Klitzman's Empire (The Klitzman Stories Book 2) Page 2

  As soon as I was done eating, Anthony urged me on to Rukimo’s lair. We entered the above ground portal and took the elevator down. Anthony left me off there and as the elevator door closed I wondered whether I would ever see daylight again.

  A large, black robed guard was awaiting me. He motioned for me to follow him and he led me down the white walled corridor until we reached a steel door. He rang the buzzer on the outside of the door and a slot opened. I could see another black skinned guard peer out, nod and then I heard the bolt on the door being thrown open. The original guard stepped aside and indicated that I was to proceed alone. I gave him a little nod and stepped in.

  Yesterday, I had been shown the holding cells for girls in training. This corridor contained the actual training rooms. The rooms were each about 25’ x 30’ and there were three on each side. They had full length mirrored walls on three sides and a glass wall facing the corridor. It was actually a two way mirror. Anyone in the hall could watch the goings on in the training room, but from inside, all that was seen was another mirrored wall.

  Since the guard who had admitted me to the corridor did not indicate otherwise, I took it that I was to await a summons before proceeding further. I took the time to observe some of the training activity.

  All of the girls wore the standard leather collars around their necks and bracelets around their wrists and ankles. In the first room, four gagged, women knelt in a semicircle facing me. Before them, a fifth girl knelt, her forehead touching the floor. Behind her was a huge black guard, buck naked, easing his long, thick, black cock into the small hole between her spread buttocks. Her torso was perpendicular to the line of women and her anguished face was turned towards me. I could see her grimacing as the black log was pushed deeply into her bowels. Her fine set of plump breasts was crushed against her knees.

  I moved on to the next room. The sole female occupant was on her knees servicing one of the tall, broad shouldered African guards. Her hands were locked behind her and she was blindfolded. Two more guards reclined languidly in easy chairs, undoubtedly awaiting their turn. The guard getting the bj was holding the slave girl’s chestnut ponytail in his hand and slowly easing her head up and down on his rigid pole. I watched as her mouth descended to the base of his prick. Her hands clenched each time the cock was pressed deep into her throat. She was learning to throat fuck.

  I was about to cross over to the other side of the hallway to see what activities those rooms contained when the door at the end of the corridor opened. A guard waived me towards him. As I passed through the door, I was in another long, white corridor. The rug, like the rugs in the other corridors was a bright red. There were several doorways along the hall, each with steel doors and little windows for looking in. I didn’t get a chance to see what they contained. The guard led me to the fourth doorway on the left and used a key to open it. I was given to understand that I was to enter. The guard shut the door behind me.

  It was a small room, about 10’ by 15’. There were several cushioned, straight backed chairs strewed randomly about. The walls were white and the floor was of thick, red carpeting. A large wooden chair sat in the middle of the room. It was on a small platform that set it about 6 inches above the floor. There were straps along its arms and legs and along the back and sides. An adjustable headrest was atop the chair’s back. In the corner of the room was a small refrigerator and I took out a cold bottle of fruit juice to moisten my dry mouth and throat. I wondered if I would be sitting in the chair shortly. It was obviously designed to facilitate some kind of acute discomfort.

  After a few moments, the door opened again and a naked, hooded female was led into the room. I recognized the style of hood from the day before. It not only kept the victim gagged and blinded, but there were small battery powered speakers that lodged in the ears and produced white noise. It produced an almost total sensory deprivation.

  The girl’s body was crisscrossed with evidence of repeated lashings. Red lines covered her breasts and thighs, her back and her belly. Her arms were locked behind her. Auburn hair peaked out from under the hood. She was the right size and shape to be the woman Delia. If so, she had been obviously put in here alone with me to increase my sense of apprehension, that is, if I had any reason to be apprehensive.

  The girl stood still for several minutes. She had no way of telling if she were alone. A wrong movement could precipitate a painful response. Her head rolled back and forth as she stood there. I could hear a muffled plea from inside the hood. Cautiously, she stepped forwards, gingerly placing one foot several inches in front of the other. She bumped against the wooden chair on its pedestal and jerked her body back. Stepping slightly to her left, she inched forwards until she reached the wall. Having done so, she turned left and stopped only when she had reached the corner. Having defined the room to some extent, she let her body slide down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, the corner to her back, her long legs drawn up against her chest. She rested her hooded head on her knees and started to sob.

  I took a seat in one of the straight back chairs and awaited developments. I tried to imagine what the last 24 hours must have been like for the woman who sat naked, forlorn and broken in the corner of the room. I had watched as the cursive “k” had been burned into her body. She had been gagged and hooded then. She had been beaten and abused, all without knowing by whom or for what reason. She had no clue to her ultimate fate and probably had no concept of how long she had been a sightless, soundless prisoner. The only real sensations she had been permitted were the cruel lashes that had marred her body and the anonymous and unrelenting pricks that had filled her.

  It wasn’t long before the door opened again. In walked the mountainous black man I knew as Rukimo. He stood at least four inches taller than me and had broad, muscular shoulders. He reached out one of his large, meaty paws and shook my hand.

  “Harry,” he said in his deep melodious voice, “so sorry to keep you waiting. Have you amused yourself?” He nodded at the girl in the corner.

  “No,” I replied. “I figured I would wait for you.”

  “Good choice, Harry,” Rukimo replied somewhat menacingly. I guessed that any attempt on my part to tamper with the girl Delia before her interrogation would have been taken as a sign of complicity with her. Because I had no idea whether she was an agent or not, whether she was supposed to be my contact, I could not predict what result her upcoming torment would produce. My palms sweated nervously.

  The girl had noted the entry of Rukimo into the room, probably by the vibrations on the wall from the opening and closing of the door. Her head bobbed to and fro expectantly. So far, virtually every contact she had had with another human being since her induction here had probably been fraught with terror and pain. She would be anticipating more. My guess was that she was right.

  Another black skinned man, garbed in the standard security black robe and somewhat smaller in stature than Rukimo and his ubiquitous giant guards, had followed Rukimo into the room. He was pushing a cart on which sat some kind of electrical equipment. He nodded ‘hello’ to me and proceeded to wheel the cart over next to the wooden chair in the middle of the room. He said nothing as he began to run wires to various points on the chair.

  “Harry,” Rukimo said to me, “help me get the girl up into her chair. We are going to learn a few things about our little Delia Fremont, news photographer.”

  The girl must have sensed us coming closer to her because her body stiffened and her legs tried to push herself deeper into the corner. She gave out a muffled moan as we grabbed her arms and lifted her to her feet. Her body went limp and it was some job to drag her over to the chair. Her skin was soft and covered with a sheen of sweat, undoubtedly brought on by fear. I resisted the urge to caress one of her plump breasts that swayed and jiggled so enticingly as Rukimo and I manhandled her body.

  “Hold her up, Harry,” Rukimo instructed me.

  I held the girl’s arms, her torso facing me. She leaned into me, her breasts press
ing into my chest, her head lolling on my shoulder. She had physically surrendered to her fate. There was not an ounce of struggle left in her.

  Rukimo was unlocking the girl’s wrist bracelets from behind her. When he was done, we turned the girl and sat her in the chair. Rukimo fastened the bracelets to the arm of the chair. He instructed me to fasten her ankle bracelets to the legs. When I arose, he was standing a few feet from the girl, taking in her shivering form.

  “Well, Harry, I think Ms. Fremont, or should I say the former Ms. Fremont, is ready to talk. Wouldn’t you?”

  I nodded, staring at what might be the engine of my own destruction. Unnoticed, while Rukimo and I were moving the girl, one of Rukimo’s black robed henchmen had entered the room. He stood silently in the corner. If the girl dimed me out, I was doomed.

  The small man who had entered the room with Rukimo had plugged his electronics into a wall socket. He gave a gesture to Rukimo that signaled his readiness. Rukimo smiled. “Harry,” he said, “unbuckle Ms. Fremont’s hood, please, and take out her gag. It’s time she saw the light of day.”

  I circled behind the girl and unfastened the clips that held the bottom of the hood locked to the girl’s leather collar. The gag had to come off first since it lay partially over the hood around her mouth. I consisted of a long, thick, wad of leather and a wide base that covered the girl’s lower chin and mouth. Then, with some effort, I was able to slip the close fitting hood up over her head. I moved around front to see what two days of sensory deprivation had wrought.

  It was Delia, all right. On the night of my arrival at Morianos’ camp in the Venezuelan jungle, she had been dangling from a ceiling beam when I entered Morianos’ cabin. Morianos had offered her to me as he had led her fellow captive to his bed for a night of brutal assaults. I had refrained from touching her out of fear that I would be breaking some taboo of my new boss to be, Klitzman. I had limited myself to jacking off on her tummy. Just the sight of her naked breasts and her fur covered pussy was enough to get me rock hard. It was my first orgasm in the presence of a woman in almost four years. Since then, I had gotten my dick wet quite a number of times. But the sight of her still lit my fire. They say you never forget your first girl.

  Delia’s eyes were blinking rapidly, trying to adjust themselves to the sudden appearance of light. Her hair was all matted and the skin of her face blotchy from so long under the leather hood. When her eyesight seemed to be adjusted, her eyes widened and flitted around the room, taking in her surroundings. I thought I saw a brief moment of recognition from her as her eyes flitted over my features. I was sure that Rukimo noticed it.

  But it was the domineering figure of Rukimo that caught her main attention. He was so clearly in charge that she naturally looked up to him to see what terrible torture she would soon experience. Rukimo grabbed a chair and sat down next to her, facing her. He motioned for me to sit in front of her and so I did.

  “Hello, Delia,” he said in a soothing lilt. “Are you wide awake?”

  The girl’s face cringed at the sounding of her name. She tried to shrink into the chair in which she sat. Her lips were shaking and a tear ran down her cheek.

  “I asked you a question, Delia,” Rukimo continued in his friendliest voice. “Don’t be impolite. Please, let me know, are you awake?”

  The girl nodded her head slightly.

  “Good,” Rukimo responded. “Now, please answer me ‘yes’ or ‘no’, is your name Delia Fremont?”

  Delia nodded her head again, her eyes darting back and forth, wary of a blow.

  “You must speak, Delia, or I will have to put the hood back on you until you’re ready to talk to me. You don’t want that Delia, do you?”

  The tension in the room was palpable. I could hear the legs of my chair creak as I shifted my weight. The girl’s face twisted into a tortured grimace and she shook her head ‘no’. Tears were flowing freely down her face.

  “Then tell me, ‘yes’ or ‘no’, is your name Delia Fremont?”

  It was as if the use of speech was excruciatingly painful for the girl. Her lips twisted, her eyes looked away from the terrifying visage of the huge, fearsome black man who was questioning her. In a small, scratchy voice, she uttered, “Yes.”

  Undoubtedly, during those brief periods when her gag had been removed to give her something to drink, or to make her mouth available for a cock, she had tried to enunciate some protest or question. Equally undoubtedly she had been beaten viciously for the attempt at communication. Now, she had to learn to speak all over again.

  The, as yet, brief interrogation of the girl had caused her great stress. Her legs were shaking and her arms were straining at their bonds. She kept glancing over at me for some reason. “Christ!’ I thought. “She’s putting me right in the crapper!”

  “Would you like something to drink Ms. Fremont?” Rukimo asked her politely.

  She nodded her head again, slightly.

  “We only respond to spoken words here Ms. Fremont. Please say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

  With great strain, the girl eked out another ‘yes’.

  “Harry, would you please get Ms. Fremont an orange juice?” Rukimo asked me. I retrieved one from the cooler and handed it to the large black man. The 7 ounce bottle seemed like a toy in his hand. He opened it and proffered it to the girl’s trembling lips.

  “Please drink, Ms. Fremont,” he told the girl. “Take a long, cool drink.”

  The girl’s mouth opened slowly and she allowed the tip of the bottle to enter. Rukimo poured a little bit on her tongue. She swallowed it and a wave of relief passed over her face. Her lips reached out for another sip.

  “Do you want more, Ms. Fremont?” Rukimo asked her, holding the bottle away from her. “You’re going to have to ask for it. Say, ‘Please may I have more?”

  The girl’s tongue emerged from her mouth, licking her lips. She looked at me and then back at Rukimo. “May I have more, please?” she whispered hoarsely.

  “Certainly, Ms. Fremont, certainly,” Rukimo answered. He put the bottle to the girl’s lips and let her drink greedily. She took all seven ounces.

  “Feel better, Ms. Fremont?” Rukimo asked her as he handed the empty bottle back to me.

  “Y-yes” the girl answered tentatively. Although Rukimo had been almost avuncular to the girl in his approach, she had to know that she wasn’t in this room, sitting in a special chair, so that she could enjoy a polite chat and a drink of orange juice. Now that the preliminaries were out of the way, the real thing was coming.

  “Now, Ms. Fremont, my name is Rukimo and I’m going to ask you some questions. I want you to be totally truthful. We already know almost everything about you and if you lie to us we’ll be aware of that right away. Can you be truthful, Ms. Fremont?”

  Delia’s eyes seemed to darken. He body, which had relaxed as a result of the refreshment, tightened again. I could see her mind at work in her face. She kept looking at me. “Dammit!” I thought.

  For the first time the girl managed a full sentence. She was on the verge of a renewed flow of tears. Her voice was more of a whine than actual speech. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” she said, her eyes beseeching Rukimo. “Please don’t hurt me anymore,” she added plaintively.

  “Your name isn’t really Delia Fremont, is it?” the menacing African asked her. Rukimo’s tone had gotten somewhat harsher. There was a blade of steel in his voice.

  “N-no,” the girl answered, her face a mask of fright.

  “What is your real name?”

  “My real name is Marion McMahon,” she answered. Her whole body was trembling. Her eyes darted back and forth.

  “And you’re not really a press photographer, are you?”

  “N-no,” she stuttered.

  “Who do you work for then, Ms. McMahon?

  I could see the hands of the girl once known as Delia writhing and twisting at her bonds. She cringed in her chair as if she wanted to disappear, which I was sure that she really did want to do
. There are moments in our lives when our physical presence becomes a matter of supreme inconvenience. Like when your old man caught you slipping a twenty out of his wallet, or when the boys from the next street over caught you cutting through their block to get to school. At times like that you want to abandon your physical being, let your body take care of itself. You want to be a million miles away. I was sure that this was what Ms. Marion McMahon was feeling now.

  The woman hesitated. She was no spring chicken, being at least 25 or 26 years old, an old lady by the island’s standards. But she looked all of twelve or thirteen as she tried to force out the words that would condemn her. She knew she would tell eventually. She had experienced a small measure of what terrors could be inflicted on her physical and mental selves. But it was difficult to cross the line of no return no matter how certain you were that the line would be crossed in any case.

  The girl Marcy mumbled a few letters. Her voice was as low as it could go without being entirely inaudible.

  “Please repeat yourself, Ms. McMahon,” Rukimo ordered sternly. “Louder this time and more clearly!”

  “DEA!” the girl blurted out. “I work for the DEA!” Tears were flowing freely down her face. She looked like she had abandoned all hope of redemption. At the same time, it was if a dam had broken. The terrible secret was out.

  “Tell me more, Ms. McMahon,” Rukimo instructed her.

  “I’m on, I mean I was on, assignment to the National Security Council. I was assigned to follow a lead in Venezuela on some cocaine trafficking.”

  The girl’s voice, in spite of her terror, had assumed an almost normal tone. It was like she was being debriefed by a superior. Businesslike, professional.