Slaver's Dozen (The Klitzman Stories) Read online

  She felt Rukimo’s strong hand holding her body in place, as he probed her loins with his resurrected cock, seeking entrance to her womb. She felt the prick’s head press past her labia and pierce her moistened slit. “Ugggggh!” she cried from behind her gag in protest and despair as she felt the cock sink deeply within her. Her face was pressed down onto the soft, padded cover of the stool and she shut her eyes to block out the world around her. She could feel Rukimo’s sword of flesh rasp against the apex of her sex, stroking the little bud, drawing heat and blood to her loins.

  The cock was relentless as it sawed into her, back and forth. It seemed to take forever as Rukimo slowly took his pleasure. Suddenly, she felt a hand in her hair and her head pulled back. “Look, slut,” Rukimo ordered her. “See the fire. It’s getting hotter and hotter,” he told her, his voice harsh and cruel. “Soon the branding iron will glow red and you’ll feel its nasty bite.”

  Kit could not help but watch the glowing embers. At the same time, she could not help the fire growing in her loins. She screamed and cried as the cock ploughed her furrow mercilessly. Her loins grew hotter and hotter; her mind began to fog with the sensation of unwanted pleasure. Like the pulling of a trigger, her orgasm came, sending jolt after jolt through her body. Her whole world centered on the prick that relentlessly agitated her pulsing pussy. When the throbs of ecstasy diminished and her mind began to clear, she could see the fiery plinth before her, the instrument of her torture beginning to glow a bright red.

  But Rukimo’s cock continued its assault on her womb. Again, she felt her passion rising. Again she felt the tell tale fullness in her loins as she began to climax once more. This time Rukimo came too, pounding hard against the back of the moaning girl’s thighs, groaning with exquisite pleasure. His seed filled her hot tunnel and she unconsciously pressed her thighs close against him all the better to receive it. She could feel the pulsing of his muscle within her. She moaned and cried, knowing full well that Rukimo’s climax presaged the cruel burning of her flesh.

  The mountainous man eased his tool from Kit’s sheath. “Are you ready, whore, to be marked as a slave?” he taunted her. As Rukimo stood, the other men began to apply strong, leather straps around her legs and torso. She felt herself being pinned to the stool. The desperate girl struggled futilely, crying and moaning. She didn’t want to be a slave. She didn’t want to be burned. She lifted her head up and saw the iron being removed from the fire. Its tip was a bright, searing red. Rukimo had donned thick, leather gloves to protect his hands from the instrument’s intense heat. As she watched him circle behind her she tried to utter a piteous plea for mercy, a plea cut off by the efficacy of the gag that filled her mouth.

  The giant of a man passed from her sight. The only sound in the room was her own sobbing. She tried to twist and turn her body to frustrate the application of the fiery iron to her flesh. But she had been securely fastened to the stool. Her efforts were of no avail. She could feel the heat of the iron getting closer and closer to her body. She closed her eyes and bit down hard on the leather gag that filled her mouth. As the red hot steel met her tender flesh, she screamed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TRAINING

  Sheila knelt alone in the large, carpeted training room. Her hands were interlocked behind her head. Her legs were spread wide and her back held straight. She kept her eyes pinned to her reflection in the mirrored door before her. She knew that someone could be watching. The training rooms were lined with ceiling to wall mirrors, but the walls that ran along the hallway outside were made of one way glass. She had seen the other girls being raped and whipped many times as she had been dragged along the hall to her training station for the day. Someone could very well be watching and Sheila wanted, above all else, to avoid another beating.

  Actually the term ‘day’ was somewhat of an anomaly as far as Sheila was concerned. In the dungeons of Klitzman’s resort there was no night and day. There was no set schedule; there was no routine to follow. Sheila didn’t know how long she had been a prisoner, whether it was day or night, or what her future held. At first, these things had mattered to her. When standing, gagged and hooded in her cell, her legs and arms stretched to extremes, she had tried many methods of counting time. After several minutes, she usually lost count. Her mind would drift from tapping out a steady pace with her fingers or toes to the excruciating pain in her feet, her shoulders and her calves. And the noise, the constant hissing in her ears from the tiny microphones embedded in the hood, she would lose herself in its relentless assault on her mind, actually enter an almost hypnotized state, as it drove out all thought and sensations.

  She would try and summon up a mental picture of where she was. She could almost visualize her own naked body hanging at her chains. She had seen the other girls suspended in their cells when she had been returned from her training sessions and she knew that her appearance would be much the same. Sometimes she would wonder whether any of the other girls were watching her as they were dragged back from a merciless beating or a round of brutal use of their bodies.

  Alone, kneeling, as the guard who had brought her there had directed, Sheila could not help but review in her mind the cruel regimen to which she had been subjected since that first day when she and the others had cast off their clothing at the command of the big, black man, Rukimo. She had screamed and cried when she had been branded, and had, at first, moaned and wailed as her body had been invaded over and over again by the fierce looking, tall African men. She had cowered and begged for mercy as the whips and canes had driven all thoughts of rebellion or disobedience out of her.

  The branding had been the cruelest thing. Even now, the site of her wound still itched and burned as it healed. She could not, of course, see the results of the marking of her own flesh. But she had seen the red, cursive ‘k’ on the buttocks of the other girls. She was now somebody’s property. But whose? And to what ultimate purpose?

  The pretty, social climbing debutante that she had been was gone forever, she knew that. It all seemed so silly to her now: the sucking up to the popular girls, the obsession with the latest expensive fashions, her mania about the appearance of her face, the shapeliness of her breasts. She didn’t even know when was the last time she had worn clothes. And the men didn’t seem to care whether her face was properly made up, her lips adorned, her hair styled. They practiced their lusts on her without concern for her physical appearance.

  The girl was surprised, though, how quickly her mortification and shame at the callous use of her body had faded. The fact that the men seemed able to draw from her unwillingly an intensity of sexual response she had never known had ceased to matter. In fact, she had come to anticipate her use by the strong, merciless, black men with what bordered on desire. Certainly, the extremes of sensation that the steel hard cocks drove her to was better than the unrelenting, oppressive boredom of standing, or lying, bound and hooded in her tiny cell.

  Even now, Sheila’s expectation that she would soon be used had sparked a growing lust in her loins. She could not but help think of the thick, black cocks that would soon take possession of her. Her parted lips could almost feel the hard meat that would soon slide past them. Strangely, she had come to welcome the presence of a hot, pulsing cock in her mouth. She had discovered a form of power in her ability to coax moans and other expressions of lust from the men who possessed her. She felt a tiny thrill when the salty ejaculations filled her mouth and slid down her throat.

  As she knelt, waiting her next round of use, she could see her pleasantly round and firm breasts quiver slightly in her mirrored reflection, as she adjusted her legs and knees to assuage the cramps induced by her long wait. She knew that her taut, firm belly and tender thighs issued a welcome to all who observed her. Her loins waited anxiously for the attention the men would give it. She licked her parted lips nervously.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  In the next room, four frightened young women knelt watching, as a naked, black giant administered
sharp, painful blows with a rattan cane to the body of a fifth. Brenda, Lana, Mary and Karen knelt in a semi-circle, hands behind their heads, elbows up, as Rene dangled at the end of a chain before them. She wailed and moaned as each blow descended, begging and pleading for surcease.

  Rene had paid dearly for her act of rebellion. Each training session began with a slow, steady assault on her body by one or the other of the tall, black trainers. Sometimes, others would follow. Yesterday, or what seemed like yesterday, Mary, the black haired beauty, had taken her turn dancing on her toes as her body was tormented by a long, tasseled whip. As she knelt, unwillingly focused on Rene’s torment, she still bore the long, red welts that the whipping had left on her tender, pale, white skin. Lana bore dark purple welts over the light brown skin of her thighs and rear where she had been struck with a riding crop. Karen and Brenda, too, wore evidence of their physical abuse, Brenda especially, as the trainers seemed to enjoy lashing her round, white orbs with the thin, long, bamboo reed.

  Rene cried out in anguish as the last, hard blow from the cane struck the rear of her thighs. Tears flowed down her pretty face, covering her cheeks with a sparkling sheen. Each time, she fought the need to cry. Each time, she swore not to beg and plead for mercy. But it seemed that the trainers were conscious of her desperate need to preserve her dignity, to steel herself from the painful, burning sensations of the cane or whip. Each of her tortures had resulted in the breakdown of her reserves, each had ended only when, and sometimes long after, her defenses had been breached, when her whines and moans had become screams and pleas.

  Finally, Rene’s arms were released from over her head, and she was permitted to fall to her knees before the tall, naked black man. Dutifully, her flesh still burning from her abusive torment, she placed her hands behind her head and leaned forwards to plant a lascivious kiss on the long, thick, stiff tool of her assailant. This time, she would be spared the further humiliation of sucking the steel hard rod to completion. Objegye, today’s tormentor, ordered her to kneel at the end of the semi circular line of abject, naked women.

  The girls knew the trainer’s names. Each time, before their abuse commenced, the men would introduce themselves, as if proud of their roles in the women’s degradation. Revealing the names of their tormentors gave the men added power over the women. It was proof positive that these men had nothing to fear. These women would never be able to reveal their identities to any authority capable of bringing their assailants to justice. Later, laying naked and hooded on their cots, or standing, their hands bound above them, their feet arched painfully in efforts to assuage the painful tension on their arms and shoulders, they would recall by name the man who had visited specific acts of abuse upon them. They would see in their mind’s eye the gleaming white teeth offset by the dark, black face of their oppressor.

  This session, three of the large, black men were with them in the training room. Objegye had wielded the whip. Wanjala and Dume sat naked, stroking their long black cocks, awaiting the completion of Rene’s ritual torture.

  Objegye circled behind the expectant women. One of them, or more, would now either suffer the anguish of a brutal whipping, or be made to pleasure one or more of the men before the eyes of their fellow slaves. Objegye walked slowly behind the women, enjoying the obvious signs of their tense anticipation. On his second pass, he tapped his cane on Mary’s head. “You,” was all he said.

  Mary scrambled to assume a position in the middle of the semi-circle. Her stomach churned as she worried whether she would take her turn with the dreaded cane, or merely endure the assaults of the men’s remorseless and demanding cocks. Objegye motioned the girl to assume a position before him as he sank to the floor and sat before her, legs folded. He leaned back, placing his hands on the floor behind him and gestured her forwards.

  Mary, obediently, crawled over on all fours and placed her lips on Objegye’s prominent tool, her hands on the floor on either side of his hips. Her stomach quivered as the hot, dark meat pressed past her lips, over her tongue and to the very edge of her throat. She had been taught, reluctantly, how to suppress her natural urges and to let the thick, meaty pole push past the entrance and lodge itself within her esophagus. Her gagging reflex was not fully stilled however, and she coughed slightly as her throat closed around the invader.

  The routine was well set. First, she would press the rigid pole as deep within herself as she could make it go, until her lips and nose brushed the wiry hair that surrounded the man’s cock. Then, slowly, her lips tight against the rigid shaft, her tongue caressing its underside, she would pull her mouth back, letting the cock slide out covered with the wetness of her mouth. She had suffered many strokes of the cane before mastering this technique. Even now, her rear muscles tensed, prepared for the acceptance of a stinging blow should she falter in her task.

  The presence of the black man’s cock in her mouth and down her throat was the focus of all or her conscious thought. Its unwanted presence and her docile acquiescence in her task shamed her. She had been called whore, slut, cunt and more by the various men who had dominated her since her capture. As she slid her lips back along the long, smooth black skin of Objegye’s cock, cupping her tongue to pleasure the fleshy instrument, she felt those appellations justified. They had reduced her to that. What was once a young, vibrant, hopeful woman had been degraded to less even than a common whore. She was a slave, of whom nothing was asked, but from whom all was demanded.

  Mary felt the tips of her breasts trace lightly over the legs of the crossed legged man as she wrapped her lips around the bulbous head of his cock. She opened her mouth to draw in much needed air, and, after swirling her tongue over the tip of his shaft, repeated her task, allowing the hot, salty member to fill her.

  As she continued her supplications to the African’s manhood, Mary felt a presence establish itself behind her. Her legs were splayed widely, as she had been taught, and her denuded pussy’s lips were distended, proffered to those that desired entrance. She felt hot thighs press up against hers, a tight, well muscled stomach press against her rear. A hand descended under her stomach, seizing the sensitive flesh that surrounded her pussy’s sheath. Fingers, strong, thick fingers, insinuated themselves into her sex’s furrow and lightly traced a line along the narrow slit.

  This was what Mary dreaded most. She hated herself for her inability to prevent the hands and lips of her oppressors from propelling her into unwanted lust and desire. As she pleasured the stiff member of Objegye, she issued a small whine, a tiny, fruitless protest against the stimulation of her sex.

  The other girls watched the display of sexual dominance before them as if enraptured. As was required, when Mary had leaned over and taken Objegye’s tool in her mouth, they had, in unison, dropped their right hands to their own loins and, spreading their knees as widely as possible, began to manipulate themselves to wetness and passion. Each of them had held Objegye’s manhood in their mouths at one time or another, each of them had felt their lusts drawn unwillfully from them by more than one of the callous, determined trainers. Now, they knelt, spectators to Mary’s abasement, summoning heat into their loins, feeling their breasts tighten, their nipples harden, as they reacted to their arousal, feeling, and smelling, the musk-like moisture ooze from their enflamed sheaths.

  In spite of her efforts to suppress it, Mary’s loins began to burn with desire. She could feel her wetness smeared across her pussy lips, feel the thick fingers as they pressed insistently on her clit, thrust themselves deep into her womb. The hand that was tormenting her shifted to her breast, grabbing it firmly, teasing the rock hard nipple. A thick, hard object pressed between her pussy lips. She gasped as she felt the stiff cock slide easily inside her.

  Mary had had only two lovers prior to her reduction to sexual servitude. One was a high school boy who she had been dating senior year. They had gone to a party and she had been given some of the punch to drink. It went down easily and smoothly, and it was not until too late that she realized that
it had been spiked with vodka. Dizzy, euphoric, she had allowed herself to be led to a bedroom on the third floor of the house. There, in spite of her weak resistance, undermined as it was by her inebriation, she surrendered her virginity. The next morning she had a headache the size of a horse and remorse the size of a house. She never dated the boy again, but saw him smirk every time that she passed him in the halls. For two weeks she prayed that her monthly friend would arrive on schedule. When it did, relief washed over her like a river.

  The second boy was someone she met in the small state college that she attended. It was the first semester of her sophomore year, when she met him. They had gone together for several months. Their lovemaking was furtive and uncomfortable. The boy was inexperienced, and the physical act of love had left Mary quite disappointed. She knew what pleasure her little flower was capable of producing, for she often brought herself manually to climax.

  Now, her pussy dilated and creamed on command. Thick, black cocks had driven her to explosive orgasms. Lips, both men’s and women’s had sent her into virtual delirium. She cursed herself for it, judged herself damned. Even as the throws of her orgasm were upon her, her mind rebelled against the weakness of her flesh.

  The girl was still assiduously pleasuring Objegye’s cock. The black man moaned, signaling his readiness to discharge his fluids inside her. The rasping of the thick cock against her loins and the hard nubbin of flesh at the vortex of her sex drew a reluctant moan of pleasure from the young girl. Involuntarily, she began to rock her hips against the invader, pushing to meet his thrusts. She did not know, and did not care, which of the other two black men had filled her hot canal with his meat. Her mind had clouded over with passion, all efforts to resist the mesmerizing effects of the stimulation of her loins were abandoned.