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From: Pentland <pentland@electronic-businesses.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.bondage,soc.subculture.bondage-bdsm,alt.sex.bondage
Subject: KLITZMAN Part 2
Date: Sat, 08 Sep 2007 06:11:36 -0700
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===================

Klitzman continues



CHAPTER TEN

RUKIMO
All of the pathways of the resort were color-coded and the one to
Rukimo's lair, as I learned to call it, was lined with broad black
stripes laid horizontally across the concrete walkway. This denoted a
security area, out of bounds to all but those with the highest
clearance. The pathway snaked away from the resort area and led to a
small bricked building. The entrance was guarded by two security men,
their robes as black as their skin. They wore black leather security
belts from which hung long, tapered batons. There was a small case
attached which contained a pair of handcuffs. The baton served as an
instrument of discipline, as a blow from one would cause immediate,
sharp pain. They also carried a small electric charge, with enough of
a jolt to temporarily stun the most recalcitrant subject.
It did not happen often, but many of the men who habituated Klitzman's
resort were tough, scabrous fellows. The resort was principally a paid-
in club for men of wealth and power. Membership cost $500,000 a year,
and visits were calculated at the rate of $10,000 per day. But it also
served as a kind of R and R camp for many of Klitzman's felonious
servants. These men ranged from the cold blooded killers so useful in
the nether world of international crime, to the dealers, thieves and
general racketeers that kept the flow of money and women flowing to
and from this island. Sometimes these men had disputes. And sometimes
the fiercely visaged security men had to step in and prevent violence.
Any guest asked to leave Klitzman's resort due to misbehavior left it
by way of a weighted body bag tossed off the end of a cabin cruiser.
The guards examined Anthony's pass and allowed us entrance. The
outside door to the building led to a solitary room with an elevator.
Since there was no second floor to the building, it only led one way:
down.
The elevator rumbled to a halt and the shiny metal door slid open. We
exited into a brightly lit corridor. The floor was covered with a
thick red carpet and the cinderblock walls were painted white. A guard
sat behind a large desk on which sat a series of television screens
linked to security cameras mounted throughout the resort. Various
scenes flickered on each of the screens, the combination of which
constituted a sweep of the public areas of the resort.
The guard let us pass and we stopped by the first door on the left.
Anthony pressed an intercom and the door buzzed open.
The room that we entered was a stark contrast to the institution-like
ambiance of the hallway we had just left. It was a large, spacious
room, wood paneled, a thick, oriental rug underfoot. A large heavy
desk dominated the room, dark oak, with ornate clubbed feet. Behind it
sat a huge mass of a man, as black as coal, his neck thick and
muscled. He was grinning widely as we entered.
"Harry Wiggins," he said in a deep, melodious voice, "I'm happy to
make your acquaintance."
He rose from a plush leather chair and stepped around the desk. He
wore a red robe, with bright red piping on its seams. He extended a
meaty paw and fastened it on my hand with a vise-like grip. He stood
at least a foot taller than me and his bulk blocked out all that was
behind him.
"My pleasure, I'm sure," I responded, trying not to wince at the
pressure on my hand.
"We have heard so much about you, Harry. I believe that you will fit
in well around here."
"I hope so," I responded. I felt like I was at a Shriner's convention
and I had just met the Grand Poobah.
"I've been waiting anxiously to meet you," Rukimo continued. "Let me
order you some tea and we can sit and chat for a while."
The grizzly bear sized man pressed an intercom on his desk and spat
out a command in what I took to be native African. A short noise of
affirmation sounded back. Rukimo smiled and pointed to two large
leather couches set in the corner of the room. In front of them was a
large, square teak coffee table.
"Sit, Harry. We have much to discuss."
Anthony nodded at Rukimo and left the room. I was wary to be alone
with the boss. Although no one had contacted me, and God knew if
anyone ever would, I was still here under false pretenses. I had
agreed to stool on Klitzman. If Rukimo had any inkling that I was
bent, I would disappear forever in about three seconds flat.
As I sat on the couch, I took the opportunity to take a closer look
around Rukimo's private domain. Lining the wall opposite the couch
where I sat was a series of six small cells, recessed into the wall.
They were about three feet high and had heavy steel bars. Two of them
were inhabited by naked, leather helmeted women. Their arms were
fastened to leather belts around their waists. They were both on their
knees, bent over, their bodies filling the small capacity of the
cells.
In the corner of the room, arms locked behind her and dangling from a
chain, was a frail looking, young Asian girl. She wore a leather gag
in her mouth, but, unlike the women in the cages, her eyes were
uncovered. She was standing on her toes, forced into that posture by
the chain that pulled her arms up behind her. She had a forlorn,
pained expression on her face. Her long, shiny black hair reached
almost down to her waist, and framed her face as she held her head up
to see what new demon had entered her life. I heard a muffled sob as
she lowered her gaze to the floor, causing her hair to draw about her
face like a shroud. I could see the evidence of a recent lashing on
her inviting flesh, bright red stripes that crisscrossed her thighs.
"So, Harry," Rukimo began, "how was the trip?"
"Well, aside from the fine accommodations, it wasn't too bad."
"Oh," Rukimo laughed, a deep, hearty laugh, "you met Morianos. Not the
most gracious of hosts. But he does a good day's work. These fine
specimens, for example."
Rukimo motioned towards the two bound and caged women.
"You mean these are the broads that came on the plane with me?" I
asked.
"Yes, yes," Rukimo answered. "We're going to have a little party with
them shortly. I want to know more of why they were skulking around our
little way station."
"Morianos said they were reporters."
"Perhaps," Rukimo replied. "On the other hand, being a reporter, or
seeming to be one, is a good cover for other things. Our facility in
the Brazilian jungle is supposed to be secret. If these two could find
it, then it may be time to shut it down."
Rukimo's speculation was interrupted by the entry of a black robed
guard carrying a small tray. On it was a small teapot and two cups. He
set them down before us wordlessly and then left.
Rukimo poured out two cups of the steaming tea. It was a dark, heavy
blend, aromatic. It went down well.
"I'm sure you have questions, Harry," Rukimo continued. "Do you know
why we selected you?"
"I supposed it had something to do with my skills with a .45," I
answered.
"Ha, ha," Rukimo chuckled. "Yes, Harry. You proved your ruthlessness
to us in the prison, but we knew of your reputation. Mr. Bianco spoke
very highly of you."
So Tony had come through after all. Maybe I could forget all about my
deal with the Feds.
"I don't suppose you have any jobs lined up for me yet, Mr. Rukimo," I
said. Politeness was second nature in a world where people held the
power of life or death over you.
"Just call me Rukimo, Harry. We don't stand on ceremony here. And no,
we don't have anything lined up for you. For a while, you can relax
and enjoy the amenities of our club. You've got a lot of time to make
up for. Mr. Klitzman and I have a couple of ideas of where you can fit
in to our operations, but we haven't come up with anything definite
yet." Rukimo paused, taking a long sip of his tea.
It was weird to be sitting there, maybe twenty feet below ground, chit
chatting like two genteel businessmen, sipping our tea, while three
bound and naked women awaited our pleasure. I couldn't keep my eyes
off of them while Rukimo spoke. My eyes darted over to the delicious
flesh so often that Rukimo must have thought I had developed a tic. I
was still lustful from the entertainment I had witnessed.
Rukimo continued his outline of my new role. "While you're here,
Harry, you'll act as a supervisor. We want you to get used to dealing
with our lifestyle. And I'll be frank, Harry, we want to know if
you've got what it takes to deal with women as slaves. Once you go on
the outside, you may get involved with some of our flesh peddling
ventures and we can't afford to make any accommodation to the
squeamish."
"Don't worry, Mr. Rukimo," I interjected. "I'll do whatever you want.
I'm grateful for being sprung, and I know how to show gratitude."
"That's what I wanted to hear, Harry. Now, if you've finished your
tea, you can come along and observe while we introduce these two cunts
to their new lives."
Rukimo pressed an intercom button on a small table next to the couch
and barked out a command. A few moments later, two black robed guards
entered the room. Rukimo and I rose as the guards unlocked the cages.
The two women were dragged out and pulled to their feet. Two other
guards entered the room pushing what looked like hand trucks. I could
hear muffled squeals from the women as they were manhandled by the
guards. Their bodies sagged as their knees, cramped for who knew how
long, failed to support them. The two women were quickly mounted on
the hand trucks, their bodies belted in. A belt that ran under their
arms and just above their breasts held them in a standing position.
Rukimo and I followed as the women were wheeled from the room.
We went down the red carpeted hallway to a locked steel door. The door
was opened after the pressing of a buzzer, by a guard on the other
side. The door led to another long hallway. Cells lined the hallway,
small ten by ten cells. Most of them were occupied by naked, leather
helmeted women, either shackled to a cot or dangling from a chain
affixed to the ceiling.  I counted ten cells on each side.
"These are all slaves in training," Rukimo explained as we walked down
the hall. "This is a rest period. The ones standing are being
punished. Try standing stretched out on your toes for a couple of
hours. It's a most effective torture."
 "I'll bet," I said. From what I could see, all of the women were
delightful in form. Their faces were obscured by the hoods that they
wore, but their other charms were plain to see.
"The hoods not only block out all light," Rukimo continued as we
proceeded down the hall, "but they block out all sound too. There are
small battery powered speakers near the ears that transmit a stream of
static. This way, the subjects are kept in total isolation when not
actively training. It helps demonstrate their total helplessness and
vulnerability. And the sensory deprivation makes them more malleable."
It wasn't hard to imagine what fear and desperation could be
inculcated in a young helpless victim by cutting them off from almost
all sensation. I was beginning to understand why Rukimo wanted to be
assured that his employees harbored no sentimentality.
We reached the end of the hallway and entered a large dimly lit room.
It had a dais in the middle, elevated from the floor be a couple of
feet. The hand trucks were brought vertical and the women presented
for view. I wondered how long these two had been held in isolation. I
guessed that it was, for the most part, ever since they had arrived.
Their minds had to be rife with confusion and fear.
Rukimo paused before the two displayed women. He turned to me. "Well,
Harry, who should we start with?"
It was hard to tell which one was which. The hoods deprived the women
of all personality. From what I remembered, the one who had hung by
her wrists all night when I was at Morianos' had been a little taller,
more developed. But the women were slumped in their confinements so
that was not much help. But it really didn't matter which one I
picked. I knew that this was my first test from Rukimo. I was being
asked which of the two women would be the first to be subjected to a
tortuous interrogation. If I flinched at choosing, Rukimo would begin
to have doubts as to my suitability for his uses. I pointed to the one
at my left.
Rukimo nodded to the guards and the woman who I had selected was
loosened from her confinements and dragged up to the dais. Her hands
were released from the belt and attached to a chain that hung from the
ceiling. The chain was shortened by the operation of a winch and
shortly the woman was dangling on her toes.
There were several easy chairs spread across the room and two were
brought over to the front of the dais. Rukimo sat in one and motioned
me to sit in the other. The second woman was released from her hand
truck and brought over to Rukimo. I could see that she was trembling.
After such a long period of time confined and inactive, the suddenness
of her transport from Rukimo's office to here had to be a
disconcerting experience. The woman's breasts swayed gently as she was
presented to Rukimo. Long brown hair descended from the leather
helmet. Her hands strained at the belt that circled her waist. Sweat
glistened on her chest, the product of her fear. She was right to be
afraid.
Rukimo pulled the woman onto his lap. Her pale flesh was a stark
contrast to his black skin. His right hand ran over her breasts and
then between her legs. She still wore her brown bush. One of the
guards unlocked the hood and pulled it from her head. It was the
reporter, the one Morianos had fucked and abused. Her hair was matted
from its confinement in the leather hood. Her face was flush, her eyes
wild with terror. The gag was still in her mouth. She looked up at her
friend, hooded, naked and suspended by her arms. She took in the faces
of the large black guards in the room, remorseless, frightening faces.
They all seemed to be anticipating the next developments with relish.
When the reporter turned her head to see on whose lap she sat, she
grimaced. Rukimo was smiling at her, a determined, cruel smile.
"Welcome to Africa," he intoned. "I'm delighted to make your
acquaintance."
The girl's eyes began to tear. She knew from Rukimo's smiling face and
his solid grip on her body that something terrible was going to happen
to her very soon.
"I believe that you've met my friend Harry," Rukimo teased. His left
arm was around her waist, holding her still on his lap. The girl
looked at me briefly. Her eyes were glistening with tears, her face
ashen. I could see the goose bumps on her tender, soft skin. Her
nipples were stiff. The beauteous orbs on her chest rocked gently as
she struggled to calm her panicked breath.
The girl's attention was drawn back to her captor as Rukimo's right
hand stroked the inside of her thighs. "You and I are going to have a
little chat, darling. But first, we have a little entertainment. Your
friend is going to do a little dance for us."
Rukimo motioned to one of the guards who stepped up on the dais. He
held a long, leather encased cane. It didn't take a genius to figure
out what he was going to do with it.
The girl on Rukimo's lap began to whine and struggle. Rukimo had
buried his hand between her thighs and he must have squeezed her cunt
lips hard because she stiffened and moaned. Rukimo spoke to her
softly.
"My dear, you mustn't squirm. It's very distracting. Besides, I want
you to enjoy the show."
Rukimo nodded to the guard holding the cane. The heavyset, well
muscled guard reared his arm back and struck the dangling woman across
her back. There was a loud crack! and a muffled moan escaped from the
woman's gag. Her whole body cringed, as the pain from the unexpected
blow reverberated through her. Another and another blow fell across
her back. Each kiss of the whip on the poor woman's body permeated the
otherwise silent room with the unmistakable sound of leather striking
flesh.
All eyes were on the spectacle unfolding on the dais. The guards were
uniformly grinning as they took in the steady pummeling of the
tormented woman. Even the girl on Rukimo's lap was transfixed by what
she saw.
The whipping of the helpless naked and hooded woman continued
unmercifully. She squirmed and danced as each blow fell. A high
pitched wail could be heard emanating from her gag. The guard handling
the whip had crossed to the woman's front, and I could see bright
lines of red rise immediately on the tortured flesh as he began to
torment her breasts, belly and thighs. The girl was screaming loudly
behind her gag while she twisted and turned in futile attempts to
avoid the cane's painful bite.
I had never witnessed a whipping. I had seen men beaten, I had seen
women slapped around, but the steady, remorseless application of pain
to a woman's body was novel to me. There was something strangely
exciting about watching the tender flesh writhe and twist in response
to the blows. The woman's breasts jerked wildly about, forced into
incessant motion by her desperate movements. Sweat dripped from her
body, making it glisten. The muted groans and screams of pain sent
chills up and down my spine. I could feel my cock hardening as the
clear message of physical dominance of the whipped woman was brought
home to me. Soon, I knew, she would be opened for the pleasure of the
men in the room. No one would ask her permission.
I looked over at the woman on Rukimo's lap. Her face was a picture of
horror as she witnessed the abuse of her friend.  Tears flowed down
her cheeks. She had to know that what she was witnessing was her own
future, her own fate. Soon, she would face the same or a similar
ordeal. From where I sat, I could see that she was ready to do
anything to avoid it.
The whipping of the woman on the dais finally stopped. She hung
seemingly lifeless in her chains. Only her low moans gave evidence
that she retained consciousness. Her body was criss-crossed with
welts. She had suffered a terrible beating and, because of the hood,
which blocked out all sight and sound, she had no idea why or by whom
she was being tortured.
Two of the guards went over to the side of the room where I saw a
small brazier that had been apparently lit before we came in. The
coals were beginning to gleam red. Two bars of iron sat in the fire,
their ends buried in the searing heat. I speculated on their
prospective use and I recalled the scarred 'k' I had seen on the slave
Adriana this morning. I expected that I would see the same mark on the
two women before us ere long.
The girl on Rukimo's lap was sobbing. Her whole body heaved with panic
and fear. Rukimo's jet black hand was crammed between her thighs. His
other hand was massaging a breast. The girl's breasts were large and
bulbous, yet seemed small compared to Rukimo's massive mitt. Her flesh
was white, tender, a sharp contrast to the dark and rough hand that
had captured it.
Rukimo spoke to the girl softly. "Well, darling, have you ever seen
anything like that? Would you like to take your turn?"
The girl's eyes pleaded to be spared the other girl's ordeal. A small
whine escaped her gag. Her nipples, surrounded by large, dark areolae,
were stiff with fear. She shook he head desperately. More tears
cascaded down her face.
"Well," Rukimo continued, "let's have a little chat and we'll see what
happens. O.K.?" The girl nodded desperately.
Pushing the girl's head down, Rukimo used both his hands to unfasten
the leather straps that held the gag into her mouth. He pulled her
head back and placed his hand on the outside of the gag. He looked her
in the eyes.
"Now, we must be quiet, darling. No outbursts, please. And you must
answer all of my questions, do you understand?"
The girl, her brow furrowed with worry, nodded again. Rukimo pulled
the long, thick leather gag from her mouth.
I could see the girl's trembling lips as she exercised her jaw,
finally free from its brutal extension by the gag. She was no
teenager, probably about 25 or 26. But her relative maturity had
surely not prepared her for what she had just witnessed. She could
have never guessed that one day she would be held a naked, bound
prisoner in an unknown land and at the mercy of harsh, unscrupulous
men. She was probably very brave. She and her friend had risked doom
by spying on Klitzman's operations. That took nerve. But two days of
sensory deprivation, being flown thousands of miles to an unknown
destination, kept naked and confined for many hours, had certainly
eroded her inner strength. And now she had witnessed the callous,
casual beating of her friend. She could be forgiven for quaking in
fear.
Rukimo elbowed her legs wider apart and I could see that he had his
fingers jammed into her cunt. Whether the product of fear, or of
Rukimo's manipulation of her flesh, I did not know, but Rukimo's
fingers were glistening with her moisture. He moved his stocky black
fingers in and out of the pinkish hole with ease. I could see the
nascent signs of physical excitement on her chest, red blotches rising
on her alabaster skin.
Rukimo started to interrogate the girl.
"Now, darling, tell me your name."
The girl looked taken aback at the direct question and the opportunity
to speak. The words were difficult for her to get out. Her voice was
feint, almost indiscernible.
"My name is Lois Gardner," the girl replied.
"Well, Lois Gardner, are you what you pretend to be? We have your
identification. It says that you are a reporter for the New York
Gazette. Is this true?"
"Yes," the girl squeaked in reply.
"Well we have checked and we could find no record of a Lois Gardner on
the staff of the New York Gazette. Are you sure that you want to keep
that story?"
"It's true, it's true," the girl blurted out. "I'm a free lancer. They
gave me credentials so that I could get some cooperation from the
American Embassy and the Brazilian Government." Her voice was
desperate. She had to realize that if Rukimo believed she was lying
that she would soon take a turn on the dais.
Rukimo kept up a relentless questioning of the girl. What was the name
of her editor? What magazines had she written for in the past? Where
did she live? Where did she go to school? These were all questions
designed to blow her cover if she was indeed more than she seemed to
be. If the information was false, it could be easily checked. And it
would be hard to get all the details of a cover story right under the
duress the frightened girl was subject to in this dimly lit dungeon.
The questioning shifted to the other girl. Her name was Delia Fremont.
She was a photographer. They had met only days before their trip to
South America. No, they were not lovers. Lois didn't know much about
her except she said that she was from the Midwest. Delia was the one
with the local contacts. Delia had proposed going into the jungle to
find the landing zone. Delia had gotten the Jeep. Delia had gotten the
directions.
Lois's voice grew somewhat calmer now as she recovered her sense of
speech. I could detect a slight pant to her breath. Rukimo had
continued to manipulate her cunt throughout the interrogation and its
effects were telling. Lois took advantage of a pause to try and close
her thighs. Rukimo responded instantly by twisting and turning the
lips to her sex. Lois moaned in pain.
"Don't try and hide your pretty little cunt, Lois," Rukimo taunted
her. "Everyone wants to see it. I think Harry here wants to fuck it.
Don't you Harry?"
I felt a lump in my throat. It wasn't from fear, it was from unbridled
passion. I had never felt so hot for a fuck as I did now.
"Sure," was all that I managed to eke out.
"See, darling Lois, you're going to have to please Harry soon. And my
other friends too. I just want to get you good and wet so that their
cocks will go in nice and easy."
Lois was cringing as Rukimo's words sank into her. She was going to be
gang raped and there was no power in the world that was going to stop
it. She began to plead with Rukimo.
"Oh, please don't do this, please. My newspaper will pay you. I won't
say anything about what I saw. Please."
"My darling, you are never going back to New York," Rukimo answered
her. "We want you here. You are now the property of Mr. Klitzman. He
wants you to learn to be a good little whore. And I think your lesson
should begin now."
The pitiful creature looked forlornly around the room for help. All
she saw were the lustful eyes of Rukimo's crew. And me. I too lusted
after this unhappy girl. My cock was hard with desire. Anthony had
been right. Prison was never like this.
Rukimo grabbed Lois's face with his broad, gnarly hand. He squeezed
her cheeks harshly. She whimpered in pain.
"You are going to get down on your knees, and you are going to suck my
cock," he told her. "When you are done, we will have a little surprise
for you. If you don't do a good job, you will take your friend's place
on the dais."
Lois nodded her head, denoting her submission to Rukimo's demand. He
pushed her off of his lap and opened his robe. His thick, black cock
was at high attention. Lois sank to her knees, tears cascading down
her face. She looked up at Rukimo's implacable eyes. There was no pity
there. Only cruelty. Slowly, she bent at the waist, shuffled forwards
on her knees and engulfed the sleek head of Rukimo's tool between her
trembling lips.
The whiteness of Lois's skin made Rukimo's seem all the darker. Her
head bobbed up and down rapidly as if she wanted to hasten the end of
her ordeal. I had a side view of her face and I could see her lips
distend and contract as she ran them up and down Rukimo's ebony
manhood. But Rukimo had no desire to abbreviate his enjoyment of
Lois's mouth. He grabbed her head with his hands and pressed her down
on his cock, forcing it into her throat. I could hear the abject woman
gag and choke. As she struggled for air Rukimo leaned over and spoke
softly into her ear.
"Now, my dear, I want you to take your time on my cock. Feel its
strength with your tongue. We have all day to play. Make me believe
you enjoy it."
He released the pressure on Lois's head and she came up for air. He
allowed her two quick gulps and he pressed her head back to its task.
Now she had the rhythm Rukimo wanted. Slowly, she rose and fell.
Rukimo leaned back in the chair, his eyes closed, letting the
pleasurable sensations flow through him. For a good ten minutes, Lois
worked Rukimo's rod. Her breasts jiggled tantalizingly as she made her
best efforts to please her captor. Rukimo opened his eyes and looked
at me.
"Would you like to fuck her, Harry?" he asked. "Get behind her and
fill her cunt with you meat. I'll bet it's nice and tight."
He didn't have to ask me twice. I loosened my robe and fell behind the
girl. Her legs were pressed together and I had to spread them wider
with my hands. Her thighs were sweaty and hot. I reached between her
legs and felt her cunt from behind. It was still wet from Rukimo's
ministrations. I pressed my fingers inside, distending the lips. I
could smell her involuntary arousal. Its pungent odor enflamed my
passion. I pressed my hot piece against her loins and thrust forwards.
I slid right in.
Lois began to whimper again as she suffered another unwanted violation
of her body. But I paid her muffled protests no mind as the wet warmth
of her channel triggered a wave of pleasure in my brain. I began to
thrust, at first slowly, but soon, my lust began to over whelm me and
I pumped harder and faster.
Rukimo laughed. "Let me know when you're going to come, Harry. We'll
fill her with our spunk from both ends at once."
I grunted in reply. It did not take long and I felt the telltale
tingling in my balls.  All of my consciousness was focused on my prick
as it began to throb. "I'm going to come," I shouted. "I'm coming!"
Pulse after pulse of pleasure shot through me as I emptied my balls
into her. I could hear Rukimo's grunts and the protesting whinny of
the girl, evidencing Rukimo's delivery of a load of hot sperm into her
mouth. She shuddered and rocked against me. Her passion had risen too
and I could feel her contractions with my cock as she orgasmed. She
didn't need to be trained as a whore, she already was one.
I slowly recovered from my explosion of lust. I rubbed my hands across
the fine white globes of the girl's rear. It was soft and hot, fleshy,
but yet hard. She was a fine piece all right. My softened cock popped
out of her loins and I pulled myself to my feet. Rukimo was busy
wiping his cock's last drops of cum over Lois's face. She was still
whimpering.
"A good blow job, Lois, I can see you've had some experience. You'll
fit in well here," Rukimo said to the girl tauntingly. "There's just
one more piece of business and then I'm going to leave you to the
pleasures of my friends."
Rukimo snapped his fingers, and the guards, who had been watching
initiation into her new life with undisguised lust Lois's, sprung into
action. One guard stepped up on the dais and locked his legs around
the legs of Delia, who was still dangling from her chains, oblivious
to the rape of her friend.  Another guard came from behind Delia
carrying a long rod with a red hot tip.
Pulling Lois to her feet by her hair, Rukimo directed her attention to
the other woman.
"Now, dear Lois," he said in his deep, gruff musically accented voice,
"now that your friend and you have become Mr. Klitzman's property, you
need to be marked appropriately. This way if you get lost or run away,
people will know where to bring you back. I want you to take a good
look, because your turn will come next."
Lois looked up and saw the tall, broad shouldered African holding what
could be nothing other than a branding iron. He smiled at her, his
bright white teeth gleaming. Lois could not believe her eyes. "Oh,
God, no!" she cried out. "Oh, God, please don't do this, please! Oh,
no, no, no!" She was trembling as Rukimo held her head still, directed
at the tableau on the dais. Her knees must have buckled because her
body sagged. But Rukimo's grip kept her standing, forced to witness
the barbarous act that was about to be performed.
Cattle! They brand cattle. Were these women to be no more than two
footed cattle? Were all the female prisoners here no more than
livestock, pretty, compliant, pleasurable animals? Apparently that was
what they were, and what Lois and Delia were about to become.
Now Delia, of course, had no inkling of the cruel indignity she was
about to experience. She must have been confused when the guard's body
pressed up against hers. Was she about to be raped? Was she to feel
the bite of the lash once again? He was holding her body immobile, his
black limbs entwined with hers. Her helmeted head bobbed nervously
over the shoulder of her assailant. Suddenly, the guard with the
branding iron stepped forward. Lois shrieked as the flaming red end,
the bright, cursive "k", was pressed into Delia's rear. There was a
sizzling sound and a distinct odor of burning flesh.
It was hard to believe that anyone so thoroughly gagged could make as
much noise as emanated from Delia. Although muffled, her scream of
pain tore through the room as the shocking pain coursed through her
body. Her torso seemed to jump in place. The guard who held her
struggled to keep her still. The brand burned into her flesh for a
full three seconds, seconds that I was sure felt like an eternity to
the tortured woman. What could she be thinking, deprived of all sight
and sound for so long?  Processes were at work on her that she could
not control. The terrible sting of the brand was but a harbinger of
what was to come. She was being turned into an object, an unperson.
Lois's shrieks had subsided into blubbering tears. One of the guards
released Delia from her chains. The abused woman fell into the other
guard's arms. He quickly drew her off of the stage. Another guard took
Lois by the arm. It was her turn.
Lois realized at once what was afoot. She vainly tried to pull away
from the guard, but he had her arms firmly in his hands. He easily
pulled her up onto the dais. She had gone limp and her feet dragged
along the floor. As she was brought to the dangling chain, she began
to beg and cry. "Please don't brand me, oh, please!" she cried
forlornly. "I'll do anything you say, I'll do anything! Please!
Please!"
One guard held her up by her hair as the other unlocked her hands from
behind her. She was twisting and turning frantically, flailing her
hands and arms about. The brawny guard easily captured first one arm,
and then the other, and secured them to the bracelets that hung on the
end of the chain. The woman's face was a grotesque grimace as she
desperately struggled with her captors. She swung a foot out at one of
the guards, which he sidestepped easily. The other responded by a
sharp jab to Lois's stomach. She gasped in surprise and pain.
The blow to Lois's stomach ended her resistance. The chain was pulled
higher so as to extend her body until just her toes touched the floor.
She was drawing deep breaths, struggling for air as a result of the
blow to her midsection. Everyone stood still while she regained her
breath.
When she had recovered, Lois looked forlornly around the room. Is this
really going to happen? her expression seemed to say. She met only
cold, stone hard faces.
Rukimo signaled to the guard by the brazier who brought another red
tipped branding iron up to the dais. The air was still pungent with
the scent of Delia's burnt flesh. She was still moaning as she lay
where she had been dropped to the floor, her hands reaffixed behind
her back. A long, pitiful whine escaped Lois's lips as she saw the
branding iron brought forth. She looked over to Rukimo, her eyes
imploring, tears running down her cheeks.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked him.
Rukimo rose to his full height. All playfulness was out of his voice
now. He radiated power and cruelty.
"We're going this, Ms. Goodman, or should I say soon to be the former
Ms. Goodman, because you're a nosy cunt. Nosy cunts get disposed of,
Ms. Goodman. Just be thankful that you and your friend are young and
desirable enough to be kept here as slaves. Because the alternative
would be a little swim with the sharks in Limpala Bay. I invite you to
scream your loudest, Ms. Goodman, it will be the last sound you make
as a human being."
Quickly, a guard stepped in front of the distended woman and wrapped
his body around hers. I could see her face poking up over the blacked
robed figure. Her eyes were scrunched closed, her face distorted in
fear. The other guard stepped forward.
The former Ms. Goodman's scream was the loudest sound that I have ever
heard a human being make. It pierced my ears painfully. She drowned
out the sound of her flesh being scorched, but the scent of burned
meat soured the room. Her bladder must have loosened from the shock as
urine poured from her sex down onto the rug. As she strained to catch
her breath after her piteous scream, I could hear the water dripping
on the rug, an almost comical diversion from her certainly anything
but comical pain.
The girl, mercifully, fainted. She dangled loosely in the chains. A
guard laughed and said something to Rukimo in their native dialect.
Rukimo and the other guards joined in the merriment. I was too stunned
to wonder what he had said. It must take a cruelly depraved mind to
find humor in the reporter's and her friend's fates, I thought. Rukimo
looked over at me. I tried to look unaffected by the torture I had
just witnessed.
"So Harry, ever see anything like that in Atlantic City?" Rukimo asked
me.
"I can't say that I did," I answered.
The guards were busy draping the bodies of Lois and Delia over two
waist high stanchions. Their arms and legs were spread and lashed to
the wooden frames. I sensed that their torment was to continue.
Rukimo slapped one of the guards on the back and then walked over to
me. "Now the boys will have their fun. Let's go back to my office and
talk bout your new duties."
I acquiesced in Rukimo's command. As we left the room, I turned for a
last look at the two females. Lois had been rehooded and both she and
Delia had a guard poised behind them, between their outstretched legs,
thick black cocks hardening in their hands.





CHAPTER ELEVEN
A SLAVE GIRL MEETS HER MASTER
	After she was rehooded and trundled away, the French girl was brought
to the slave quarters of the Palace. The Emirate was a small country
and the Emir was only minor royalty, and so his Palace was not quite
as lavish as one might expect. His current staff consisted of seven
slave girls, three wives, fifteen children, his mother, three mothers-
in-law, four dogs, eight cats, five horses and a Mazarati. Plus a
small cooking staff, a cleaning staff and a serving staff.
There was also one particular individual whose job it was to regulate
and control the slave staff. He was a tall, light brown muscular
African, with shaved head and a deficit of gonads. The slave girls all
feared him, for it was he who maintained their discipline, punishing
them for infractions, keeping them ready, willing and able to serve
the Emir or his guests. Lately, the Emir's eldest son, Rashan, the
Prince, had taken to enjoying himself with his father's owned flesh,
and it was the African who brought pain and suffering upon them when
the Prince was not satisfied with their enthusiastic service of his
lusts.
It was the slavemaster, Ngomo, whose face the French Girl next saw
when her hood was removed. She knew at once that this would be the new
true power in her life. She had seen the faces of callous men before,
men who tokened no disobedience, who demanded precise compliance with
orders, who took delight in the administration of the lash. This man
was clearly one of those. He was dressed in his standard uniform, a
long, white dashiki that flowed down to his thick leather sandals. His
face was boney and hard, his eyes, sunk deep beneath his brow, were
black as death. The girl trembled before him.
Ngomo grabbed the girl by her hair and pulled her erect. He perused
her charms with disdain. He spun her around and bent her over to look
at her ass and to probe from behind her still lubricated loins.  The
girl was bent over, almost in half, and she could see the gnarled hand
of the overseer as it familiarized itself with her cleft. She saw the
hand press her labial lips together and squeeze them harshly. Too
afraid to struggle, the slave girl whined in pain and humiliation. The
guards who had brought her to Ngomo still were standing around and she
could hear them exchange witty comments about the new slut. The pain
continued in her loins and she moaned loudly, the leather ball in her
mouth stifling the full effect of her exclamations. Ngomo took hold of
her clit and he was twisting and turning it, pinching it painfully.
The slave was being taught her first lesson. Ngomo ruled in the slave
quarters. She would obey him, his rules or suffer.
Her head finally released, her loins freed of the harsh grasp of
Ngomo, the French girl raised her torso hesitatingly. She kept her
eyes downcast as she sought to communicate her deference to this cruel
man, her understanding of his message. Ngomo shooed the guards away
and, grabbing the girl's left nipple, led her into the harem. Only he
and the Emir had keys. He paused to unlock the steel gate that barred
its entrance and pulled the girl in behind him.
The gates led to a large foyer with a shiny green marble floor. Tall
white columns held up a broad, circular canopy. Without ado, Ngomo
dragged the girl further into the harem proper. They descended a small
set of stairs that led to a large, luxuriously decorated room, filled
with large, overstuffed cushions of maroon leather, small tables of
deep mahogany. There were large, heavily braided pillows decorated
with deep reds and carmine flourishes.  Spread liberally about the
room were scantily clad young females, lounging here and there,
talking quietly to each other, brushing each other's hair. They all
looked up when Ngomo entered the room and, as one, ceased their former
activities and knelt on the floor, their foreheads pressed to the deep
piled, plush oriental rug, their hands pressed palms up behind their
backs.
Ngomo stood tall, and in a deep, resonating voice issued his orders to
the abject females.
"This is the Master's new slave. You will call her Fatima. She is to
be bathed, perfumed and decorated within the hour. You will have two
weeks to teach her what she needs to know and to understand commands.
If she does not learn all of this within two weeks, you will all be
punished harshly."
With that, Ngomo released the French girl, now officially called
Fatima, and strode from the room.
	Slowly, the seven curvaceous and obedient beauties rose from the
floor. They all cast their eyes on their new sister. Some looked with
disdain and dislike, jealous of their ranking in the slave hierarchy.
Some looked with compassion, remembering their first frightened,
disoriented day in the Emir's harem. And some looked on her with fear,
knowing the difficulty of the task ahead of teaching this unknown
female what she had to learn to survive, knowing all too well the dire
consequences of failure.
	The first to approach Fatima was a yellow haired beauty named Gelela,
not her 'real' name, of course, but the name issued to her by her
master, just like the short, white laced, baby doll nightclothes that
she wore. It was more revealing than not, as the tips of her taut,
round breasts poked through the gaps in the lace. The garment reached
only just below her sex and so the least movement revealed the
delightful lips between her thighs. It was, with minor variations, the
standard dress for the harem. Some of the girl's wore sheer silk
chemises, either black or a deep red. Others wore laced garments like
Gelela's, but of different shades and hues.
	Gelela was an American by birth. She did not know exactly how long
she had been a guest of the Emir, or how long it was since she last
tasted free air. She tried not to think about that anymore. She was a
slave and it was a slave's fate that would be hers.
	The American stepped up to Fatima and solicitously placed her soft
hand on the younger girl's delicate cheek. Her eyes softened,
communicating wordlessly to Fatima her empathy with her plight. She
saw the leather ball wedged into the French girl's mouth and tenderly
began to remove it.
	"No, don't!" cried a slender, red headed girl by her side. She wore a
red silk nightgown, sheer and short. Her breasts were larger than the
American's, her hair longer. She was British, and spoke in well
refined, rounded tones. "He didn't say to remove the gag!" she said
urgently. "Do you want to get us all thrashed!"
	Gelela halted her hand. English was the lingua franca of the harem.
The girls were purposely kept as ignorant of Arabic as possible. Any
direct communication with them by the Emir or his guests was short and
to the point. No one wanted to know what they thought, or felt the
need to convey their innermost yearnings to them. They were there to
fuck, be pretty, and scream and moan nicely when beaten.
	The French girl's English was mostly limited to what she had learned
in her training and service at Klitzman's resort. She did not know
what the two dolorously clad women before her were saying. She knew
what the big coffee colored man had said pertained to her, and she
heard the menace in his voice. But that was all.
	The other girls had crowded around their new companion. A tall, black
haired girl, with long, lanky legs and bright green eyes pushed Gelela
aside. She was top dog here. She had been quite the athlete before she
had been whisked off a Madrid street one day shortly after her twenty-
first birthday. Three years of life as a slave had toughened her.  She
knew how to cause pain in ways that didn't show, and all of the others
had witnessed or experienced her ire at one time or another.
	"Let's get a look at the new cunt," she said, harshly. Gelela and the
redhead gave way to her. She stood before the newly christened Fatima
and took in the slender hips, the small but gracefully formed breasts.
She knew competition when she saw it. This one would have to be taught
right away who was first in the harem.
	"Do you speak English, cunt?" she asked Fatima as she grabbed the
girl's chin and pushed her head upwards. Fatima looked back
wordlessly. "Well," the Spanish beauty continued, "whether you do or
not, I'll bet you understand this." The Spanish girl reared back and
smote Fatima a solid blow to her midsection. The girl collapsed, her
breath taken away, a deep, aching hollowness forming in her stomach.
As the Spanish girl walked away, Gelela and the redhead stood back in
shock. All the girls remained silent. The only sound was the desperate
gasping of the French girl as she knelt on the floor, her bound hands
twisting behind her.
	Gelela recovered first and she bent down to aid the stricken new
girl. The redhead, whose name was Jamilah, knelt beside her, and
together they brought the French girl to her feet. The girl cringed
and moaned, fearful of a resumed assault. By gentle stroking and soft
cooing, the two women gradually calmed her. The other women had
disbursed, going back to their monotonous routines. A small television
in the corner of the room showed American soap operas and today they
would find out whether Paul was sleeping with Vicki and whether
Rosemarie would survive her surgery.
	Gelela and Jamilah gently escorted Fatima from the common room to the
sleeping quarters. There was a large bathroom near the entrance and
Fatima allowed herself to be escorted inside. Gelela began to run a
bath in the sumptuous, oversized sunken tub. There was enough room in
the tub for several of the women to bathe at once, and often the girls
would languish in it, hot oily water refreshing their skin.
	The French girl had calmed now, as she understood what was going to
happen. She looked forwards to a bath, removing the sweat and stink of
her close confinement, relaxing in fragrant waters. Slaves took
pleasure where they could.
	Fatima fully expected to have her hands unlocked so that she could
bath. But she was wrong.
	"Do you think we should undo her hands?" Galela asked the redhead.
	"I'm not doing anything that I haven't been told to do," Jamilah
answered. "If Ngomo wanted her hands unfastened, he would have done
it. Besides," she said looking behind the French girl's back at the
bracelets that confined her wrists, "we don't have the key."
	One of the other girls, a young Asian woman, a mere wisp of a girl,
entered the bathroom. Her black hair was short and straight and her
small breasts made tiny bumps under the beige, silk, crotchless teddy
that she wore. Her lower lips were shaved and sported a large ring.
She was a recent arrival, a gift to the Emir from a Japanese
consortium looking to win a construction contract. The American Navy
was coming and there was going to be plenty of money floating around
for a long time. The Emir anticipated many such gifts in the near
future.
	The Asian girl's English was coming along, but she tended to talk in
clipped sentences. Her voice was demure, high pitched. "May I help?"
she asked timidly. She too had experienced a similar greeting from the
Spaniard when she arrived.
	"Oh, thank you Me Ling," Gelela answered. "Keep her calm while I get
a sponge and some soap."
	Me Ling quickly shed her garment and stepped into the rising water.
She was at least a head shorter than the French girl, almost boyish.
"Come, come," she called to her.
	The confused French girl stepped forwards gingerly. It appeared that
she was not to be given the freedom to wash herself. As she stepped
into the steaming water, the soothing heat spread up her legs. She
moaned slightly.
	"Yes, yes," Me Ling called to her. She tenderly pulled on Fatima's
elbow and urged her into the vast pool like tub.
	The redheaded Jamilah had also disrobed and she joined the other
women in the tub. Gelela, returning with a large, soft sponge and a
squeeze bottle of scented soap, handed them off to Jamilah and, after
removing her delicate babydoll, stepped in.
	The three harem slaves admired the fine curves and delicate contours
of the French girl's body. Gelela ran her hand over Fatima's rear and
discovered the indentation of her brand. "Oh, look," she said to the
other girls. They knew the meaning of the red, cursive 'k'. Gelela
turned her back to the French girl and pointed to a matching
inscription burned into her body. Jamilah did the same. Fatima looked
back with understanding.
Not all of the slaves had made their way to the Emir's harem by way of
Klitzman's island. Gelela and Jamilah had, Me Ling and a few of the
others had not. All told, four of the seven slaves were graduates of
Klitzman's special resort. With Fatima, that made five.
Gelela motioned Fatima to crouch down in the water. As Fatima lowered
herself obediently, the other three women joined her.
	The hot water was soothing to Fatima. The three girls gently crowded
around her, their kind eyes seeking hers, their soft hands rubbing her
back and arms. The French girl sighed softly and began to cry. There
was no kindness at Klitzman's island. There had been no delicate,
soothing caresses. Life had been hard and cruel. The girl had penned
up all of her sorrow, all of her fear, all of her yearnings for peace.
And now, as her chest heaved with hearty sobs, she let it all out.
	The three other women circled her with their arms. For several
minutes the women sat, conjoined, memories of love and happiness
revived by Fatima's piteous wails. Tears were flowing all around.
After a short while, wiping her now reddened eyes, Gelela brushed
Fatima's cheek softly with her hand, clearing away a lock of frizzled
hair, and planted her lips directly on the girl's trembling lips.
Fatima, desperately thankful for the show of kindness and
understanding she had been shown, yearning to reciprocate Gelela's
affection, opened her lips and absorbed the blonde girl's gently
probing tongue. Me Ling had daringly removed the heavy leather ball
that had deprived Fatima of speech since her arrival, and Gelela was
free to explore the French girl's greedy mouth. A hand pressed against
the girl's breast, cupping and caressing the soft orb. Hands spread
her thighs.
	The pool had a sloped end, where the girl's could lie down and keep
their heads above water. As of one mind, the three harem girls pulled
Fatima towards it and pushed her back. Me Ling sat behind her to ease
the strain on her bound wrists, receiving her graceful, round
shoulders into her lap. Hands drew Fatima's legs apart. A mouth
fastened on her breast. Gelela's tongue danced slowly in her mouth.
The French girl groaned lustfully. Never since her rude awakening deep
in Klitzman's dungeon had the girl felt the warmth of loving lips, the
caress of caring hands. As her place of pleasure was gently stroked
below the warm, comforting water, she sensed her orgasm rising inside
her. For the first time in many months, she yearned for it, welcomed
it, not as a drug, a moment of passionate release from her nightmare,
but as a gift to her new found lovers, the three women who were giving
her the gift of themselves.
	When she came it was like wave of deliverance washing over her. She
moaned into Gelela's mouth. The mouth on her breast sucked harder on
her teat, giving an almost painful edge to her orgasm. And then, the
forceful throbbing in her loins subsided. The three women, sensing the
end to her release, calmed their ministrations. Two sets of arms held
her tight while Me Ling softly stroked her head, murmuring in her
native tongue sweet words of love.
	The women lay entwined for a few moments more when Gelela came alert
with a start. They had to get the new girl ready or they would all be
whipped to an inch of their lives.
	"Come on," she said to the others, "we've got to get moving."
	The three women pulled Fatima to her feet and began to sponge her
body. Me Ling moved to return the leather ball to Fatima's mouth. As
she did so, Fatima looked into her eyes, tears forming at the edges
and whispered, "Merci," in a low, soft voice.
	Me Ling kissed her lightly on the lips and restored the leather ball
to her mouth.
	Fifteen minutes later, Fatima sat on a stool before a mirror. Me Ling
was drying and combing out her hair. Gelela was carefully painting the
tips of her breasts.  Jamilah watched at the doorway for any sign of
Ngomo.
Me Ling finished with Fatima's hair after combing in a light, perfumed
oil. Gelela had painted Fatima's nipples a dark red and then spread
her legs to adorn her nether lips. Jamilah was the expert at facial
adornment and so switched places with Gelela. She hurriedly, but
expertly, outlined Fatima's lips with the bright red lipstick Gelela
had used on her tits and cunt. She worked a line of black around the
edges of her eyes and curled her lashes. She applied a dark blush to
her cheeks, just enough to highlight the deep red of her lips.
	Me Ling, meanwhile, undertook the task of painting Fatima's
fingernails. It was a difficult undertaking since Fatima's wrists were
still conjoined. By the time Jamilah was finished with Fatima's face,
she had started on the toes. When she was finished, the women pulled
Fatima from her stool and sprayed her with a light scent of jasmine,
applying the spray to her breasts and her loins.
	Jamilah stood before the newly decorated girl and admired their
handiwork. "Oh, you're beautiful Fatima. I could eat you up."
	Gelela turned and hissed, "Ngomo!"
	They had finished just in time. Woe betides them if they hadn't done
a good job.
	Ngomo strode into the bathroom. Then three slaves fell to their knees
and bowed to their taskmaster. Fatima was at a loss of what to do.
Ngomo stepped up to her and examined her with a well trained eye. He
held her cheeks with one hand and turned her head right and left to
judge the quality of the slaves' handiwork. He seemed satisfied.
	Fatima was still wearing the leather cuffs and steel collar that had
adorned her when she had been shipped from Klitzman's island. The
Emir's slaves did not wear cuffs or ankle restraints. When necessary
to immobilize them a length of leather thong was used or a set of
steel bracelets that seemed to be always at hand. But they did wear
collars, narrow, gleaming, golden collars with rings affixed fore and
aft. A small disk hung from the ring in the front containing the
Emir's crest on one side and the name of the slave engraved on the
other.
"Follow me," Ngomo ordered. Fatima's English was rudimentary, but this
order she understood. Her hands still bound behind her, she scurried
after Ngomo as he strode from the bathroom. Once in the common area,
he had her stand still while he removed the restraints from her wrists
and ankles. It felt strange to Fatima to have her hands free after so
long a confinement. He then turned her around and removed the steel
collar. A delicate golden one took its place.
The three women who had been grooming Fatima ran out of the bedroom
with a selection of dainty garments. From them, Ngomo selected a dark
maroon, silk chemise with a deep 'v' neck and thin black borders.
Once Fatima had donned it, its appropriateness became immediately
apparent. The French girl's bright red lips stood out like wounds,
their brightness a marked contrast to the deep toned garment. The
blackness of her hair was mirrored by the thin black edging. The
garment hung loosely on her curvaceous frame, leaving her breasts free
to sway and tremble as she walked, but was tight enough to cling to
her well rounded hips. It came down to a few inches below the slave
girl's sex.  It was pulled tightly across her belly, accenting the
beginnings of her thighs.
Ngomo paused only a moment to admire the alluring creature before him.
His interest in such things was purely utilitarian. The appearance of
the slave would reflect on him.
He spun the girl around and quickly tied her wrists back behind her
with a leather thong.
	It was the practice to transport the slaves within the palace with
their heads covered with a black silk pouch. Ngomo placed one over
Fatima's head and drew a string at its opening closed. The slaves had
no need to see where they were going and, if they ever were able to
slip past the iron gate that barred entrance and exit from the harem,
they would have difficulty in deciding which way to go towards
freedom. Ngomo attached a short chain with a leather handle, like a
dog's lead, to the collar and pulled the French girl forwards.
	There were several circuitous routes to the family quarters, which
was Fatima's destination. The girl padded along as she struggled to
keep up with Ngomo's long strides. It was disconcerting to be dragged
along blindly. The French girl's mind raced with trepidation as to
what new indignities and pain awaited her. She knew that she had been
decorated for the purpose of presentation, but to whom? Who ruled in
this strange place that she had only had a glimpse of? Would the women
she had seen before be there? Were they her new owners?
	Suddenly, Ngomo brought the girl to a halt. She heard a door being
opened and then felt a tug on the leash that led to the collar around
her neck. The hallways were made of cool, hard marble, but the room
she now entered was soft on her bare feet. She had a sense that other
people were in the room. She could hear noises of their activity.
	The girl felt herself pulled further into the room and then halted
abruptly. She felt Ngomo's hand on her leg, lifting it up and over
some barrier. Her other leg was next. Ngomo pressed on her shoulders
and she accepted that as a signal to kneel. As she lowered her body,
she realized that she was in a wooden trunk or chest. Obediently, she
sank down under the pressure of Ngomo's hands until she was bent over,
her head touching her knees. Ngomo's hands left her and she heard a
lid being lowered above her and then the unmistakable snap of a lock.
	There was no way for Fatima to measure the time that she spent locked
inside the wooden trunk. She had expected the trunk to be moved,
rolled away. It was moved, but only a short distance, dragged along
the floor, and then it stopped.
	Nervously, the girl awaited future developments. It was as if she was
just a thing, to be packaged and stored as her masters desired.
Although her small prison was ample enough for her to raise her head
to ease the strain on her curved back, the girl was terrified to move.
Who knew what penalty she would suffer if she was not found in the
position in which she had been left? A slave took no risks; she would
endure the painful strain on her muscles.
She could hear voices now, muffled by the walls of her confinement.
Was that a woman's voice? Was that singing?
	The Queen was delighted when she saw the little, finely carved,
wooden chest displayed in the center of the Palace's expansive family
room. She was dressed in her splendid finery; the room was bedecked
with flowers. There was a large table covered with candies and cakes.
When the Emir entered, a portly, grey bearded man, short, but still a
powerful presence, all the servants dutifully bowed. The Queen gave a
slight nod to her head. The Princess followed him, adorned in her
finest new dress, the tops of her beasts modestly displayed. She
kissed the Queen and expressed her excitement. Silently, the three
awaited the arrival of the guest of honor. After a few moments, the
door to the room opened and a young man entered, black haired, trim, a
certain dissoluteness in his eyes.
	Three voices cried out in unison, "Surprise!"
	The young man was Prince Rashan, and it was his twenty-first
birthday. He was momentarily startled by the exclamations of his
parents and sister, but recovered quickly. He knew that something was
up. They would not forget his birthday, the day he became officially a
man, the heir to the throne.
	His mother smothered him with a huge kiss and an almost crushing hug.
Alliyah gave him a peck on the cheek. His father, the Emir, proud of
the product of his loins, grabbed his shoulders and kissed his mouth.
A servant wheeled out a tray of liquid refreshments. The Emir was
devoutly religious and so the tray contained, not wine or spirits, but
tea and lemonade. The Prince selected lemonade.
	After the de rigueur singing of 'Happy Birthday', the Emir was the
first to present his gift. He handed his son, a small, decorated box,
covered with golden paper and a simple white bow.  The Prince bowed to
his father. The Queen and the Princess looked on expectantly. Rashan
tore off the paper and quickly opened the small cedar box. It was a
ring, a fine golden ring with a ruby encrusted signet. It was the seal
of the heir to the throne, the symbol of Rashan's manhood and his
inheritance. The young man knelt on one knee before his father and
kissed his ring. "Father," he said, "I thank you with all of my
heart."
A tear in his eye, the Emir leaned over and kissed his son on the
head. "Now you are a man, my son. Wear this ring and do me honor."
"Always, Father," the Prince replied.
The tear in the Emir's eye now turned to a gleam. He pulled another
box from his robe. It too was wrapped simply, silver paper this time.
"For now," the Emir said, "this may be of more use to you."
Rashan quickly unwrapped the present. Inside the small box were the
keys to a new Mercedes Sport Convertible. The Emir pointed to the
window, and the Prince ran to it and looked down into the courtyard.
There was a bright red Mercedes wrapped in broad swaths of yellow
ribbon. The Prince thanked his father profusely.
	The Princess had a gift too. She handed him a small package, tied
neatly with a golden bow. He kissed her on her cheek and opened it
quickly. It was a set of sparkling onyx cufflinks, each with a large,
shiny ruby in its center. The Prince was a fashion plate and remarked
on the Princess's good taste.
	And then the Queen grabbed him by his arm. "Oh, Rashan," she said, "I
have bought you something very special. Come, come and look at it."
	The Prince stepped over to the ornate chest. A large white ribbon had
been wrapped around and over it. He stripped away the ribbon and
easily released the latch. All four of them were crowded around the
box. The Queen placed her hand on Rashan's shoulder, "My son, today
you a truly a man. In this chest is truly a man's gift. Use it well."
	The Prince nodded to his mother impatiently and then flipped open the
lid. There, still kneeling with her forehead to her knees, her
brightly decorated hands affixed behind her back, was Fatima. She was
startled by the opening of the chest and was startled more by the
upraised voices that she heard. The Prince exclaimed loudly, "Oh,
mother, what a wonderful gift. Quickly, quickly, let's get her out. I
want to see her." He looked up at the Emir. "Is she truly mine?"
	The Emir nodded in a fatherly way. "Your mother talked me into it.
Enjoy her with my blessing."
	Fatima felt her body being pulled up out of the chest. She was
brought to her feet and swayed as her stiff legs were extended. Two
sets of strong hands, the hands of servants acting at the Prince's
behest, lifted her from the box and placed her before her new owner.
"Remove the hood!" the Prince exclaimed excitedly.
	When the hood was pulled from her head, the frightened slave girl's
eyes met the greedy, lustful eyes of her new owner. Her look was no
more than a glance, as slave girls had no right to stare their masters
in the face. She had seen his excited, gleeful face, the face of a
boy, telegraphing the emotions within. But had she seen just a trace
of cruelty in those eyes? She sensed that she now belonged to this
mere strip of a boy, body and soul. He could do with her as he wished,
abuse her cruelly to his heart's content. She prayed that there was
kindness in him.
	The Prince ran his hands down the sides of his new property,
hesitating as he felt the gentle curve of her hips. He studied her
face intently.
	"She's gorgeous, Mother. I am so pleased!"
	As the Prince reached to stroke Fatima's trembling breasts, the Emir
cleared his throat loudly. "There, there, Rashan, you must respect
your mother and sister. There will be plenty of time to inspect you
new toy later." The Emir clapped his hands as a signal to the
servants. The private birthday ceremony over, the public one was about
to begin.
Just before the other guests were admitted, Fatima was discreetly
whisked away. Her hood was restored and she was led through another
series of corridors. Finally, she was admitted through a doorway and
her travels were at an end. One of the Emir's guards, a member of the
elite corps of bodyguards sworn to his personal protection, one was
never more than an arm's length away, had led Fatima to the Prince's
bed chamber. Although Fatima could not see it, it was ornately
decorated with long cascading drapery around two floor length windows,
a brilliant blue and gold rug, heavy, solid oak furniture stained
dark, but with bright golden handles. The bed was a four-posted frame,
an oversized mattress and a canopy of white silk that fluttered as the
gentle breeze of the air-conditioning swept through the room. Fatima's
chain was affixed to a ring in the corner of the bed, about three feet
high. The guard pushed her to her knees, but before doing so, availed
himself of a sampling of the Prince's new beauty. He pulled up the
maroon chemise and inspected the delicate lips between Fatima's
thighs, the soft, firm globes that were her breasts. He did no more
than caress them, feeling their fullness. One day he would have a
woman like this.
Fatima was left kneeling on the floor, her hands tied behind her back,
her sight still restricted by the black hood. She guessed that she was
in the boy's bedroom and that she was chained to his bed. She had no
thought as to the guard's unlicensed appreciation of her body. She was
only a slave, she knew that, and slaves had no rights. Anyone could do
anything to her that they wanted. But what would the boy do? Would he
whip her? The French girl resolved to show this boy all of her
formidable sexual skills. She would show that she was a treasure, a
thing of pleasure. She would give no reason for complaint, no reason
for cruelty.
About two hours later, Fatima heard the door to the room opening. She
knelt with her back strait, her head held high. Her thighs were spread
widely and the lower edge of the chemise rose just above her sex. She
jutted out her breasts that they may entice her new owner to his
pleasure.
The Prince was a little drunk. True, the Emir had no truck for
alcohol, but one of his friends had smuggled a flask of scotch into
the party and he had imbibed readily. All of the time he was greeting
his father's guests, thanking them for their gifts, charming their
wives and daughters, he was thinking of his new slave. He yearned to
feel her breasts, her thighs. He wanted to use her, explore the flesh
that now was his.
After shutting the door, the Prince took his time in approaching the
female on her knees at his bedside. He watched her chest rise and
fall, causing her breasts to tremor slightly. He circled the girl,
admiring her firm, white thighs, the tightness of her belly. He had
his own stock of Scotch secreted in his room and he brought out the
bottle and a glass. He gulped back a shot and poured another, all the
time his eyes glued on his mother's present. He had used his father's
slaves since he was sixteen. They were all beautiful, sexually
experienced women. But this one was his. His father disapproved of his
excessive use of the female slaves and often rationed him. And he also
felt a little disdain from them, despite their lowly status. He would
invent reasons to have them beaten, just to spite them. They would
return, chastised, but still sullen, resentful at his use of them.
But now, this girl was his. He wanted to see her face again, and he
approached the girl and removed her hood. Fatima blinked at the
brightness of the room. The Prince grabbed her face and stared at her
intently. He entered her mouth with his fingers and withdrew the ball
that had kept Fatima silent through most of the day. He pulled her to
her feet and then pressed his lips to hers.
Fatima exhilarated at the caress of her master's lips. She welcomed
his tongue in her mouth and opened her lips to the Prince's
explorations. She felt his manhood stiffen against her as he pressed
his body into hers.
Suddenly, the Prince stepped back and, reaching out with both hands,
tore the chemise down the middle, exposing Fatima's breasts and belly.
He was moved by their beauty. He cupped the breasts in his hands and
squeezed them gently. They were his.
Leaning against the bed, the Prince withdrew his manhood from his
immaculately pressed white cotton pants. Fatima knew what to do and
lowered herself to her knees. Since her hands were still confined
behind her back, the French girl had only her mouth to please her
master. She edged towards him and leaned forwards, taking the head of
his now hard cock in her mouth. She wanted desperately to impress her
master with her skills, wanted to entrance him. She nibbled gently at
the cock's end and swirled her tongue over its tip. She could sense
the Prince stiffen and she heard a soft sigh of pleasure. She pursed
her lips, forming a seal around the hardened shaft, and slowly pressed
forwards, sucking the cock gently deeper into her mouth.
The girl was experiencing a passion of her own. She knew what
pleasures this steel hard tool could bring her. Her knees were spread
for balance, and she could feel her cunt warming as it engorged with
blood, could sense her lower lips separating, her gash lubricating.
The Prince's cock was at the back of her mouth now, her lips down to
its base. She pushed it into her throat.
Moaning loudly, the Prince locked his hands on his new slave's head.
He entwined his fingers in her long, ink black hair and pressed her
face into his loins. His cock was throbbing with excitement. He was
half sitting on the bed now, his knees too weak to hold his weight. He
pulled the girl's head away from him, yearning for the feel of her
pliant lips on his rod. As her head was moved backwards, the slave
girl dragged the tip of her tongue along the cock's length, ending
with a swirl around its head. The Prince began to pull her head back
and forth as he thrust his hips into her. He was moaning continuously
now as he felt his moment of crisis approach. Faster and faster he
moved the head between his thighs. Fatima accommodated her use by
tightening her lip's grip around his manhood and opening her throat as
the cock jammed up against it.
The Prince called out, "Oh! Oh! Oh!" as a prelude to his tool's
eruption. The cock pulsed in Fatima's mouth, a copious discharge of
the Prince's fluids flooding it. She pressed her head as far forwards
as she could, sheathing the cock in her throat, receiving its
discharge directly into her esophagus.




CHAPTER TWELVE
LUNCH
	Rukimo and I had lunch on a little veranda overlooking the bay. It
was a part of his private quarters and I was, I supposed, honored to
be his guest. His quarters sat away from the main resort area and we
had to pass through two security checkpoints to get there.
	The décor was, as one might expect, sumptuous. The living area was
surrounded by a huge wall of glass. The building stood on a promontory
and you could see two sides of the island in its view. Two jet-black
serving girls greeted us as we entered. They were young, with smooth
features, small breasts and long legs. Their sexes were clean shaven
and their curly black hair was cropped close to their heads. They both
had full, succulent lips. They were kneeling by the door when we
entered, eyes downcast, hands upturned on their thighs.
	Rukimo nonchalantly rubbed the head of the nearest girl as we passed
them by. They stood and followed.
	"Harry," Rukimo said as we strolled through the massive room, "what
did you think about our little Lois?"
	"I don't know," I answered. "It seems unlikely that she was lying."
	"Yes," Rukimo countered, "but there was something about her. Of
course, we haven't interrogated the other one yet. I've got to find
out where they got their information about Morianos' station. If
there's a leak in his organization, we need to fix it."
	I realized that I was in uncharted territory here. Why was Rukimo
confiding in me? Did he suspect something? Did the arrival of the two
Americans at Morianos' village in the jungle have anything to do with
me? I wondered if one or both of them was meant to be my contact. If
so, I was in a world of shit. One of them would talk sooner or later.
	Rukimo was studying my face as we strolled out to the veranda. It was
a wide expanse of coral pink tile, smooth and glossy. There was a
large canopy over it to keep out the midday sun. Rukimo was expecting
a response. I decided to play stupid.
	"Mr. Rukimo," I said, "I'm afraid that I'm not used to traveling in
your league. When I worked for Mr. Blanco, if we had doubts about a
guy, we whacked him. There was no sense taking chances. But our little
gang was nothing like what you guys have got. I mean, I can hardly
take it in. How big is this guy Klitzman?"
	Rukimo laughed as he pulled out my chair. "Oh, Harry, let's just say
that he's big. This island is just one of his many facilities. I won't
give you a list, but anywhere you lived on the globe, you wouldn't
have far to go to find one."
	I sat and pulled a napkin onto my lap. Rukimo sat opposite me and
motioned for the two girls to approach. "Enough business, Harry. How
do you like the twins here?"
	I looked over the shiny, black skin of the two girls. Their hips were
slim, but yet there was a definite curve to their torsos. Their faces
were finely sculpted, their eyes were clear. I could smell a feint
hint of musk as they stood near me. They were mirror copies of each
other, yet the one closer to me seemed a little taller, her breasts
just a little larger. Her nipples were a deep red and they jutted out
a good inch from her areolae. There was something exotically beautiful
about the girls. Each wore the standard steel collar and leather
bracelets, but they also had long, bright gold, circular earrings.
Their navels sported rings of tiny diamonds.
	"They're an eyeful," I said. "Beautiful."
	"Oh, yes, I'm awfully proud of them," Rukimo said. "Well trained too.
There's actually a story behind them."
	A tall lithesome woman, white, with long blonde hair, emerged from
the building. She glided gracefully to our table and made a slight bow
to Rukimo. "How may I serve you, master," she said. Her voice was
smooth, sulky. She was wearing a bright, multicolored calico skirt low
on her hips. Her hair was joined behind her head in a long braid that
ended in a knot. Her lips were bright red, her eyes shaded with a
delicate blue. She wore nothing on top and her porcelain breasts,
large and well rounded, swayed gently as she spoke.  It was the first
woman I had seen with any clothing. I was surprised.
	"This is Tania," Rukimo explained. "She's my major domo. She runs the
female staff here." He turned to Tania. "Bring us some lunch, a nice
dry Chablis and some fish. We'll have some nuts and cheese while we
wait."
	Tania bowed again and gracefully exited.
	"As I was saying," Rukimo continued, "there's a story behind these
two lovelies. Last year we were asked to lend, shall I say,
assistance, to a friend of ours, a general in a local army. It seems
the President of the republic was seeking to bring what he called
'corruption in the armed forces' under control. Of course, he found
that he bit off a little more than he could chew. Our friend, with our
help, managed to neutralize the Presidential Guard and install himself
as 'the savior of the nation'. The President was shot. His wife now
serves as our friend's whore. These are his daughters. The one on the
right is Dafina. She was attending Oxford University at the time of
the coup. An emergency telegram brought her home. On the left is Deka.
She had a job at the American Embassy. Getting her was a little tricky
after she claimed political asylum. But we have our ways."
	I sensed an uncomfortable shift in the stance of the two young black
girls. The one closest to me, Deka, lifted her head slightly and
glanced at me quickly. I could see a tremor in her face.
	Rukimo spat out a command to the girls in their native language and
they ran inside the house. In a moment they were back carrying a
thick, red rug. They laid it on the tile next to us, paused for a
moment, and then fell into each other's arms.
	Their lips locked together and I could see their mouths opening as
their tongues intertwined. Their hands descended each other's backs,
pausing to stroke the rippling black flesh of their buttocks. Slowly,
they descended to their knees and then lay outstretched on the rug.
While we awaited our appetizers, we watched the girls conduct a
passionate Sapphic display. The taller one was now on top and she
spread the legs of her sister. Her fingers danced along the cleft
between her thighs as she placed her lips on her breast. The smaller
one sighed and raised her chest to meet the oral caress.
	I could see the pink interior of the smaller one's cunt as the other
spread the soft lips with her fingers. I noticed, as I had not before,
that their nether lips were lined with bright gold studs. The studs
glinted in the strong mid-day sun.  Tania emerged from the house with
a small tray of nuts and cheeses along with a shiny, wet bottle of
golden wine. Rukimo unceremoniously opened the bottle and poured me a
glass. I hesitated to take my eyes off of the passionate display
before me. The girls' skins shimmered with a fine sheen of
perspiration. They had changed position and were now kissing each
other's bellies prefatory to a descent down below.  watched,
mesmerized, as their pink tongues lapped the fine, soft hairless skin
of their loins and then entered the glistening, wet canals between
their legs.
	I semiconsciously grabbed a handful of nuts as I admired the luscious
display. My temperature was rising and I felt my cock hardening. How
was I going to eat with this going on?
	I took a long drink of the cold, dry Chablis. Its tart flavor was
satisfying and stoked the warmth that was growing in my loins. I heard
Rukimo laugh.
	"They play well together, eh, Harry?"
	"I'll say," I said, not taking my eyes off of the wriggling, sighing
pair of impassioned women. The smaller one, the one on the bottom, was
the first to begin to moan and squirm. She was joined soon thereafter
by her sister. I could see the cheeks of her ass clench, as pulses of
pleasure seemed to jolt through her. Were they faking? If they were,
it was a very good show.
	Finally, the girls' moans became louder and more staccato. Their legs
were twitching and their hands clenched each other's backs. Their
moans crescendoed and then began to fade. I gulped back the remainder
of my wine.
	As the girls slumped apart, I noticed Tania waiting patiently,
holding a covered tray. Rukimo's white teeth were flashing as he
grinned in appreciation of the show. He looked at me conspiratorially
and then nodded to Tania.
	The tall, white girl approached the table and, holding the tray with
one hand, lifted the lid. On it was a steaming, pink colored fish,
filleted, sitting on a bed of saffron rice. Small roasted tomatoes
circled the rice bed. It looked and smelled delicious.
	Tania bent over as she allowed me to serve myself from the tray. Her
breasts swayed gently as she waited for me to fill my plate. I noticed
small sapphire studs in her ears.
	Rukimo and I ate silently. The fish had a delicate smoked flavor. It
melted in my mouth. When we had finished, Tania appeared, as if by
magic, and cleared away our plates. The bottle of wine was three
quarters empty and my head had begun to swim in the heat, exacerbated
by the residual hard on I was sporting. Rukimo grinned at me.
	"There's only one way to finish off a fine meal like this, Harry," he
said. He looked at the twins who had remained entwined, caressing each
other almost lovingly. They needed no further instruction, leaping to
their feet and scrambling towards us. The short one knelt at my feet
and dipped her head under the table. Her hands parted my robe and her
mouth engulfed my steel hard cock.
	I almost swooned as the hot mouth and soft tongue descended the
length of my tool. I spread my legs wide and placed my hands on the
black haired head between my thighs. I looked over to see Rukimo
similarly occupied. As the girl's lips pressed hard against the
bulbous head of my cock, I let my head roll back and closed my eyes. I
felt soft hands caressing my thighs as the girl's tongue swirled
around the tip of my manhood. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after, I
would be able to calmly revel in the oral ministrations of a beautiful
slave girl, but not today. I had more than three years worth of lust
to satisfy. I felt my juices rising and I began to moan. As my penis
jerked and pulsed, spilling my seed into the energetic mouth, wave
after wave of pleasure washed over me. I ended with a long, satisfied
sigh.
	 Rukimo was still busily milking his cock with the taller black
girl's mouth. I could hear little cries emerge from her as he, holding
her black carpeted head between his hands, jammed his cock against the
back of her throat. Tania had returned and was watching silently, her
face a mask of indifference. The girl between my legs was sucking
gently on my flaccid penis, stroking my balls gently. I could feel the
blood stirring again.
	It was somewhat disconcerting to have my dick in this girl's mouth
while the blond woman stood sphinx-like next to me. I admired her
soft, inviting breasts and the way her belly curbed inwards near her
hips. The scandalously short skirt hid away her sex and upper thighs
and I could not help but wonder what lay beneath. It was funny that I
had been inundated by visions of beautiful, naked flesh all day long,
and yet here I was, tantalized by what I could not see and probably
could not have. I had to guess that she was Rukimo's personal
property. And I didn't want to fuck with Rukimo.
	I was drawn from my lustful appraisal of Tania by Rukimo's loud
grunts. He was coming at last. I saw him press the black head down
onto his loins, pushing his quite ample manhood deep into the young
girl's throat. He held it there as he rolled his head back,
luxuriating in his passionate discharge. The girl's body tensed due to
the cessation of the flow of air to her lungs. I could see her hands
clench, the muscles of her back contract and stiffen. I had to give
her credit, though. She moved her head not an inch.
	Finally, Rukimo released the head he had held so firmly to its task.
My cock was hardening, but I sensed that my luncheon was just about
over. Rukimo snapped his fingers and the two black sisters scurried
back to their rug.
	"Ah,h,h,h, Harry," Rukimo sighed. "There's nothing like a well
trained mouth. How was yours?"
	"Perfect," I replied.
	"And now I think I'll have my siesta, Harry. Enjoy the rest of the
afternoon, take a walk around," Rukimo said. "Get laid."
	I laughed. "Sure Mr. Rukimo," I said. "I'll do that."
	As I got up from my chair Rukimo spoke to Tania.
	"Go to my bedroom and wait for me there," he told her. "And bring the
number two whip."
	Tania stiffened and I detected a momentary trace of fear in her face.
It was gone after a split second. "Yes, master," was all she said.

Look for Part 3, being posted immediately

    

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