“You do have spirit!” he chides me, as his frozen features thaw.
I struggle. All this anger has to have a place to go. But instead of making my point, he’s suddenly twisted me around so that my torso is over his lap. He leans forward holding me and begins to smack my ass. Each strike turns my body juices on, as though he’s turned on a faucet. When he’s not punishing my ass, his hand is tunneling toward my pussy where his fingers run sensuous circles around my anxious hole. I’m gasping as I try to shake him off, but it feels too good.
“Dammit stop!”
“Never, bitch, this is too good to pass up.”
The fight is useless with my cunt impaled, but I refuse to make it easy for him. I want him angry, backing off, letting me out of his schemes. It would only prove his point about my love of sex. “Don’t!” I try more determinedly.
He moves from my cunt to my ass.
“Oh! No!” I wail more.
“Love this, too, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You don’t lie well, Silk.” His voice seems to mellow when he speaks this way to me. My belly is so full of fire and my crotch so charged for more that I’m almost in tears with this confusion tearing at me. “Tell me you want more, I’ll give you more.”
“I don’t want more,” I blare.
“No?”
“Ah, please stop.” The hunger is rich; and with Broc’s cock inside his boxer shorts, swelling against my leg, the intensity only grows. He is down and back between the two openings, driving each one toward pleasure beyond what I’ve already had. “No, no stop…” I can’t push off him now, my struggles seem to die despite my message otherwise, “Don’t do this to me…”
“Do what? Love you? Make your body soar in ecstasy?” His touch turns tender as though his fingers are melting beyond my skin and becoming me. “It’s all we have, Silk. This pleasure is all we have to assuage the pain of living. And it’s all we need. You can fight it, kick and scream and slap my face, but the truth wins out. This is all a woman like you needs.”
I’m climax bound, believing everything he says, as his hand moves with skill around the center of my self. He kneads my ass where the flesh is so pleasantly sore from being spanked, “Yeeeeeesssssssss,” I hiss. I notice my exclamation changes to fit the truth. He slips down again to grapple with my clenching ass and spasming cunt. I’m on edge and about to feel that first great jarring jolt of ending, when he backs out, lifts me with the grace of God and sends me reeling to the bed where I climb on and wag my tail like a horny bitch hound.
Broc needs no more than the juicy froth at my cunt to coat the doorway to my rectum. This time, I really want him there. The need to have him in my ass is as strong as my need to be cunt fucked again.
“Oh! Gawd! Yes!” I’m sure now. “Yes!”
Though I hear him grunt behind me as he thrusts, it’s my voice that echoes through the room and travels down the brothel halls.
“Fuuuuuuuuuck meeeeeeee! Yesssssss.”
With his arms around me, I rise, arching my back against his mighty chest. Feels like a rocket is firing in my ass. It’s hot; the intrusion biting, but the colors in my mind are brilliant and the spasms running wild.
Hearing the low rumble of his climax, feeling his warm breath on my ear, I shudder as his erection shakes the bed. The spring and frames beneath us shake so hard that it sounds as if the whole house is going to collapse. Then he takes me down to the bed again, and we’re stuck to each other like glue, inseparable in our human suffering.
***
“What is your first name,” I ask Broc, as I watch him getting dressed.
“Daniel,” he says.
“Daniel Broc. Interesting sound…” He looks uninterested in my thoughts, though they are important to me. It makes the man more human.
For Broc, sex is over, and being familiar is no longer important. As he puts his pants on, buckles his belt, buttons the shirt and tucks it into his pants, the man evolves from lover to Colonel. I can almost see the shift with every move; the way he steels himself against the world to become the man in his uniform.
“I’m taking over your training,” he tells me.
“And why is that?”
“I have six months to make you into a salable slave. I’d rather see you succeed than fail.”
“And you think I’d fail?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“And what happens if I do?”
“You become expendable.”
“That means?”
He peers at me as though the answer annoys him. “You get used up fast.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, but I don’t ask him to elaborate. “And a slut like Red? I don’t think she’ll ever conform.”
“Actually she’ll get it easier than you do. You think too much. And she doesn’t. You watch, Silk, she’s breaking down already.”
I don’t know whether to be offended by his analysis of my trainable or not trainable character. Should I be proud of my resistance, or make myself into what he wants and be proud of that? Some days, I don’t know my own mind. Perhaps, he’s right, I think too much.
“So, you’re taking over my training, what does that mean?”
“It means you’ll button your mouth and quit asking questions.” He’s dressed now—Colonel Broc again and our conversation is over, punctuated with an audible period. “Leave the dress here and go back to your cell.”
I allow him to see my disappointment as I remove the white silk slip. But he says nothing as we leave and go in opposite directions.
Chapter Seven
As a trainer, Colonel Broc is a far more strident taskmaster than his predecessor. In general, the brothel is not a training ground for slaves at all. Its laissez faire atmosphere engenders training by accident. Those who, by sharp wits or actual desire, figure out what our captors want and submit will be the ones getting sold for cash. The rest, from what I can figure, are used—eventually used up by the masses of soldiers. Unsold whores are more or less thrown to the wolves to fend for themselves. Obviously, being sold is preferable to being transferred into one of the general brothels. My imagination fills in where facts are lacking. The organization needs both kinds of slaves, so they allow the women to fall naturally into whichever category fits them best. There is little instruction and a good deal of luck either way. No different than the outside world, looks make a big difference. Some women figure this out while others are too angry to use their heads.
Amie seems to remain one of the angry ones. (Yes, I am angry, too, but only in brief bouts. And after Broc gives me his unofficial warnings, I decide to pay more attention to keeping my peace. What does it hurt me to submit if the alternative is only going to be more painful? That seems to be a wise decision.)
I have the feeling that only Captain Tahli will save Amie from the woes of hardcore prostitution. She’s unrepentant. When I see her, she’s always battling—I don’t know why Broc thinks she’s breaking down. I even tell her one day—as we’re working in the kitchen together—that she should change her attitude or she’s going to die young. She ignores me like she ignores everyone else, and all the warnings she receives. But there is Tahli, who, like Broc, can find it in his heart to care for her. Perhaps it’s her sensuousness, the form of her body as it presses against her red satin dress. Perhaps, it’s how she struggles, but then relents. She’s more of a slut than I am once she lets go. Maybe that’s what Broc means.
The six month marker in our training must be important—and the reason why Colonel Broc has changed the order of my life—which seemed to have no order at all.
I was moved into another wing in the house two days ago, away from the other whores. It’s quieter in these new quarters. Fewer men walk by my door looking for a place to get off. In fact, in two days, no one has entered my cell except the soldier delivering my food and the woman who presented me with another dress.
It’s peaceful, but I have too much time to think.
It’s almost midnight—I know this because there’s a clock down the empty hall chiming the hour—Westminster chimes. If I close my eyes, and think really hard, I can smell England and civility, hear the London traffic in my head, and taste the tea at four o’clock—sweet cream and courtesy lingering at my mouth. It’s a good memory, one that takes me off to sleep. That’s the time I’m most vulnerable to the foolish workings in my mind, the time of day near sleep when I think my dreams will bring me home—or produce more nightmares like this one. This night, though, with thoughts of Jolly Old England soothing me to sleep, I’m about to make it a restful night.
“Silk.” Someone’s speaking to me, shaking my arm until it’s twisted and beginning to ache. “Get up.” I’ve heard the voice before, though I’m not sure when.
Once on my feet, I walk between two soldiers down the compound’s back staircase and out into the night where I’m shoved into an idling black sedan. The soldier at my back presses me to the floor so that I have to make myself small. I feel invisible as we move into the rough terrain. With every bump in the road, one bone or another gets bruised from being shocked against the seat in front or the seat behind. By the time the car stops, my brain feels damaged and my body battered.
I walk barefoot along a city street as I’m led into a sizeable house. It’s difficult to make out anything in this black night. I can only estimate size of this place by the size of the shadows. The bright lights inside blind me for several seconds until I become accustomed to their glare. Then I’m escorted into another less brilliantly lit room.
“Ah! It is Michelle Monroe.” The man greeting me holds out his hand for me to shake—like we’re neighbors. For several seconds he holds my hand in both of his and stares into my eyes, apparently pleased by what he sees. “Go on now,” he motions to my escort. “I’ll let you know when I want her driven back to the compound.”
My host is a surprisingly handsome older gentleman dressed in a cream-colored Western styled business suit and blue silk tie. He looks about fifty years old, with grey streaks in his dark hair, and the now familiar Eastern European complexion. In the world outside my capture, he’d attract many women with such well-heeled maturity and a radiant charm I’m sure he’s practiced many years.
“Sit down, Miss Monroe, or would you prefer White Silk, your brothel name?”
“Whatever suits you, sir.”
“Right answer for a slave.” He smiles, then pours two glasses of bourbon and hands me one. “Sit down.”
While the jail compound houses some fine looking rooms, there is a worn appearance to them, which suggests a degree of inadvertent neglect. This does not hold true for this man’s exquisite home. It is difficult to believe that such elegance still exists. The floors are carpeted with Oriental rugs—seems in my other life I bought several on Middle Eastern trips and these are particularly valuable ones. The walls of the small room are lined with tapestries, pictures are framed in gold leaf, and as my ass nestles into the seat of the divan, I notice the delicate embroidery in the fabric of cream and gold. The colors are subtle and unobtrusive, while the mellow glow of candles adds to the shimmering quality of wealth around me. I feel as though I’ve entered a magic fairyland, and I’m the slightly grungy fairy in my simple silk. Even new, my silk dress didn’t match the brilliance of this room. (There never seems to be enough White Silk dresses to maintain the image I should create.)
“I am Khahim,” the man tells me. “This is my summer house. It’s small, but suits my needs for the time of year.”
“It’s lovely.”
“Yes, it is.” He notices how my hand shakes as I hold the glass. “Go ahead, drink. Please.”
“It’s been a long time,” I say as I stare nervously while the amber liquid jiggles from side to side against the glass. I take a swallow, closing my eyes as the warm liquor glides smoothly down my throat. This is the good stuff, perfectly aged. In my other life, I used to drink bourbon—I wonder if he knew that.
“I’ve been an admirer of your work, Miss Monroe.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I saw the piece you did on the Taj Mahal last year—superb. And the one in South America, machete in hand, slashing your way through the jungle.”
I can hardly remember.
“In fact, there was one of your Travel World series on television last night. I didn’t get a chance to watch, though I wanted to—knowing that you’d be here today. What was your favorite assignment?”
“They weren’t exactly assignments. I chose where I wanted to go.”
“Yes, of course. It was your production company.”
“It was.”
“But your favorite, tell me.”
“My favorite documentary, or my favorite place in the world?”
“Oh, that is something to consider. How about your favorite documentary.”
“It would have to be the one in the Appalachian mountains of the US.”
“Oh,” he looks disappointed, “I’m afraid I haven’t seen that one. And why was that one special?”
“I suppose because it was about my own country—where one of my grandmothers lived before she died.”
“Ah! Perhaps like picking up a piece of your past.” He seems genuinely curious although I haven’t a clue why.
“Perhaps.”
“And your favorite location? Where would that be?”
I’m unsettled by his graciousness—although it seems perfectly authentic. “Why are you asking these questions?”
“They bother you? I thought they would put you at ease.”
“Are you planning to free me, Mr. Khahim?”
“I’m afraid not. You’re as captive as ever.”
“Then, if you’ll excuse my lack of enthusiasm for this conversation, I’d prefer if we changed the subject.”
“Certainly. And you would like to get to the point of our meeting, I suppose?”
“Whatever is your pleasure, sir. It is not mine to dictate.”
“Ah, but you already show your spirit, putting me off with regards to your past life.”
“I guess that was unwise of me.”
“It could be fatal in the world you now live, yes. But with me, I don’t care. Just mind yourself elsewhere.”
“I will.”
He rests his elbows on the arms of his gilded chair, tapping his fingers together while considering his next remark. “I asked General Hanan to grant me this interview. It’s not according to the book. Captured women who will be offered at auction are usually kept in the compound; and while you’re lavishly photographed for potential buyers to examine on-line, you’re rarely seen outside until you’re off the auction block. However, since I have a dedicated interest in you, I was given an opportunity to preview the merchandise, shall we say.”
Oh, I get it now, I think silently. For all his gentlemanly refinement, Khahim is like all the others.
“In some regards, I was responsible for your being taken,” he talks on.
“Then I should hate you,” I say.
“Humph.” This rudeness hardly fazes him. “I was told you had an edge. I like that. In fact, I don’t care if you lose that as long as you understand who you’ll become. I want slaves of some merit, ones with breeding, the best women. My greatest satisfaction comes from yanking an unwilling woman of substance from her life and divesting her of that substance, denuding her of everything she owns and loves and delights in. I like to watch the results, see how she adapts to her misfortune. Interesting, that the smart women, the ones with some wit and charm make the most fascinating subjects.”
“Makes me feel like a lab rat.”
“I suppose it would. You’re constantly photographed. You can’t masturbate nor have sex that your every response is not chronicled. It is that way at the compound and it will be the same way here. I don’t choose weak women to make my slaves, but ones with a degree of sass and adventure.” He’s inspired by his own thoughts. “Even when you’re resisting, you’re accommodating, looki
ng for angles, the way out of your predicament. And that is what is so inspiring about this. There is no way out. I will have your life in the palm of my hand to mold.” His eyes grow big as his grand essence swells with such passionate speech.
I hate what he’s saying, but my body responds to Khahim’s scheme with a great deal of glee. I’m growing warm as my arousal grows, and the bourbon tosses out my inhibitions.
He chuckles. “Ah! How your thoughts betray you, Michelle Monroe. You ride the fence between your hatred of me and the desire that claws through your gut.”
“Why tell me this?”
“It’s a mind game, Silk. A game of wits.”
“It’s no game at all, if I can’t win.”
“See, you prove my point. You’re smart enough to be a challenge. And in that way, you’re rather like a trophy I can showcase for my world of lecherous friends. Here, I have an American beauty as my slave. Come see how she squirms.”
“You’re as vile as The General and Colonel Broc.”
“More, my beauty. That’s why you’re here. I wanted you to understand the game. If you become my slave of choice in six months, you’ll live in luxury. You will be a slave, but the comforts you’ll enjoy will be far greater than any you could have in this life—or that other one you likely miss.”
“So, what do I do to enter your kingdom of heaven?” I ask.
His eyes light, suspiciously. “That’s why you’re here.”
He clears his throat while I anxiously wait for him to continue—not because I want what he offers, but because my body is so intently curious about his demands.
“I have seen things in your sessions with the Colonel and the others who’ve used or punished you. I wanted to see firsthand how right my assumptions are.”
Khahim rises from his seat and takes me by the hand. It’s warm, the kind that in my other world would be comforting. Strangely, this one has the same effect, even when I don’t want him touching me.
He brings me to the far end of the room, in front of a bank of draped windows that extend the length of the wall. Of course, the drapes are closed so that the world outside his house cannot see me. There is a bondage apparatus hanging above my head where my hands are stretched and placed into thick leather cuffs, which are lined with soft sheepskin. I’m feeling drawn by this sensuous world, even while I rebuff Khahim’s efforts to lure me. Incense from a glowing pipe winds about my head, while the white silk clings to the swaying curves of my body. All this would invite the attention of any luring eye—though there are none to see me in my bondage. Just Khahim and me in this sentient room. As he stands behind me, my whole body tingles in anticipation. When he begins, I’m sure I can thwart his efforts to arouse me, but that feeling lasts only seconds.
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