Klitzman's Empire (The Klitzman Stories Book 2) Page 3

  It seemed that she had contacted the other girl, Lois Gardner, a reporter, on the recommendation of her agency to serve as a cover for her surreptitious activities. Her superiors had learned that a trafficking network in Colombia was in contact with a network in Venezuela. Her job was to follow it up. If, as the National Security Council suspected, the contact was illicit within either organization, that knowledge could serve as a lever to squeeze information from the traitor. The rumors had led her to the little village in which Morianos held sway. The two women were picked up by Morianos’ men before they had a chance to ask any questions. She intended to purchase an asset, an informer, within the village to find out where the leak from the Venezuelan organization was. She suspected that it was from the very top.

  What it meant was that the NSC believed that Morianos was making side deals for his own benefit with the boys from Colombia. This would be a big no, no.

  The girl’s questioning went on for at least an hour. Rukimo went over her story several times. Three times he asked her if she knew me or of me. Each time she denied it. She was asked to name her contact in Caracas. After a long hesitation, and silence throughout the room so thick you could cut it with a knife, she named an Escobar Valencia. After that she named DEA agents in Colombia, Panama, Peru, the names of her superiors, the method by which she was to contact her superiors, her code name, her mother’s maiden name and every little bit of information that Rukimo asked.

  Rukimo finally sat back. “Get me an orange juice, Harry,” he told me. I got two. One for him and one for me. The girl’s story exonerated me completely. It did seem to put old Morianos in the soup, however. Ironically, he may have done himself in when he picked up the two “gringas” snooping around the other day. He was gleeful to pillage their belongings, pilfer their Rolex watches, pocket their cash. I hoped he was enjoying it. I expected we would see him on the island soon.

  The small man who had come in with Rukimo had sat patiently throughout the interrogation. He got up now and started fiddling with his equipment. He drew a small leather band around the girl’s chest just below her breasts and pulled it tight. It had little rounded metal studs on its bottom. He snapped alligator clips on Marcy’s nipples. She was looking at him nervously. Something was up. When he pulled a board from the middle seat of the chair on which the girl sat, exposing her sex and rear, the girl started to fidget and whine.

  “Please, please, I’ve told you everything. I’ll do anything you say. Please don’t hurt me again, please.”

  Rukimo was finishing off his bottle of orange juice.

  “Ms. McMahon, I’m sure you understand that we need to have assurances that you’ve told us everything you know, don’t you?” he asked her.

  “I’ve told you everything!” she screamed. “Please! Please! Don’t do this, please!”

  I’m sure that she didn’t know exactly what the little man had planned for her. I wasn’t sure myself, although it didn’t look good.

  The little man kept up at his work. Bands were fastened around the girl’s thighs. Straps went around her feet. The thigh straps had the small metal nodules on them, like the chest strap. The foot straps had one large one centered under the foot. I saw the small man take a long, thick, silver probe from a box on his cart and apply a lubricant gel to it. The girl watched him with macabre fascination. When he bent down under her chair to push it into her sex, she screamed.

  “No, no, don’t do this,” she whined. “I swear I’ve told you everything! Oh, God, please, please!”

  Rukimo leaned over and patted her head. “We’ll see,” was all he said.

  The little man produced another silver probe, thinner and shorter than the other. He went behind the seat. I could see the girl’s body flinch as he seated it home in her rectum. Small belts held the probes tightly in her orifices.

  Rukimo ordered me to reinsert her gag. The girl looked at him wide eyed. “Oh, please, how can I tell you anything if I can’t speak?” she asked desperately, tears flowing down her face. She had a point.

  She tried to resist the insertion of the gag into her mouth. Rukimo leaned over and whispered to her menacingly. “Don’t make it worse, Ms. McMahon.” The girl meekly opened her lips, tears streaming down her face, and I guided the gag home. When I finished buckling the gag in place behind her head, I stood back. I could hear her hopeless, muffled sobs. The little man finished fastening Marion tightly into the chair, straps going over her shoulders and across her upper chest. Wires seemed to spring out from everywhere all over her body. One final wire was attached by an alligator clip to her tiny pleasure bud. She squirmed and her eyes cringed as the man affixed it. He sat in his chair next to his cart and signaled to Rukimo that all was in readiness.

  Rukimo moved his chair back so that he could get a better view. He was next to me and he placed his heavy arm over my shoulder. “I hope that this girl has nothing more to say, don’t you Harry?” he asked me.

  “It means nothing to me, Mr. Rukimo,” I answered.

  “Are you sure, Harry?” he prodded me.

  “I don’t know nothing about no DEA, no NSC, no Colombian gangsters, nothing, Mr. Rukimo. I’m just a small time hood from the streets of New Jersey.”

  “I’m glad, Harry, because I like you.”

  Rukimo nodded to the tech guy and he flipped a switch. “This’ll take about twenty minutes, Harry,” Rukimo told me. “It’s all on automatic. She’ll be dancing to the current in a few seconds, mildly at first, and then, whammo!”

  The girl looked at Rukimo miserably. As predicted, there was a slight shifting of her position in the chair, a twisting of her torso. She moaned and tried to squeeze her legs together. Her thighs started to twitch. And then it hit. There were little lights on the various straps and belts. I saw the strap around her upper chest light up and she threw her back against the chair, moaning loudly. The light attached to the invader to her pussy lit and she jumped as if to break the straps holding her to the chair, screaming. Her feet danced as she moaned in agony when the light to her foot straps lit. I could not see the light attached to the probe that had been inserted into her rear aperture, but I guessed that it had come alive when I saw her pitch forwards, her eyes squeezed shut, and no other lights on.

  It was strange to sit silently and watch the girl put through her agonizing paces. No one said anything, we just watched. The machine’s program gave her some brief respites from agony. During these periods she would try and plead and beg from behind her gag. When she felt the tingle of the electricity begin to flow through her once more, she would cry out muffled ‘no’s’ and shake her body futilely.

  I watched the girl’s performance, entranced. I could not believe that a person could sustain such a constant stream of agony and abuse. My cock had hardened during the girl’s questioning. The sight and sounds of such an abject and supplicant female triggered a deep, dark part of my psyche; and then to watch her squirm and jolt in agony? I knew that I should be appalled. I knew that I should protest, at least mentally, at her cruel and barbarous treatment. But I felt my juices flowing. I was mesmerized by her bouncing and swaying breasts as she reacted to one or another of the jolts sent through her. I imagined her agonized mouth, now covered by the leather gag, pursed around my rock hard prick. This was a girl who, henceforth, would do anything anyone told her to do. She would abase herself daily, every hour, every minute, if that was what was commanded. She would have nothing of herself left but the need to avoid pain.

  With one long, intensely painful jolt, the program came to an end. At first, the girl could not comprehend that her agony had ceased. When she realized that she had endured and that her ordeal was, at least temporarily, at an end, she slouched in her bindings and cried. The little man quickly removed his toys from her body. Rukimo removed the gag. He gave her a few minutes to regain her composure. “Get me another orange juice, will you, Harry,” he asked me. I got him one and another for myself. I proffered bottles to the little man and the guard, who had sat wordlessl
y in the corner the whole time. Both shook their heads.

  Rukimo sucked the juice down, smacking his lips when he was done. He saw that the girl was staring at him, abysmal fright in her eyes. She had to be wondering what else this man would do to her. Rukimo dragged his chair back over to her. “Now, Ms. McMahon, is there anything else you would like to tell me? Convince me that you don’t.”

  The girl’s face crumbled. “I swear to you I’ve nothing else to tell! I’ve told you everything! Oh, God, please don’t hurt me anymore! I’m not lying, I swear to you by all that is holy, I swear!” She was a picture of abject misery. There could be no question in her mind that if Rukimo had any doubt as to her truthfulness, longer, more intense agony would follow.

  Rukimo patted her on the head. “I believe you,” he said.

  “Thank you, oh God, thank you, thank you,” the girl cried. I had never seen a more miserable specimen of a human being. This girl was an empty shell. Everything had been taken from her. She was telling the truth all right.

  “And now I want to talk a little bit about your future, Ms. McMahon,” Rukimo said. The girl’s head perked up.

  “Please don’t do anything to me, please,” she whined. “I’ll do anything you ask, please.”

  “All right, Ms. McMahon,” Rukimo said. “But first we have to set down some new rules for you, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” replied the girl eagerly.

  “No more Marion McMahon. She’s gone. You don’t know her anymore, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” she responded.

  “And you will have to stay here on our little island and never go home, you understand?”

  “Anything, I’ll do anything,” she called out.

  “Okay. From here on in you are a slave. You are the property of Mr. Klitzman. Do you remember that little brand that you got a couple of days ago?” It was only yesterday, but I bet that there was no way that she could figure that out.

  The girl nodded.

  “Well, that’s his brand. You are his property. He can do with you anything that he wants. Okay?”

  “Yes, yes,” she replied almost feverishly. “I’ll be his slave, I’ll do anything he says.”

  “Mostly he wants you to give your body to his friends and his guests. Will you do that?”

  “Yes, I will,” the girl said. Her face was in a pitiful grimace. She knew that the promises that she was making were real. That they were binding; to refuse ‘requests’ meant only pain or death.

  “I’m going to release you from your chair. I want you to go over to Harry here and suck his prick. You remember Harry, don’t you?”

  She looked up at me. She nodded. “I’ll do it, anything.”

  Rukimo and the little man released her bindings. Rukimo pulled her up by the ring in her collar. He brought her to her knees in front of me and held her head up. “Now, one more time, and I want you to tell me the truth, slave. Is there anything that you want to tell me about Harry?”

  She looked at me, startled. She seemed as if she was drawing deep inside herself for some distant memory. She started to cry again. “I don’t know anything about Harry,” she whined. “I swear I don’t. If I did, I’d tell you, I swear it!”

  Rukimo looked at me. “Good news, Harry?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. He knew and I knew that if there were anything at all that this girl knew about me she would have given it up without any thought. It was a neat trick, to let her lower he guard and then spring the ultimate question. As far as I was concerned, she gave the right answer.

  “Okay, now give Harry a nice blow job. He’s been very patient and needs to relax.”

  The slave girl crawled to me slowly. When she got between my knees, she placed her hands on the edges of my robe and looked up for permission to open it. I nodded. As she approached my already stiff cock, her lips were trembling, her hands were shaking. I placed my hand on the back of her head and gently guided her forward. I felt her hot breath on my tool and then her steamy lips encompass me. Rukimo was right. I had been on a razor’s edge. All of a sudden, all of the tension fled me. I let the warm mouth send a flow of relief throughout my body.

  The girl took seriously her task. She flicked her tongue under the glans of my prick while caressing my aching sac with her hand. I groaned in pleasure. I was conscious of all eyes on me and my enjoyment of the new slave’s mouth, but I didn’t care. Public sex was becoming second nature to me. Amidst my befogged brain, clouded by the waves of exciting sensation that flowed through me, I was aware that this was one last test. My callous use of this tortured girl would be one more thing on my side of the equation. I let the girl bob her head up and down over my stiff and aching rod. I grabbed her head and started to thrust my hips into her, taking command, serving my need.

  The slave girl acquiesced in my command, tightening her lips around my shaft, dragging her tongue down its length at each stroke. This woman had died here today and been reborn a whorish slave. She would serve the whims of Klitzman’s guests with all of the energy and devotion that she could bring to bear. For her, the past was dead.

  As I continued to pump my burning cock into the girl’s mouth, I felt my juices begin to rise. She must have sensed my impending climax since her hands seized the base of my cock and she began to fuck me with her mouth. I dug my hands into her hair as my crisis came upon me. “Auggggggh!” I yelled as I shot a stream of hot cum into her mouth. “Auggggh!” I cried again as my cock throbbed and jerked inside her, my whole body tensing with each spasm, waves of pleasure shooting through me. As my spasms subsided, the girl lapped up every drop of my discharge hungrily. I pushed her head gently off of my sensitized tool. She looked over at Rukimo nervously for approval.

  “Good girl!” he complimented her. “And now I’m going to have you brought over to my house and get you cleaned up. Later, when I come home, I’ll plow your little furrow with my big black cock, okay?”

  The girl gratefully nodded her head. She would do anything to please her torturer. “That’s ‘yes master’,” Rukimo prodded her.

  “Yes, master,” she said dutifully.

  Rukimo barked a command to his guard in African. He then clapped me on the shoulder and got up. “I understand that you’re going to go a few rounds with Thorndike this afternoon. Is this true, Harry?”

  I told him that it was.

  “Then you’ve got more courage than brains,” Rukimo replied. “Just don’t get yourself killed, Harry, we need you.”

  With that, he opened the door to the little torture chamber and invited me out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TWO SISTERS SHOP FOR TROUBLE

  Inge and Ilse Stevenson were about as unalike as twin sisters could be. Inge was the rough and ready one. She had played women’s football (soccer to us Americans), ran a marathon, had sex first, drank like a stevedore. Ilse was the quiet, romantic type. She wrote poetry, liked long walks, tended the family’s flower garden. She had had a lover too, but just one, and he was waiting for Ilse to return to Sweden. She had promised to move in with him when she returned from her trip with Inge.

  Inge liked to travel. She had heard that the South African beaches were among the best in the world and decided to spend two weeks of her summer vacation there. One of her drinking buddies, Rietta, had planned to go with her, but had broken her leg in the victory over Svenborg. As Inge watched Rietta being carried off of the playing field, she saw her vacation plans go down the tubes.

  However, Inge was not one to give up so readily. Ilse was off from school too. She was a senior at the University of Stockholm where she was studying music. Inge attended a local college where she studied mostly beer and boys.

  So Inge pestered Ilse to come with her. She would feel too slutty going by herself. Cruising for boys in pairs was always better.

  Ilse reluctantly agreed. They bought tickets to a charter that landed in Pretoria. They then made their way to the coast of Natal, where the great beaches were. They had both bought brand new bikinis for the trip
designed to show off their ample curves and their generous breasts. Ilse laid about, mostly just trying to avoid sun burn and the incessant come-ons from the pretty beach boys. Inge went wild, learning to surf, partying, getting laid. The original charter had been for two weeks, but Ilse could only stay ten days due to her school schedule. Inge reluctantly agreed to shorten the trip, but they had to book seats on a special flight that had a four hour layover in a country called Bowanda. Neither of the 22 year old girls had ever heard of it or its capital city, Abundu.

  After the plane touched down in Abundu, the girls were given the option of staying on the plane or waiting in the terminal. The prospect of the long flight to Frankfurt where they would change to a plane for Stockholm was daunting and so even Ilse agreed that they should wait in the terminal guest lounge.

  Not that there was much of a lounge. Three rows of connected plastic chairs and a broken soda machine was it. Inge convinced Ilse to go tour the rest of the terminal. There were standard gift shops, a bar, a MacDonald’s, of all things, and a little curio shop. Ilse was drawn to the curio shop. She pleaded with Inge to go in and take a look at the small native statuettes. Inge, pouting, agreed. Inside was a short, roly poly native woman. She sat on a rocking chair in the corner of the shop.

  “Helpja?” she said in a wizened but merry voice.

  “Just looking,” Ilse said in English.

  Inge wandered among the shelves. There were colorful, painted clay statuettes of native villagers, real and mythical jungle creatures and warriors. One set of shelves contained images of some native demons and gods. Inge looked at one with a large, clay penis attached.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” she exclaimed. “Look at this, Ilse. A statue with a prick!”

  Ilse looked at it with disdain. She had been looking at a set of musicians playing a drum, a flute and a stringed instrument that looked like a lyre. It looked very pricey.

  “How much is this?” Inge said, holding up the sex god.