Slaver's Dozen (The Klitzman Stories) Page 13

  Nicholai looked on at his new slave. He had others, but nothing compared to the feeling of acquiring a new one. It was probably time for the older one he kept at his island to go anyway. He would devise a delicious send off for her. “Maybe Klitzman is right,” he thought as he relished the forlorn expression of the slave girl in front of him. “Too much is never enough.”

  There was that idea he had talked over with that Cuban intelligence agent last month. Many beautiful, vibrant, young girls applied for careers in the intelligence service. Some had to be sent on dangerous missions. Some would certainly perish in service to the state. Say maybe fifteen or twenty a year? More? He could trade some of them to Klitzman for some Norte Americano girls or some Swedes. Those Cuban guys liked Swedes.

  Brenda felt herself pulled to her feet. She looked around for someone to save her from this monster, but the tech man was busy with some paperwork. Nicholai called over to him. “Hey, you forgot the eyebrows.”

  The man looked over at the girl. “So I did,” he responded. “Wait a sec.”

  He ran into the room in which he had performed Brenda’s modifications and emerged with the electric razor. He plugged it in and it came to life. Nicholai held the girl as the man zipped the tiny lines of hair from over the girl’s eyes. The techie rubbed the ointment where her eyebrows had been and handed the large container to Nicholai. “Twice a day for three weeks,” he said.

  Nicholai took another look at his newly acquired slave girl. That was better. There was a face devoid of almost all humanity. She could evoke pity, but not sympathy. He grabbed the girl by the ring on her collar and pulled her from the room. He had a plane to catch.

  CHAPTER NINE

  EAST IS EAST

  The five girls soon became acclimated to the routine at the slave quarters. They were used to not seeing the sun from their time in the training dungeon anyway. They were too frightened to talk to one another. They just did what they were told and absorbed what occasional suffering was meted out to them. The oddest thing was the almost virtual silence, especially in light of the fact that well over two hundred souls could be found in the slave facility at one time or another. Talking was strictly forbidden. Orders yelled out by the slave supervisors, passionate moans, and screams and cries while at the end of a whip, didn’t count. Yet slaves will have their ways and, while no one was looking, the girls would often pass news or gossip quietly between them.

  Mary and the others all wondered what had happened to the other girls. Carol, Danielle and Brittany had disappeared right away. Brenda had trained with them, but must have been taken somewhere else. Rene had come down the elevator with them, but hadn’t been seen since.

  The training was not too rigorous. They practiced fellatio on plastic models, learned to dip and bow gracefully. They were instructed in various ways to pleasure a man and taught how to render their bodies supple to offer their masters the various poses in which sexual congress can take place. There was a well equipped exercise room and they were able to work out some of their frustrations there. And they made love. Not to each other. There was little choice permitted in sexual partners. They would be assigned a lover and be required to service and be serviced by her for the edification of their sister slaves who were instructed to watch. From time to time, one of the guards from ‘upstairs’ came down, or one of the higher ranking supervisors, and he would choose a girl and go to the guest rooms. Red headed, milky skinned Karen had been there twice.

  And there was their slave supervisor. Each of them had spent at least one or two nights with her. Her name was Giselle, and she was Austrian. She was 27 years old and had been brought to Klitzman’s island when she was 19. She valued her role as a slave supervisor, and no charge of hers was ever going to give the masters reason to send her back into the slave pool. Due to her age, she knew the next stop would likely be the soldier’s barracks or a bordello in some third world slum. Klitzman took few chances, and aging out slaves were never sent anywhere where they were likely to emerge to tell their tale.

  Other than having a harsh taskmaster, the girls’ days were kind of mild. They exercised, they trained, they fucked. And they dreaded the day when they would be sent upstairs to serve in the resort. It was not just the fact that they feared falling short of standards, although that weighed on their minds heavily. And it was not because they feared the beatings and whippings that they had heard was common place. It was more because that until they had been sent up to the resort and had to preen and sway their hips, appear inviting to all, pretend lust for men they would consider gross and repellant, until then they were still not whores.

  Until they had to pretend lust, to entice men to their use, to fawn over them and give out an aura of willing, wanton sluts, there remained part of them that was still unsullied. They did now only what they had to, what they were ordered to do. Upstairs, if men considered them unworthy of use, they would quickly be deemed unworthy of service and shipped off to more undesirable fates.

  This had been explained to them many times since they had been brought to the Slave Center. It had sunk in.

  Mary had gotten so used to the routine that one day she actually found herself humming as she bathed one of the other slaves. The girl, an older woman, no neophyte to slavery, smiled and turned and kissed her. It was nice. Afterwards, she felt depressed and ashamed that she could ever get used to being a naked, propertyless, rightless non-entity.

  One day, Mary and four other newly enslaved girls were called to the guest rooms. Karen was one of them. Their numbers had been called over the intercom, numbers that they had been trained to learn by heart. It was the same number that was printed and coded on their collars, so that a simple swipe of an electronic wand would record their comings and goings at various places in the resort. The wand never lied and God help the girl who tarried while traveling their well timed routes.

  The guest area had a large lounge, much like one of the lounges upstairs. There were two or three girls assigned to it daily and they would serve drinks and refreshments to any visitor. When Mary entered, there were already three slave girls standing in a line, their heads downcast, legs apart, their hands behind their backs. As she joined them, she saw a tall oriental man sitting in an armchair. Next to him sat the slave mistress, Madam Dupre. He was drinking a tall, cool, clear liquid. A serving slave knelt on the floor just behind him and to his right, prepared to fulfill any and all of his desires.

  It was a few moments before the fifth girl entered, to the visible ire of Madam Dupre. When she was standing in the line, Mary had noticed that Madam Dupre had a kind of notebook on her lap. The slave mistress stood once all the slaves had appeared and invited the oriental man to inspect them.

  He was dressed in black pants, white running shoes and a knitted green sports shirt. He had a small beard on his chin. He seemed young to be a colonel, but he carried himself with the air of self assurance that command brings. He had been wearing sunglasses, but when he rose, he took them off. He was unusually tall for an Asian, and the females, all except Madam Dupre, seemed to diminish in stature before him.

  “These are the slaves you selected, Colonel,” Madam Dupre said as the man stepped towards them. “Let me have them step out so you can examine them. You’ve read their backgrounds, but if you have any questions, I have their profiles right here.”

  Mary felt nauseous as she realized that this man was probably going to buy one or more of them. She had heard that that was possible. Some of the girls who were taken away actually returned. After retraining, they would mix with the general population. Their stories were never pretty.

  There was at least a 20% chance that she would be chosen. Her mind raced. He was a military man, a colonel. She knew that in some countries in Asia, the military was so corrupt that it was treated more like a business. Was he shopping for some fat, lecherous general? Or was he looking to fill some special order for a brothel? Was he looking for himself? He was only a colonel. But what did she know, Mary thought. He coul
d be a multimillionaire.

  Karen had made the same connection as Mary. Of all the girls kidnapped by Paderovski, she was the one with the largest breasts, the whitest skin. She had unusual red hair, naturally red, as the man could clearly see. She would be as exotic to an Asian as an Indian would be to an Eskimo. She had no desire to be shipped out to some Asian hinterland. She still harbored a fantasy about escaping the island on a boat. She knew boats. Her father had been a fisherman off the Long Island Sound. He had gone for swordfish and tuna. On occasion, she would go with him. Her mother divorced him because he was a brutal drunk. But at sea, he was her father, the master of the sea. And she knew the sea, at least well enough to get many miles away from where they were. And she knew some elementary navigation. She just needed a chance to get upstairs and slip away. She would find the boats. She would escape.

  But not if this cruel looking man took her far away to some Asian jungle. And she heard that the oriental men could be especially cruel. She tried not to look at him, to become unnoticed, to disappear right in front of him.

  The other three girls were nervous too. They had just come down from training the day before. They were still jumping at every noise, cringing at every command. The colonel was looking for fresh meat, girls new to their slavery. Trained, but not passed around.

  One by one, Dupre called the girls forward. The first girl was a dark skinned Italian girl. She had little English, but knew enough to obey Dupre’s obvious hand signals. Dupre snapped her fingers and the girl raised her arms behind her head in obedience. The colonel grabbed her cheeks with his large hand and stared into her eyes. Mary could see the girl trembling. He moved her head from side to side, looking for flaws. He stepped back and placed his hands on her breasts, measuring them, watching the girl’s reactions. He pinched the nipples harshly, causing the girl to wince and emit a feint whine. He smiled.

  “Lovely,” he said, his voice high pitched, the vowels drawn out. “Please to turn around,” he told the girl. Her name was Annette. She had made the mistake of going out for cigarettes at about 2 a.m. one night. She was at her boyfriend’s who lived in a rather rough neighborhood in Naples. The all night store was only three blocks away. She got the cigarettes, but didn’t make it back to her boyfriend’s apartment. He was passed out from drugs and alcohol and didn’t realize that she wasn’t there until ten o’clock the next morning. He assumed she had gone back to her place; her roommates assumed that she was with him. By the time anyone missed her, she was lying, bound and drugged, deep in the bowels of a large freighter heading to South America. One of Klitzman’s speedboats met it a couple miles off of the Canary Islands. From there she, and two other fine Italian girls, were flown to Klitzman’s island.

  Madam Dupre gave a little twirl of her fingers and the girl understood the command. She turned her back to the colonel presenting her smooth, well toned buttocks to his view. He ran his hands down her back and across her hips. He felt the flesh of her rear globes. He placed one hand on the girl’s stomach and pressed firmly on her back. She leaned over in response. Her legs were already spread and the Asian was able to place his hand on her fleshy mound. He ran his hand along the inside of her thighs, caressing the smooth skin. His fingers found her slit, and he gently nudged the lips apart. After a few moments, his efforts were rewarded as the girl’s juices began to flow. She had been taught well.

  The colonel manipulated the folds of the girl’s sex, the bud at the tip of the lips, the now juicy interior. He waited until her breath began to deepen and she uttered a small moan. He then reached around and took hold of her dangling, pale breasts. He felt the stiff nipples, the firmness of the twin mounds. He pulled her back up and spun her around, looking again into her face, observing the young woman in heat.

  Annette was ordered back into the line and the next girl was ordered forward. One by one, he examined them all in the same way. When done, he strolled back and forth along the line of fearful women, touching a breast here, reexamining a cunt there.

  Madam Dupre watched the man patiently. His name was Colonel Huong. He was Cambodian. He represented a general who controlled a heavily traveled route for the smuggling of raw opium out of Thailand. The general had begun to experiment with his own crop as well and the colonel had just delivered two kilos of their new product as a sample of its quality. Klitzman, in a gesture of good will, had offered the colonel to return to Cambodia with a gift for the general. The colonel risked losing much face if he made a poor choice. He had poured over thirty or forty pictures of newly enslaved girls and had reduced his choice to these five. Any one would be acceptable. But only one was the best.

  “Please,” he said to Madam Dupre, “may I look at these two again?”

  He had pointed to Karen and a lithe, blond haired Czech girl. He had them stand side by side. Karen’s breasts were ample and plump, her nipples wide and flat. Her hips were just a little wide, and her mouth, when at rest, just a tad down turned. But she had beautiful brown eyes, hazel, actually, a slender, pert nose and a feint smattering of freckles on her cheeks.

  The other girl, Zelenka, was tall and thin. Her breasts were heavy for her frame, round and firm, like half melons. She had star-like blue eyes. Her hair was short and curly, almost in ringlets. He nose was long and narrow, her eyes set close together. She was maybe a little too thin, the colonel thought to himself. Her ass was a little boney. But she had dazzling eyes and her form was graceful, luxurious. He sent both girls back into the line.

  “That one,” he said, pointing at Mary. While Karen breathed a sigh of relief, Mary’s heart skipped. “Oh, God,” she thought, “he’s going to pick me!”

  Mary’s skin was a light pastel pink. She had shoulder length black hair, deep blue eyes. Her breasts were almost as large as Karen’s, but whereas Karen’s were thick and heavy, hers were wide and firm. Her stiff nipples, stiff from fear, were long, but not thin. There was a small mole on her right breast just below and to the right of her nipple. Her areolas were smooth and half dollar sized. She had thin lips, a slightly broad nose. Her eyelashes were dark and thick, giving her face a brooding look. If any of the girls had a mysterious air about her it was Mary. Her mien bespoke the poetess, a seducer of men. She did not help her cause by tilting her head slightly downward, keeping her tear brimming eyes firmly focused on the floor a few feet ahead.

  The colonel felt her breasts again and tugged at her narrow, trimmed black bush. It was truly a hard decision. He stood, his hand under his chin, the fingers of his other hand nervously tapping on his thigh. He turned to Madam Dupre.

  “I have decided,’ he said. Mary almost feinted. The colonel raised his hand and pointed. “That one,” he said.

  His finger was pointing directly at Karen. She had been right. Her bright orange hair and her milky white, plump breasts had won the day. The general was no poet, much to the colonel’s dismay. For himself, he would have chosen Mary.

  Karen’s eyes widened with shock and panic at the colonel’s selection. She lost control of herself. Gone was all hope of escape. Wherever this man was from, it would be far, far away. “No!” she screamed. She ran for the door, pushing the colonel out of her way. She had no place to go, she knew that. And her punishment was sure to be severe. But all that was within her revolted at the extinguishment of her last forlorn hope of home, of freedom. She grabbed the handle of the door and tugged at it futilely. It was locked, as were all the doors in the slave facility.

  “Oh, God, please, not me, not me!’ she shouted. “I won’t go, you can’t do this!”

  The other girls were taken aback at Karen’s gross breach of slave discipline. They grasped their fingers together tightly, their hands lodged behind their heads as if to give evidence of their non collusion with the rule breaker.

  Madam Dupre had seen it before. Some of the girl’s went docilely, some went tearfully and some tried to flee, to fight off the inevitable. But they all went. Dupre nodded at the guard who stood almost unnoticed in the corner during the colonel�
��s selection. He walked calmly over to where Karen still yanked and tugged at the door handle as if by will she could overcome the locks and steel that held her in. The guard calmly removed his baton from his belt. Karen turned just in time to see him coming. Her mouth had just begun to form the word ‘no’ when the guard pressed the baton to her breast and unleashed a fierce jolt into her body. Karen’s body stiffened and then collapsed. “Ohhhhhhh!’ she cried as the pain flooded through her. The guard pushed the baton down between her splayed legs. She tried to push it away with her hands, but he was able to just press the tip between her upper thighs. ‘Zap!’ Another charge tore through Karen’s body. Her legs shot out and her body lifted a half inch off of the floor. “Ahyaaaaaaaa!” she called out. She raised her hands. “No, no, please, no more, please!” she cried.

  The guard stepped back. “Up!” was all he said.

  Karen scrambled to her feet. Her face was awash with tears. Her mouth was set in a deep frown. “Please don’t make me go, please!” she whined pitifully, looking at Madam Dupre, her rebellion quashed.

  The guard had placed himself behind the distraught girl and, grabbing her arms, locked her wrists behind her. Karen’s knees went weak and he held her up. Madam Dupre went over to a cabinet and retrieved a gag and a hood. The accouterments of bondage were never far away anywhere on Klitzman’s island. As she approached the forlorn girl, Karen looked up and grimaced. She knew that she was done, that her fate was sealed. In a moment, she would be silenced. Her face grimaced in hatred. She looked Madam Dupre in the eye. “I hope you rot in hell!” she cried. It was the last thing she said. The smiling, ironic face of the slave mistress was the last thing she saw.

  The colonel was ecstatic. He had truly made the best selection. The general would enjoy this girl’s spirit. He would make her yell and scream. Her hatred was good. It would make her resistance a long and painful one, and her degradation ever so more enjoyable.