Klitzman's Predators Book One Page 14

  After drying me off, the two pulled me to a chair and pushed me into it. My hood suddenly lifted, the straps on my gag loosened. A stout, middle aged white woman, a cheesy type, sat before me. She wore a simple housedress, her hair, pulled back, shoulder length, brown and dirty. Her face was rough, snarly, a person to fear. Her appearance complimented the prison-like surroundings. She held a bowl and a spoon. I was to be fed. "Now dearie," it was the woman speaking, "we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You can keep quiet, eat your food and we'll all stay friends. Or I can get this stuff inside you the hard way and then have a little fun teaching you some manners. Got me?"

  I nodded. The gag was pulled out. A spoon shoved in. Some kind of mush, bitter, rough. My stomach wanted it, my nose said no. My stomach won.

  As I finished the bowl, I took in my surroundings. A long, narrow basement, ten beds head into the stone wall. Five were full, hooded, naked women, bound as I had been, splayed across them. My mind reeled. Where was I, what was happening? Whatever it was, it was hard and cruel. These people were hard and cruel. Was this my destination? Would I see Nicky here soon? What would these people do to me?

  After the bowl was finished, the woman passed a plastic bottle to my lips. I drank greedily. I don't know how long it had been since I had eaten or drank, how long I had been asleep, but my arms and legs ached, my throat was parched. The liquid, cool and smooth, fruity, tasted like a nectar. I gobbled it down greedily. The bottle was then pulled away. The woman smiled, the man, a dark Hispanic type, leered. What would happen now?

  I was pulled to my feet and returned to my bed. The gag and hood replaced. The man held me as the woman untied my hands and, pulled my arms and torso from side to side stretching me, relieving my cramps. Then on the bed, my legs pulled up, stretched, pulled, massaged. I have to confess that it felt good. My hands then were retied to the wall, my legs stretched apart. I felt a hand, a large rough hand push aside my lower lips, caress the furrow between them. An expert's caress, I felt myself lubricate and a thick finger slide in. I gasped behind the gag. Not this, not now, please, I thought. But my thoughts were getting foggy, my mind numb, I tried to press my knees together feebly.

  A voice shot out, the woman's, “Hey asshole, get your fuckin hand outta there." A man's laugh, the hand withdrew.

  As I lay there, I could hear the other women lifted one at a time from their beds and serviced as I had been. One woman begged and pleaded to be released, tried to bargain, cried. Two loud slaps and then the voice was stifled quickly. The next sounds were her muffled moans as I heard the man and woman struggling to push something down her throat. "Now you'll eat, you bitch", the man speaking. Silence and then whimpering. Eating was not discretionary.

  I don't know how long I was there, how many times I was serviced by one or the other the woman, the man. I lost track of time as the mild tranquillizer in the drink they gave me caused me to fade in and out of consciousness. Every few hours, one of them slipped something into my vagina, a suppository, I supposed, and soon after I was sleepy again. I could see during my little meals that the beds were being filled with another two added, women, girls really, affixed to each.

  Once, when the woman came to service us, she was accompanied by a young girl. The girl wore a collar and bracelets of leather and steel. She was naked, her eyes red from crying. From her tiny breasts and slender build I guessed that she was no more than eighteen. She was gagged, a chain connecting her ankles. Red welts stretched across her small breasts and her thighs. She helped as I was stretched, fed and emptied of wastes, working silently. I could read the pleading in her eyes as she washed me, fed me. In my torpor, I had no sympathy for her. But the image of her delicate frame, crisscrossed by the evidence of her abuse burned into my brain. When would I feel the lash? I began to tremble with fear as I was led back to my bed. Was this what Nicky wanted? Would he be the one to stripe my body with welts? Would I be able to stand it or would I die from terror and pain?

  As I lay in my bed, drifting in and out of drug induced consciousness, I desperately ran through the various things I could do to escape, to get away. Then I imagined being reunited with Nicky, remembered my passion for him, cried, pitying myself and where my foolishness had led. The fear of the unknown. Fear of fear itself. I was physically so weak that overpowering the woman or the man who took care of me was out of the question. My hands and legs were firmly secured. I could not cry out. I was truly helpless, unable to prevent whatever it was that they were going to impose. What were they waiting for?

  Only once was the routine of my servicing varied. A door opened, a man entered. He softly closed it behind him. I heard him walk up to my bed. He sat next to me. I waited for my hands to be unfastened, but something else was in store for me. I felt the man lean over my body. A quiet, gravelly voice, accented, whispered to me, "Oh, my lovely one, how are you today? I think you are wasting away here. Are they saving you up?" A hand drifted across my breasts, my stomach. "How is your little cunt feeling, hey?" The voice continued, "What do you say we have a little party, yes?"

  His hand came to rest on my vagina, his fingers roughly prying the lips apart, pushing in, burning me. I moaned in pain. "I am going to suck your pretty little cunt dry," he said.

  I tensed, pulling at my bonds, flexing my legs, trying to pull them together, to deny him access to my self, my innerness. In vain. I felt his hand float gently down my thigh, his lips press against my stomach, across the forest of hair above my private place, my treasure, my crux of love as Nicky had called it. My thighs were pulled apart by my bonds, lips fastened on me below.

  In spite of myself, I felt a warmth float up from my thighs through my body to my breasts and into my brain. His tongue darted across my clitoris along the outside and inside of the lips, inside deep into me. His hand found my breasts and squeezed them, at first gently, and then harder and harder.

  Unconsciously I began to thrust my hips towards him, wanting and not wanting him. In spite of myself, I felt the familiar feeling rise, my heart beating, drumming in my brain. The tongue was flitting over my clit like the wings of a butterfly. Finally, exhaling a low moan, pulling at the bindings on my hands and feet, I came. As I did, I was exhilarated and forlorn at the same time. Denied my own will, I had nonetheless been brought to the extreme of physical pleasure. No consent asked, none needed.

  The man rose from my thighs, caressing my breasts and belly. "You're a hot one bitch,” he said. “I'll be seeing more of you." He slipped a thumb inside me. "Soon that will be my cock. But for now, I think I will delight myself with one of these other beauties. Thanks for the warm-up."

  He left and I could hear him speaking low to another of the inmates of this little dungeon. A short while and I could hear the sound of rhythmic thumping of flesh on flesh, a low moan, trailing on and off, a female moan, a helpless moan. A few minutes and then silence. The man quietly left. The only sound then was a girl’s whimpering. It took me a few minutes to realize that the whimpering girl was me.

  Finally, the day came when everything was different. My best guess was that I lay there the better part of four days, serviced maybe twice a day. By that time I could no longer put two thoughts together. My mind was befogged by the drugs I was being fed, the torpor of being confined, imprisoned. I could no longer understand the voices as they spoke out of the darkness which constantly surrounded me. I knew something was happening. People were coming in and out, bodies being moved. Soft whimpering, laughter. My turn came.

  I was lifted from the bed and pulled, first to the toilet, then to eat some mush and then out the door. I leapt for joy within myself as I was dragged past the empty bed which had been my prison. The hood was off, the gag still in. My joy was short lived however as I saw as I entered the next room, a row of wooden coffins, three of them filled with the bodies of my sister prisoners. Oh, God, I thought, they're going to kill me. They’re going to bury me alive! I tried to struggle. I looked around for a sympathetic face. Three men and the woman, all deadpan, all businesslike. What had I done to deserve this?

  I didn't have time for further speculation since I was pulled over to an empty coffin. I was then unceremoniously dumped inside. My legs were affixed to clasps on the sides, as were my wrists near my hips. Straps were pulled around my ankles, thighs waist and neck. My gag was pulled out, and a mask pushed on my face, with a mouthpiece which filled my mouth and stilled my attempt to cry out.

  I heard a voice say, “Okay, let’s get these four out and then do the next.”

  As a lid was lowered on top of my coffin, I struggled desperately at my bonds. "Oh, my god," I thought. "Please help me!" This was the worst fear of all, being buried alive. Of all the things that came later, all the pain and humiliation I suffered, all the long days and nights of servitude, this was the lowest, the most terrible moment of all. "No, no, it couldn't be!” my mind raced. "But what was happening? Where was I being taken?"

  I felt myself being lifted, carried up a short set of stairs, along for a ways and then lifted. I felt the coffin being placed down. I could hear nothing outside, not a squeak. I was sure no one could hear any small noise I could make. But it still took all of my strength to restrain myself from calling out, screaming from behind my gag. Consciously, I knew that I couldn't have been kidnapped, confined, coddled and cared for just to be dumped somewhere in a grave. But how could I be sure? And what could I do about it? These questions terrified me. I felt, rather than heard something being laid on top of my box. Another coffin? And then a motor's vibrations, we were in a truck. We began to move.

  An hour, two, later, I don't know, as the mush I had been fed had its soporific effect on me, the truck stopped. After a while, I felt the box above me being lifted, and then mine. Whoever was doing this seemed to be in a hurry as I was tossed around and even dropped at one point. I was lifted again, placed down, slid along a smooth, flat surface, and then, again silence. All this time I had been able to breathe from the tube placed in my mouth which led to the exterior of the box. But now something different was happening. A sour taste entered my mouth, being gently blown in. I fought it, tried to spit out the tube, rolled my head from side to side. In the end, I had no choice but to breathe in the fumes. A momentary shudder went through my system, and then, nothing.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HARRY’S TALE: DOUGIE’S GIRL

  The house was set back from the road about two miles. I sat in the front seat of Draco’s black Lincoln as Rodriguez and the two mau maus followed in the van. We had serious business here today and Draco had brought the heavies.

  I had been in country, so to speak for about six weeks. After we had shipped off the captured women from New York, we moved on to Atlanta. The principal crew came with us. Draco had a back up crew almost everywhere.

  While we were on the hunt, from time to time, we did some other jobs for our fat employer. This was one of them.

  We cruised slowly down the dirt road serving as the driveway. There had been a soft rain about an hour or two before and the dust thrown up by the advancing cars was minimal. About a mile and a half in, Draco pulled the Lincoln to the side of the road and slid it into a small copse of trees. There was just enough room for Rodriguez to pull the van in behind us.

  As we got out, I patted my side in assurance. It was nice to feel the heft of my “enforcer” strapped to my shoulder. Draco didn’t like gunplay but it was best to be prepared. We were there to settle a little “collection” matter and the collectee might have a small objection to our techniques. Our plan was simple: get the dough and then blow the guy away.

  The collectee was a small drug operator who had amassed a small fortune in collectables. It seems one of his loads had been seized by DEA agents a few weeks before and this guy seemed to feel that this cancelled out his obligation to pay. He was already into Klitzman for a couple hundred grand and this load put the debt up to about 300K. Now we could not be sure that this kind of money would be lying about the house, but we had ways of encouraging Mr. Dopester to go get whatever was not at hand. Before we had left the garage, Draco had showed us the photo of Dopester’s girlfriend, a friendly looking blonde, youthful, attractive. She would make excellent collateral. We were coming to collect her.

  Draco motioned for me to follow him as he walked slowly through the woods to make an oblique approach to the house. It was a little after 5 A.M. and buddy boy and his girl, even if they had had an evening of revelry, were certainly fast asleep. We didn’t know for sure that they were there, but if they weren’t, well, we would be back tomorrow.

  The two tall and heavyset enforcers Draco had brought with us were on his regular taxi squad. I had seen one, a few days before, squeeze the life out of a petty second story guy who had tried to pass off some questionable goods to one of Klitzman’s fences downtown. It was lucky that we had the hot sheets from the Atlanta Detective’s Bureau. The problem was that the stuff wasn’t on the list. If it wasn’t on the list it meant that it wasn’t stolen. If it wasn’t stolen, then our boy was setting us up. His body had been found by the lieutenant in charge of the investigation in his trunk when he went to fix a flat tire. Surprise!

  The light was just beginning to show in the east and Draco signaled us to get moving. Slowly and quietly we stalked the house. There was a small rise before the walkway that led to the front door. As we reached the top of the rise, Draco signaled mau mau one, the smaller of the two, if smaller was the right word, to advance to the side of the house where the alarm system could be overcome. It seems that every system devised by human ingenuity can be overcome with more ingenuity. The mau mau, his nom de guerre was actually Remo, had a small black box which would override the signal from the alarm. At alarm central, the signal would continue to run smooth and clear.

  We gave Remo about five minutes to complete his work. Draco then signaled Genda, the other mau mau, to ease around the other side to cover the back of the house. He would enter the house through the patio door. We would approach the front and Remo would slide in the basement. A three way assault.

  Draco and I strolled nonchalantly up the walkway. With the alarms off, and the phones cut, there was no need for stealth. I had imagined that we would jimmy the front door and surprise little missy and the bad boy at rest, but Draco had other ideas. He rang the bell!

  I looked at him like he was crazy, but he just shrugged. Nothing happened for a minute or so and so he rang the bell again. A few moments later I could see through the curtained window in the door that someone was approaching. Although I couldn’t make out any features, it seemed that it was our target, the dopester’s squeeze.

  Pushing the curtain aside, she peered out of the doorway window. Draco smiled and pulled out a facsimile of a FBI badge. Nice to have that kind of thing isn’t it?

  Seeing the badge, the girl did what most red blooded Americans would do when a cop came to their door, she opened it. Since she had to know dopester’s means of support, she probably believed that the house was clean. In any case, since we were cops, or so she thought, we would probably bust our way in anyway. So why not open up and see what the problem was?

  Sleepy eyed, the girl’s face poked out from behind the door and surveyed us. She had close cropped blonde hair and her face was round and cute with a dainty little nose. She led off with the standard phraseology.

  “What do you want?”

  “A few questions, ma’m. Are you Amy Davidson?”

  “Yes.”

  “May we come in?”

  “No.”

  “Can you step outside?”

  “No.”

  “Is Mr. Martin home?”

  “No.”

  The girl’s tone was getting petulant. Well, that would be taken care of shortly.

  “Listen, you’ve got a lot of nerve waking me up at five o’clock in the morning to ask me some stupid questions,” she said. “Now, if you don’t have a warrant, I’m going back to bed.”

  “Well, I do have something.” Draco replied as he reached into his inside coat pocket. The girl’s eyes went to Draco’s hand as he reached, but, the hand being quicker than the eye, a split second later Draco’s switchblade knife was under her chin, its point making a little indentation, just enough to be noticed. It was noticed.

  The girl stepped back quickly trying to swing the door shut. It was too late as I had grabbed the door handle and held it firmly. Draco jumped into the house, following the girl and pressing forward with his blade. The girl’s head was tilted backwards as she attempted to relieve the pressure of the knife point under her chin. She was about to turn and run when she backed up against Remo. It was like hitting a brick wall.

  “Now, now, Ms. Davidson, don’t get all out of joint,” Draco told her. “We’re friends of Mr. Martin. Business partners. We’re just here to collect a little debt he owes us. I know you can be helpful. What do you think?”

  The girl’s eyes were wide with terror and surprise. Remo had fastened his hands on her shoulders and then slid down her arms to imprison her wrists. He drew them behind her back.

  “P-p-p, please, don’t hurt me, please.” Her voice trembled.

  “Oh, we’re not going to hurt you Amy, I may call you Amy, mayn’t I? I think that you will cooperate with us, now won’t you?”

  “Y-y-yes,” she stuttered.

  “Good. Now let’s step back into the house and we can have our little talk.”

  The girl backed up, guided by Remo behind her and encouraged by the tip of Draco’s knife. I closed the door behind me and checked for any busybodies through the window. None.

  The foyer led into a short hallway. To our right was a small set of steps that led down into a large den-like room. Furnished in a colonial style, the room had a large fireplace at one end and large comfy chairs along the wall. There was a long, low wooden table, a refinished ship’s hatch, gleaming with polished, brass handles fixed in the wood in each corner. A large beam crossed the room at the ceiling. A couch backed up against the large picture window which looked out into the front yard. With an ornate wooden frame, large overstuffed pillows and a delicate blue fabric, it looked comfy indeed. Remo pulled the girl into the center of the room and then stepped away from her. Draco relieved the pressure of the knife from her chin and let her take a step back.

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