As the blindfold descends to cover my sight, I’m losing my will to resist. I can taste the sex on my lips, and in the air, and my cunt begins to dampen. Though I clench my thighs together tightly, that does nothing to change these blatant facts. There is something in the bondage that is as seductive as it is scary.
“Smell, Michelle Monroe,” he says while holding something to my nostrils. They flare instinctively as they become aware of the fragrant scent of leather. His implement is long, a tail that drops from his hand inside my dress between the silk and my skin. It dangles over my naked pussy, ever so delicately grazing my pubic mound. Then slowly, he draws it up so it slithers like a snake up my body and around my breast and then my neck, where the leather finally slips away. There are ties at the shoulders of this white silk dress—perhaps to accommodate just such a moment as this one. He unties each one and lets the wisp of material fall to the floor at my feet where it torments my toes.
I know he holds a whip—nothing else could feel this way. I see the picture of one I remember from a documentary some years ago where I watched Australian cowboys herd their cattle with these sensuous swords. In my mind, I see the damage of a whip wielded against human flesh and I’m tempted to recoil. But as Khahim starts again, running the sinewy loops about my ankles, my body shivers recklessly and without the fear that would otherwise freeze my crotch until it’s frigid.
The whip travels from my ankles along my thigh, to where my legs part. It shivers against a clitoris that is so swollen with desire, just this alone could make me cum. Khahim is not that easy a lover to let me orgasm so simply. I doubt he will let me climax at all.
The whip glides on, wrapping my body like gauze, then falling away. It wraps my waist, then climbs over my shoulder again only to descend in the same languid fashion as before. I can’t help but move in erotic undulations, just like its animal counterpart.
When Khahim stands back my being shudders.
Craaaaaaaaaaaack!
The sound explodes against my ear, though my skin feels only the rush of wind that results. Even the tiny hairs on my arms take note. The air stirs one more time and my body jolts, my mouth exclaiming as the end of the whip pops against my thigh.
“Yeeeeach!”
It comes again, and then again, in no rhythm at all. Between my thighs, about my ass and then my shoulders. The split end stings as erratically as its rhythm, no one strike like the one before or any other—as though Khahim, with the delicate precision of a master, paints my canvas of skin with varied but certain splashes of color.
Craaaaaaaaaaak!
The sound explodes again, closer, this time inside by body aura. I lunge, but there is no pain, just the remnant arousal this taunting strike produces. Will he continue to miss—or deliberately lay such a terrible blow to my fragile skin?
When he pauses, Khahim runs his hand across my ass and then gently down my thighs. He follows with the downy softness of fur and tender kisses on my back. The whip falls over my cunt, and as he backs away, the serpentine snake coils around my pussy to tease the sensitive bud. When he finally draws the whip from me, he’s in position to strike again with blows that are as varied as the last round of delightful torture.
Each time he moves, my passions rise as I fall into a thoughtless reverie of feeling. I was aroused by the harshness of my punishments from Broc—which had little finesse involved, but as much passion. This, however, is another kind of bliss. My body floats easily from one snap to the next; in time, so needy that it presses back welcoming what comes next—even when the bite hurts.
Laying his hand on my ass, Khahim fondles away the soreness and brings the body heat to boiling… until I’m cumming with my crotch clutching in a stream of shivering waves… until those waves retreat.
“Yes, Michelle Monroe, this is what I want from you,” he whispers in my ear. “You will do fine.”
As he removes the blindfold from my eyes, I stare forward in wondering shock, seeing before me a dozen pairs of eyes, and the one bold eye of a video camera mounted on a tripod to my left, all recording everything that’s happened.
“This one has promise, don’t you think?” Khahim asks his audience. They seem to agree though I don’t recall hearing any of them say so aloud. I’m still meandering thoughtlessly, and may have only imagined their consent.
Chapter Eight
“Up,” I hear his voice command me, but only connect with it when I open my eyes to the blinding light of my cell. It must be an extraordinarily bright day on the outside.
Colonel Broc pulls me from bed and pushes my naked body to the door.
“My dress…” I look back wonderingly at the slip, which lies like a dishrag on the floor beside my bed.
“Leave it.”
Broc’s brisk voice starts me shuddering, and his cool gaze only augments that feeling. He prods me as I walk sleepily down the hall to the shower room where he shoves me inside.
“Get clean, Silk, you have work to do.”
My tummy starts to flutter—I’m feeling like Pavlov’s dog here. There’s obviously been some connection created between Broc and my physical arousal. It mounts with an incredible roar for so early in the morning.
I’m in the shower stall for slaves, a grey concrete room eight feet square with three showerheads mounted on the wall and two drains in the floor. It is always chillingly damp regardless of the time of year; but being winter now, the room is at its most bone-freezing temperature. My teeth start to chatter as I let the tepid water rain through my hair and down my shoulders. While Broc watches from the doorway, I lather my body with the perfumed soap. It always seemed strange that slaves would be afforded this kind of luxury in the compound. Then, of course, a soldier in their unknown wars appreciates a sweet-smelling whore.
I gaze back at him briefly in embarrassment.
I love his eyes, the blue so blue that I think of the sky as evening nears and the hue begins to darken.
When I turn off the water, he throws me a towel, which I hold around me as we march into the hallway, through the back quarters of the compound to a room near the kitchen, where he wraps my wrists in cuffs and places a sturdy leather collar around my neck. In the kitchen, he puts me to the floor where breakfast waits for me in a shallow bowl. Without utensils to eat with, I lift my meal to my face and lap the food with my tongue. Afterwards, I’m given a rag to wipe away the remaining mess from my mouth.
Though I’ve worked in the kitchen before, this detail is not the same as the normal duties assigned to slaves. I’m under the direction of a starched mistress, dressed in a khaki military uniform. Gossip in the compound says she was once a slave and now holds the only position of authority in the organization granted a woman. The more sordid whispers suggest that she has some secret sexual deal with General Hanan as his Fem/dom mistress. When some new tidbit of leaked information tears through the compound, the corridors of this brothel whir with excitement. I think it’s all made up. It’s a great idea to put the villain in his place, but reality is another thing altogether. The General is a sadistically charming bastard to women. If he’s keeping such a deep dark secret he certainly hides it like buried treasure.
It is Madam Carlotta’s job to prepare slaves for auction, giving them instructions on proper and possible forms of service, which might be required of them should they be sold—which, of course, is the goal of the organization. I imagine our captors pad their coffers well by providing slaves to rich perverts.
The woman is a clipped and formal drill sergeant on her best days, a shrew on her worst. She doesn’t bother with the captive initiates like myself until they have passed the first six months in the brothel and are ready to be prepared for what happens next.
“Pay attention to everything she says,” Broc tells me before he places me in her hands.
I find myself looking at him longingly as he leaves me with the bitch. It’s impossible for me to forget the nights we have spent together. None recently have been as intimate as that first asto
unding one. Normally, he uses me briskly, and I’m back in my quarters in less than an hour. But the frequency of my visits to his room surprises me. Every time he returns from the field, I am his whore of choice. I don’t dare speak with him about this fact, though I find it curiously titillating. Only once was I sure that he bedded another whore, and I was intensely jealous.
“You’re serving in the map room today, Silk,” Madame Carlotta tells me. “The job is simple. You’re to kneel in a corner submissively as you’ve been taught and wait for orders. Remain watchful and eager to respond should you be required to serve Captain Tahli. When you receive orders, follow them as if your life is at stake. Lapses in obedience will be noted, filed and used as a gauge for punishment.” Her face is devoid of emotion, her body quite lifeless despite its naturally beautiful shape. It’s impossible not to notice her heavily endowed chest, and the delicious cleavage that her uniform allows. Her hips are wide, her legs shapely, and she adds a sexy swagger to her walk as she effortlessly moves in her thick high-heeled shoes. Regardless, she appears empty to me, as though she were once caught in a vacuum and now nothing gets inside or releases in her miserable life. Was it this captive life that made her so; or was she like this when she came here? Is this what years in captivity do to women?
I apply myself diligently in the map room, for two hours kneeling in the corner waiting, which is really worse than being on my feet. The pain involved in keeping the pose becomes excruciating; and when I’m finally ordered to attend the party of six men, my feet have become so numb and wobbly that I can hardly stand. Seeing the scowl on one soldier’s face, I realize that I’m earning a punishment with each faltering, but unavoidably clumsy step. By the time I’m ready to go to the kitchen for a tray of drinks, I think I have found my footing, and manage to accomplish the task faultlessly. This makes me wonder if I weren’t set up to fail, just so that I’d be punished.
For the remainder of the day, I run about fetching food and drink and being played with by a few curious hands. All of this proves easy. It’s only when I’m forced into another and much more difficult pose that I fail again.
On orders from Captain Tahli who has been conducting this strategy meeting with five of his lieutenants, I crawl on hands and knees to his side where he sits at the head of the conference table. The table is littered with papers from one end to the next.
“Straighten your back,” he tells me as I wait beside his chair, looking down at the worn carpet—at least it’s some comfort for my bony knees. Following orders I attempt to make my back as flat as the table above me. I can already guess the Captain’s motives and try my best to conform to the picture I see in my mind’s eye. Apparently, I accomplish the task enough to please Captain Tahli as his glass of liquor is soon balanced precariously across my back feeling as though it’s about to fall and spill its contents. I’m sure Tahli senses my trepidation, but I’m so afraid of making a move that I don’t have the courage to peek at his face. My head remains bowed with my eyes again becoming familiar with the patterns of gold, blue and green in the faded carpet. Exposed to the air, my cunt twitches. And to make matters even chancier, I find that my crotch is facing Tahli’s leering lieutenants. I sense they have their eyes focused on my wet privates where my sexual juices are leaking from the center.
I think too much and the glass jiggles. I adjust the pose and it settles. I believe I have the position mastered, and then Tahli suddenly takes a drink. When he returns the glass to his personal liquor table, it lands in another spot and I have to adjust my muscles to accommodate the new position. A half-hour passes and my muscles begin to ache; another fifteen minutes they feel weakened. I think this torture is endless. Parts of me are numb, my belly suddenly grinds with hunger, and an errant gnat is suddenly pestering my face. I try encouraging it to leave, but when I carefully shake my head, a lock of hair falls against my nose, ticklishly grazing the skin until I’m about to sneeze. I have one quick reprieve as Tahli takes another drink; but I’m caught off guard when he sets his glass further back on my tired spine. The end to this scene comes quickly: I sneeze and the glass falls off with its liquid amber contents dribbling down my leg. I’m about to cry, as useless as that would be.
“Not bad for your first time, Silk,” Tahli tells me. Then he leans forward, smacks my ass with a hearty thwack and orders me out, “Leave us be, slave. We won’t need you the rest of the afternoon.”
I spend the remainder of my day in the kitchen where Carletta admonishes me for my map room faux pax. She raps my buttocks with a kitchen spoon and then sends me to the corner. I’m ordered about as the preparations for dinner begin; and when dinner is over and my stomach is growling from hunger, I finally get my meal—another eaten from a slave bowl on the floor. Another slave is eating at my side. She served General Hanan earlier in the day. I suspect it went badly as her hands are now bound behind her, which makes eating even more humiliating since she can’t use them to lift her bowl.
As the kitchen quiets, the bound girl and I remain. Even Carlotta is about to leave. Standing over us, she lays her last barbs for the day.
“I’ll be making my report to Colonel Broc. He’ll see to your punishment. You’re both worthless slaves. Perhaps a good beating will improve your performance tomorrow.”
Carlotta replaces her military cap and swishes a navy coat round her shoulders before walking into the night.
It’s just nine o’clock when I’m ordered to return to my cell, but I’m already dead tired. I figure I’ll have a night to sleep and repair before I’m called up again. Every muscle in my body aches from the horrors of my day. How could I have believed that being a slave in this house would be easy? I’d only seen a fraction of the measures taken to train auctionable chattel, and I’m sure I haven’t seen them all.
At half past nine when I’m fast asleep, the lock on my cell door jangles me awake. A nameless soldier rousts me from bed.
I’m taken back down the stairs to the officer’s quarters. I recognize Broc’s room as we pass through the corridor, but we don’t stop there. Perhaps I’m not on my way to a sexual rendezvous. I’m led into another office where the Colonel waits for several slaves to appear. I’m the first to arrive, having the difficult task of waiting in the awkward quiet for the others to join me.
Broc’s working at his desk, pouring over some papers, when he finally answers the telephone and dives into a conversation. My nerves ease slightly, though not my apprehensions. I feel a familiar prickliness between my thighs that the waiting conjures. I must be crazy to be thinking sexual things at a moment like this one; but I can’t escape myself. As much as I vow otherwise, the fact remains that my desire rises every time I find myself in his presence.
When the other slaves enter, we stand shoulder to shoulder before the Colonel’s desk. Once he puts down the telephone, he consults his papers then looks back at us.
“Sergeant, bring me the rod.”
Broc’s unwavering gaze seems to land on me again and again. I’m sure I’ll shrivel into the cold cement if he does this one more time. Yet, regardless of my fear, my body remains aroused.
“Turn, palms on the wall and present your asses,” he orders next. His chair grates across the floor as he rises to his feet and I hear the ominous click of his boots as he approaches. My tummy turns a somersault and then sours. Then, as he establishes himself behind us, everything in me quakes. I’m not the first to take the rod on my ass. Cream, a coffee-colored woman with soulful black eyes, takes the first strikes. Ten, in amazing precision, clip across her generous buttocks drawing deep lines in the skin, and raising impassioned cries from her lips, which are as erotic as they are distressed. My crotch jumps to the lively beat even as my apprehensions soar. Finished quickly with her, Broc dismisses the relieved woman and she patters out the door as the master disciplinarian moves on to Kimma.
This slender slave has been in the brothel two years for reasons no one understands—at least our fellowship of slaves can’t make sense of it. Like
Cream, she is of Eastern European ancestry with a broad plain face and soulful eyes that can rip a heart in shreds. I find her simple beauty alluring. The long lines of her body seem to extend beyond the physical form. Everything she does is accomplished with grace. Some say she is European royalty, a ballet dancer; she performed in Prague and Moscow and was taken out of Budapest by the organization when she was touring with her company. She looks too thin, as if the life has made her weak. At the same time, she seems as bendable as a willow and able to endure anything. Two years in the compound, she has endured a great deal.
Broc strikes her ass in the same way he delivered his blows to Cream’s behind. Kimma’s flesh is paler so that the stripes are brighter and more distinct than those on Cream’s lovely ass. My fears double as I realize my turn is next. Though my body charges on, hoping that with both women gone, my moments with Broc will contain the intimacy I seek.
When the punished ballerina leaves the room, my fears begin to fall away. Broc is the closest thing I’ve had to a lover since my capture. We have a history we can’t deny. Words, conversations, glances, feelings from tenderness to scowls to tears. I expect some explanation, or even a rebuke, but he remains surprisingly silent as he stands behind my back. My hands are to the wall, palms flat, my feet apart on the cold cement.
From the corner of my eye, I see his swagger and the way the rod looks in his powerful hand. When he draws that arm back, my body tenses, and the muscles in my ass tighten as the punishing rod bounces off the surface. The force of his strike moves deep. In the same meticulous manner he used with the other women, he delivers his ten correctional stripes to my nervously clenched posterior. The pain is furious, producing a bright white heat that covers my ass with such sensation that I believe the patterns of red will be seared into my skin forever. He finishes my punishment as abruptly as he did the others, though neglects to shoo me out the door.
White Silk & I Belong to You Page 9