“Have at her ass, Captain Tahli,” he says, then he walks away.
The officer seems pleased. The handsome soldier with the deep brown eyes and the clipped manner of reserve appraises his catch. She is wild, a hellion, but easily subdued. He moves to her exposed ass end, snapping latex gloves on his hands so he can probe her behind.
“Noooo!” she screams.
He refuses to listen… like this is all in a day’s work for this guerilla. Broc looks on dispassionately, as his Captain works the woman’s ass, as she cries, and the cries turn to pleasurable moans the longer the man’s fingers explore Amie’s rear channel.
I can feel her focused desire in my crotch as if my own ass has been breached. And though the effects of the liniment are gone, my arousal only expands as I view this terrifying scene.
Captain Tahli’s three fingers force themselves into the channel deeply. He adds another, making all four act like a cock, fucking her as roughly as a man would thrust from behind. Her poor body can hardly stand the position with her legs spread so widely, and the edges of the desk cutting into thick flesh of her thighs. I’ve never seen anything as lewd and lovely as Amie’s rear breached.
But this is not enough for Tahli. He lets his sergeants hold her down as he backs off, removes the glove and opens his pants. His thick penis has grown hard, and the muscle ready and pressing for Amie’s ass. With some help from his sergeants, she’s steered toward the missile and quickly impaled.
I would die at such an invasion—or at least I imagine so, but Amie thrives on anal rape. Sure, she squirms her broad skewered behind, but not because she wants to get away. She’s done this before and she loves it!
“Ooo, ooo, yessss, ahhh,” her cries are constant and more impassioned with each stroke of Captain Tahli’s cock. “Yeeeeawwwwwww.” She shrieks and I’m feeling the vibrations of her lust all over me. Her moaning seems endless. What seemed like an impenetrable opening has expanded to accept the full girth of the Captain’s erection. His balls slap against her cleft, his hand digs into her reddening ass. She wants more and he pounds harder. More, and he vents with fury. I see him cumming and feel her respond. Her body thrives on this. Once Captain Tahli finishes, he pulls his dripping, withering cock from her and there’s a second erection at Amie’s ass.
This soldier is less forceful, but that doesn’t matter to Amie. The slut opens for whomever wants to breach her back door and she replies willingly. Even the awkwardness of her position doesn’t seem to matter. Does she climax? That’s hard for me to tell. Inside all of this commotion, nothing seems to matter for her except the need to lose herself in these men.
All this seething sexual fire makes me burn for the same, though I could never answer such torture with the sounds of pleasure.
“What did I tell you?” Colonel Broc is behind me, whispering in my ear, hearing my thoughts and pulling out the truth. “Don’t worry, Monroe, you’ll get your turn. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“This is what you want from us.” I’m awed.
“This is what I’ll get. Don’t worry, there are ways to get over the disgust. I’ll make sure you do, Michelle Monroe, White Silk. It’s not as hard as you think.”
It’s not disgust I’m feeling. It’s almost envy. But I’m scared, realizing that this is all I’ll have if Colonel Broc has told the truth. No more videos, no more trotting the globe for stories and my face on Cable TV. No more Sunday nights in Trevor’s Bar—Trevor my best friend from college—no more picnics in the park with Jessie’s kids, or cycling through the state forest, no more Jordan—ever. That’s all gone, and I’m left with this, with sex, with Colonel Broc, and an army of unknown faces, of lovers and lecherous men who will repulse me, and a thousand unknowns.
But then, what if what I’m told is just a joke? What if this train ride into oblivion is it? A few nights of abuse, and these crude guerillas are finished with us. Six months later some local in an unmarked village finds our half-clothed bodies in a ditch, what’s left of Amie’s red satin and my white silk are just tattered and dirty pieces of gauze clinging to our bones.
“Serve me, White Silk, and this event will be no catastrophe,” Broc says.
It’s painful to accept that. I want it to go away. I want the nightmare over, I want my life!
All this happens as my ears hear Amie’s cries of lust and hate, and Broc whispers, and the soldiers grunt with pleasure while they use the woman’s ass. Amie takes four men before she’s finished. Each one sends her to a farther edge of letting go.
Once she’s used up, she slumps against the table and waits exhausted. Captain Tahli inspects her ass, which is flawless except for the one curious mark. “Your biker branded you?” he wonders. “Nice work, though this one will stand out more.”
The gleaming red/orange rod of steel reshapes her left cheek in seconds. Twin marks. I wonder if there is something significant to the placement of hers and the placement of mine. She hardly shudders when the iron strikes. I see her wince but little more. I guess there is only so much that a body can respond to and she’s had enough.
Amie returns to her chair looking like a tattered ragdoll. But there is spirit in her eyes. She will survive if this is any test of her. I’m less sure of myself.
“Your actions have been documented,” Broc says, then points toward the far wall. “Videocam. Both your faces and asses will be appearing on a number of Internet websites as we make our clients aware of new flesh to purchase. After your training, there will be a general auction. It’s customary for slaves to serve masters for several years, and after a time, be sold or traded to other owners. The more you put in to your training and your work, the sooner you’ll become accustomed to your life. Don’t look back. That would be painful. Neither of you have much to regret, or give up—especially you Cortez. Monroe, you may have some regrets, but in case you’re inclined to worry about your pal, Jordan, you might be interested in these.” He reaches into my portfolio and tosses an envelope my way.
Pictures.
Black and whites.
Jordan and Leanne—the woman I replaced—in bed. It looks like the hotel room where we used to meet in Boston.
“He won’t be lonely.”
Is this supposed to make me angry, or feel better about being kidnapped and tortured? He mocks me so that my insides chaff with bitterness.
“None of this matters to me, or anyone else in your new life,” Broc adds, “but it might help you forget. I can’t imagine you expected him to be faithful when you weren’t yourself.”
Underneath the photographs of Jordan are ones of me with Pedro in Bolivia, and Terry Harris of the cable wire service. Jordan and I never had anything exclusive. Why should this bother me? It does, but I keep that to myself.
“It’s all over, Michelle.” His voice is kind. Then he pulls the pictures from my hands, and tears them into pieces with a smirk on his upturned lip.
“Gag them and chain them in their beds.” He nods to Captain Tahli.
“Yes, sir.”
His Texas western swagger, and the hulking body leave the railcar while we watch. What kind of man is he to be in these lost wilds; a fortune hunter, a terrorist, a man of war in a foreign land as inhospitable as the thoughts he thrives on?
Chapter Four
Amie and I are taken from the train in the middle of the night, stuffed into the back seat of a 60’s vintage sedan and driven to a military encampment in the wilds. It could be Romania, Bulgaria, or somewhere even more remote. It is surely desolate, the terrain rough and the roads almost non-existent. After nearly an hour’s ride, we bump along a rocky driveway pulling up before the remains of what had once been a substantial, if not elegant, house. Now slipping toward decay, the exterior is as grimy as my dress and the windows are streaked with dust. There is an array of military vehicles and old sedans scattered in the yard inside the fence.
The interior of the building is not as drab as the outside, as though someone’s tried to make something nice out of this w
eird half-brothel, half-military compound.
We’re to be interrogated by General Hanan. After three days on the train, Red and I are dirty and exhausted. The white silk that was so pretty when it first flew over my shoulders to cover me now looks a dingy grey. Red’s satin is wrinkled and dusty. Our feet can hardly hold us for the aches and tiredness, but this doesn’t matter to our captors or the General. Our hands are tied behind our back with thick clean ropes that force the exposure of our breasts as they press against our flimsy dresses. In spite of our tiredness, walking in our high heels accentuates the natural sexualness of our bodies.
Broc walks behind us, while Tahli in front opens double doors leading into a freshly painted yellow room—an office, and a very a cheery one at that. It’s furnished well: the furniture antique and well preserved, the carpets made of plush, hand-tied wool. Behind an ornate desk, General Hanan sits waiting.
Red and I gasp in unison as the dark-haired man looks up at us with a pleased smile on his face. “I see you’re hardly worse for wear,” he says.
It’s Jorges from the train dressed like a general. He gives the old adage, ‘clothes make the man’ new meaning. One minute a gentleman reeking with lusty charm, the next in his starched suit of medals and prestige he becomes a formidable commander and judge.
“They’ll take some training,” Broc says, “both of them. This one is more overt,” he tugs on Red’s hair. “Anger right at the surface. But this one,” he moves behind me and grabs my tied wrists, “play’s games. She remains remote, but she’s thinking, scheming.”
My eyes turn wild, but I don’t say a word.
“Don’t pretend you’re incensed, Miss Michelle Monroe,” Jorges says, “you’ve given yourself away to me already, or have you forgotten?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten,” I reply.
“I think, Colonel Broc, that it would be prudent to give them both a good beating, let them know what they are up against. You’ll take care of it for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, clean them up, new clothes and we’ll get them used to their life.”
He gestures us away as the phone rings and we’re pushed into the hallway.
There are other women with wondering eyes peering out from behind cracked doors. I’m tempted to smile at them, but I don’t. I can’t believe this is a happy place, where smiles make sense.
We’re taken to a “U” shaped courtyard behind the house. The building rises on three sides of us, and there’s a wrought iron fence at the back with a roll of barbwire across the top. There are three posts in the courtyard spaced in executioner-style precision.
My mind flashes forward instantly. Could these seconds be our last? Were we brought here only to be quickly terminated by their guns? The last alternative seems unlikely after all we’ve heard, but I’m so afraid I’m not sure I can make it to the center post where Broc plans to tie me.
Though there’s hardly enough fabric to keep warm, my whole body seems to freeze when the Colonel unties my hands, lifts the grimy dress off over my head and the air hits my skin.
Captain Tahli already has Red naked, hitched to the whipping post at my left. Her hands were placed in metal cuffs like the ones that dangle from the top of the post in front of me. She sways in an oddly erotic way—they did say she was used to S&M. Perhaps this is turning her on. Her eyes are closed; her face dreamy. Her thighs seem to quiver and her pussy suddenly moves forward, pushing itself against the wooden four by four in a way that would entice a lover.
Once Colonel Broc lifts my hands to the cuffs, he steps back as we watch Captain Tahli position himself behind Red’s erotically trembling form. He shakes out a flogger, which dangles to the dust below. At least a dozen black leather talons dance every time he moves. Images from fantasy clog my mind and my body heats. I seem to be as anxious for the beginning as Amie Cortez. But I don’t get the benefit of that first strike. Tahli rears back and lets the talons fly wildly so they strike against Red’s shoulders like a splash of paint.
She oozes satisfaction with this first hit and settles into the post as though this will be a long ride to happiness.
Tahli draws back again and delivers another blow and another still, and more in succession until Red dances with her talons in an agitated tango of pain. She shrieks one minute, then moans the next. Her back looks hot and striated with red. The color seems to be emphasized on her shoulders and ass—especially her ass where the flogger makes its most severe strikes.
Tahli drives on, delivering more and more, while Red flails back and forth and her body jumps with excitement. Her mouth opens wide to scream; yet her eyes stay closed as though she’s in another world. I believe she’s going to cum. And yet, as the sting from her beating becomes more intense, she’s less able to transform the sensation into pleasure. Her face contorts, her body starts to shy away, and finally she cries for mercy, “Noooooo more please!”
Tahli stops and turns to Colonel Broc with a look of compassion on his face.
“We’re not about sex here, Captain,” the Colonel reminds him, “this is punishment.”
With the answer to his unspoken question clear, Tahli starts again with a new level of vigor. Power pouring from his muscled arm, he laces Red’s back again. He cuts at her ass, zeroing in on the pretty pink rounds until they look raw. He moves back and forth from her upper shoulders to her ass, descends for a time to whale on her thighs, and finally finishes as she screams again—this time in a nonsensical babble that can only be described as angry panic.
Seeing she’s had enough, he moves on to me.
“Oh, no! Colonel Broc, no, please,” I plead my case, “you can’t. I’ll never…”
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” he ignores my begging as he takes the flogger from the Captain’s hand.
“Please, anything but this…” I try again.
Broc inspects the cords as though he thinks some have been broken. “Turn around,” he orders.
“Noooo, no.”
“Turn around!” He’s gruff, solemn, and pumping so much testosterone though his veins that I find my body longing for him—for him, not the beating he has planned.
“There are ways to make this worse for you, Silk. I don’t suggest you try them.”
I don’t know when they took to calling us by our slave names. It seemed to happen during those three days on the train; we went from being women to chattel, from human to property. If referring to us inconsequentially makes it easier for them to dehumanize us, then I’m sure they’ve succeeded. Already, I feel much less the woman that I believed myself to be.
I turn toward the post, more scared than I’ve been in the last seventy-two hours. My body is bare to the elements, with my chest pressed to a wooden bar that bisects my torso. My arms already ache, and with a last look of desperation, I look back at Colonel Broc hoping for his compassion.
A whirring wind precedes the first swash of sensation. I understand Red’s first erotic murmuring—this is physical joy not pain. The dozen strikes that are rendered on my shoulders seem to humble me and I enjoy the thrill. When he targets my ass, the first few blows have a similar effect. My whole body dances inside and out—alive with savagery. More, my surprised mind thinks. More, my lips would utter—but I’m not cognizant enough to make a sensible reply. If the beating were to end now, I could be taken down a satisfied woman. But then, Colonel Broc would not be a satisfied man. He is more methodical and less erratic that Captain Tahli. He seems to have a plan for this beating carefully figured in his warped brain. He aims for my shoulders and strikes with force until I start to protest, then he moves to my ass for the same treatment. Two or three times like this, I’m beginning to think that I can take it. But then the intensity of the whipping increases and the level of my pain zooms forward.
“Nooooooooo,” I’m screaming into the unlistening air. “Gawd, staaaaaauuup.” I thrash as Red thrashed against her pole. My entire backside burns as the sting becomes unbearable. I try to avoid the strikes,
but each one just intensifies my struggle and the unrelenting anguish. I think I’ll burst, or perhaps pass out… yes, pass out… if only…
Suddenly, the whole world’s quiet. Not a muscle anywhere in this courtyard moves. My back and ass begin to throb, and the hot warmth moves in concentric circles spreading in ever-wider hoops of fire.
Desire drops in at my cunt’s randy door. I couldn’t take another hit, but I can take this finish.
As suddenly as it began, the quiet ends as I hear a door in the distance close. Captain Tahli is uncuffing Red. Then he moves to me undoing the cuffs. Once we’re both free, two soldiers move forward, each with a rope in hand that slides over our heads and around our necks. Colonel Broc is no where to be seen.
We’re led like dogs on leashes into the house, to a room, which is bare except for two beds and what I assume are chamber pots—two earthenware jars, which sit at the end of each footboard.
“You pee there…” one of the soldiers confirms my suspicions. “Anything else, you’ll have to wait for someone to help you to the bath.” He doesn’t explain how that will happen, and both soldiers leave the room locking the door—which is actually just a panel of bars, like that of a jail cell.
Though the blanket underneath my body scratches like briars, I sleep. Red sleeps, too. That’s how we spend our next ten hours.
When I awaken, it’s dark outside the small barred window in our room; although, a dim bulb burning from a ceiling fixture in the corridor outside offers enough light so I can see that Red is gone. Her red shoes still sit beside the bed—neatly, like two birds sitting on a wire. This means she’s likely barefoot. The red dress taken from her in the courtyard is lying at the end of the bed, so she’s nude as well.
Staring down to the end of my cot, I see my white dress looking like an old dishrag. Do I put it on? Is that why it’s here? And where’s Red? We’ve been together for so many days that I miss her now as though I’m only half here. Dozens of questions burn in my brain. Not the least of which is the status of my beaten backside. I can feel some of the damage with my hand, finding the skin on my ass is rough and sensitive. My thighs are still in pain when I touch them. Though my shoulders, which seemed to have been as brutally beaten, feel almost as smooth as I remember them. Then, too, I can’t reach all the places where the flogger hit.
White Silk & I Belong to You Page 5