I look to him questioningly, but he doesn’t explain himself, so I sit first at the metal edge and then fall back. “Raise your hips.” His hands are there, pushing the white silk up to my waist and exposing my dampening genitals. Despite the cold inside my shoulders, the other half, the lower half of me seems to respond to the Colonel with desire. But my desire is scared and held at bay. Uncertain because I know to expect pain and I fear the turns they will take.
I notice
how warm his hands are as they capture each foot in its white high heel, and position it on the table’s lip. He spreads my bent knees wide so that he can inspect every nook and cranny of my sex: the pubic hair, my nether lips—the plump outer ones and the inner ones that come plainly into view—and finally, he see the brown rosette of my anus. As Broc’s hand glides over my crotch it raises a ticklish fire, and I begin to moan.
I wait, feeling nearly frozen. Like Amie waited for the rod to strike her breasts, I wait in fear of some rude blow across my crotch. But none comes. There is just the Colonel’s warm hand on my inner thighs, and along the cleft where a single finger runs from my anus to my clitoris and above. Then he clutches the whole pubic mound in his fist and shakes it.
“You’re horny, aren’t you?”
“No,” I shake my head.
“Better not lie, Miss Monroe—could be dangerous.” His eyes seek mine so that I can see how serious he is. Examining my crotch, he pulls and twists the fluffy hair, looking as though he’s deciding something. Then he turns to Tahli, “Captain, get the bowl and razor, we’re going to shave her clean. And then,” he gloats at me wickedly, “Miss Monroe is going to cum for us.”
“Never!” I think silently. How can the man suggest this now!
“You may dispute me with those eyes, White Silk. But I know what I’m doing, and I know what you’ll do.”
“You have no idea what I’ll do,” I say aloud.
“Oh?” He mocks me. “We’ll see.”
Tahli has returned with the items that the Colonel ordered, including a scalding hot towel that he slaps across my crotch. I wince.
“Burn?”
“No,” I lie—though the heat fades fast and settles into a warm and soothing bath. There is a straight razor on the cart next to me, along with a bowl of water and a pot of shaving cream, which Tahli mixes into a frothy foam.
When Broc removes the hot towel, he takes the bowl of cream and with the bristly brush begins to coat my entire crotch with the thick white substance. It, too, is warm for a time until it starts to cool from the air. As he slathers it generously over every strand of pubic hair, I feel the tickle of sensation add to my unexpected arousal. He beats playfully at my anus, so that my belly starts to clench.
“Too bad that this doesn’t affect you,” he gibes, while I stare him down with my cruelest expression. “You’re too easy, Monroe,” he laughs, then moves for the razor. All the while I’m shivering with fright. “Never shaved before?”
“Of course, I’ve shaved.”
He chuckles. “You’re an interesting study, White Silk… rather like that name.” He runs the blade against my inner thigh briskly. I’m sure it’s sharp, and won’t leave a trace of hair. “We have both ‘Red’ and ‘White’ today. Interesting contrast you two make. You start passive, then turn sullen; she starts angry and then relents.” He works the razor along my thigh, then begins the risky pathway to my labia. “Don’t jerk, White, could be dangerous.” I sense the joke. He seems adept at this, hardly about to slip as the razor carefully removes my pussy hair. I shaved once for Jordan when we first met, but let the hair grow back when looking at myself in the mirror made me uncomfortable. Broc opens my labia to reach my inner lips, and I clench again. “Steady, now. It won’t take but a second.” His seconds linger, and so do his fingers along the opening of my vagina. He presses on through the hole and teases it around inside, finding the “G” spot anxiously awaiting his stimulation. A second finger pushes against my clitoris, rolling it around on the tip. I can hardly keep my response to myself.
I sigh with relief when he stops, though that relief is only momentary as the razor continues its work, swiping at the hair about my anus. I swear he’s cut the skin when the blade feels as though he’s dug deep—and yet, there is some inherent trust for this man based on nothing but the meager facts I know of him and the strange attitude of caring behind his mocking bravado.
I think he’s finished with me when Broc rinses my crotch with a wet washcloth. But he’s not completely satisfied with the job, so he swipes at me a few more times. I cannot see for myself, but the picture is clear in my mind.
“Perfect job, Colonel,” Tahli comments.
“And perfect it will remain. You have the salve.”
“Right here.” He holds out a jar of cream.
I think it’s cold cream, something to soothe the opened pores and fresh shaved skin. Broc swathes it on heavily, then after wiping his hand on a cloth, he snaps latex surgical gloves on his hands and begins to hollow out the openings, focusing his attention on the outer edges of my vagina and anus.
What was cold begins to warm. The action of his fingers and the intensifying heat combine.
“Oh, noooo,” I moan quietly as the stimulation builds.
“Yes, Monroe. I never lie, you’ll cum.”
I know he’s right. I can’t prevent it. Whatever aphro-disiac… whatever tricks he’s learned to please a woman, whatever … I respond without my mind giving its consent. I don’t care anymore. Waves of blistering heat destroy my protest; they assault my body with such a rush of need that I can’t stop the flood. Broc’s fingers move aggressively about my sex. I thrash. My hips rock back and forth. The heat evolves and I start to scream as the orgasm breaks free… “Ah, ah, ah, ah, gawwwwwwd!”
Amie screams behind me, “Don’t let him have you!” But I can’t stop. The climax roars to its peak and without waiting dives over the top, sliding through every vein and pore of my shuddering belly and limbs. Then, I feel a second climax about to brew as the first one stops, but Broc withdraws his hand before it takes hold.
“You’ve had enough,” he says.
“No, no, I haven’t,” my body screams, while I lie silently against the hard cold metal.
“It’s not a good idea to challenge me, Monroe. I know women, and you’re one of the most uncomplicated I’ve ever met.”
The skin about my crotch continues to burn, though I sense that the effect of the salve is slowly beginning to wane.
“We’ll treat her every day with the liniment,” he tells Tahli. “Twice a day.” He looks down at my wondering face. “Though not for the sexual aspects, my half-hearted whore. These herbs have the curious property of stopping hair growth. A few weeks of regular use and your pubic hair won’t even bother getting started. You’ll go through the rest of your life with a naked snatch.” I must look shocked, so he adds, “Think of the advantages. You can forget all that bothersome shaving, and be done with it.” He snickers and I want to spit in his face. The more his control gets to me, the more my defiance breeds.
“The iron,” he turns to Captain Tahli.
I’ve been smelling burning metal for some minutes, but have been too stressed to consider the reason. Moving trains often generate strange odors, but this smell has grown more intense with time. Two pairs of hands are suddenly on me, holding me down as Broc appears at my crotch with what looks like a hot poker in his hand… though the end is flat, shaped into an unfamiliar design. Before I can comprehend what he’s about to do, that molten end of metal is pressing into the flesh just above my pubic mound—where minutes ago there was hair protecting me from trespassers. The pain is rich one second and vanished the next; though the smell of burning flesh lingers for a moment before a draft of fresh air takes it away.
I’m not even sure I screamed as the brand seared my skin with the insignia.
“It won’t be the last slave mark you’ll wear, but it is the first. Take care with it as it heals.” Broc places a gauze pad over the wound, lets me get my breath, then second-guesses my thoughts again. “It’s a lot to take in a short amount of time. But the sooner you forget your last life and accept this one the happier you’ll be. Trust me on this, my White Silk. You’re the hundredth female I’ve processed for the slave trade. You can be glad it’s me, not General Hanan doing the chore.”
“What if I refuse to adjust,” I whisper.
“Refuse?” He laughs. Tahli laughs, and then takes
my hand and pulls me to my feet as the white silk dress falls like a soft spring rain over my bare crotch and the fresh brand.
“Sit,” the Captain tells me. After so much stress on my thighs, the muscles float uselessly and I can hardly stand, so sitting feels like heaven.
Broc has turned to speak with Amie and my mind is tempted to drift, but the scene before me is too remarkable to miss.
“Amie Cortez,” Broc addresses her as if they’ve just met. “Captain Tahli got you good. Marks are nice, what do you think?”
“I think you’re evil.”
“Good,” he nods appreciatively—like this was a compliment. “Most of the women who come to me think the same thing—at least for a time. And then there are those who appreciate my kindness after they’ve faced my friends. Unfortunately, you’ll only think worse of me once this afternoon is over. My kindness only goes so far. And when a whore defies me as you have done, I have no choice but to see you punished…”
“You will not punish me!” Amie bolts from her chair before she can be detained. Attacking Broc, her fists flail at his chest without success. In a matter of seconds, he has her wrists inside his hands, where they look so helplessly dainty clutched in his firmly gripping fingers. Amie struggles until her tears take over, then Broc stands, still holding her wrists. Pulling her to the table, she goes belly down over the end, and her legs are spread to straddle the sides—they will ache in seconds being that far stretched. The red dress rises to the middle of her ass, so her two plump mounds are bared with a quick flick of Broc’s hand. He handles her with such ease, as if brutalizing women is natural. This strange combination of power, authority and sexiness stuns me. This is Jordan, but ten times Jordan in potency. Jordan lives in the real world. This man makes up his own.
White Silk & I Belong to You Page 4