The Silhouette - Monday

[jessmartin]

The Silhouette - Monday.png

Chapter 1 - Lorna

“You’re a bunch of barbarians,” I exclaim upon seeing the blonde beauty exposed before me.

Her body is soaked by the relentless rain. Her hair, as yellow as wheat before harvest, is pulled back into a long ponytail that clings to her skin and covers one of her beautiful breasts. Her eyes, blue as the sky, lock onto mine as she hears my words, reflecting a mixture of fear and excitement.

“You can’t display merchandise as valuable as that with a rusty collar and a worn-out leather harness.”

I approach the young woman and grab one of the leather straps; it practically falls apart in my hand. I pull on the rest until the entire harness falls broken at her feet. As I do so, I caress her skin, gently brushing her nipples and smiling as I watch them harden. Without my fingers breaking contact with her, I move my hand up to her neck and fiddle with the clasp of the collar, which clicks open and falls heavily to the floor.

Several red marks are clearly visible where the rusty metal has grazed the blonde’s soft skin. The last thing I do is pull my own handkerchief from my pocket and wipe away the smudges of dark makeup covering her cheeks, flushed with excitement and shame.

“How much are you asking for her?” I ask the two market managers. I slide my hand down to her belly, tracing the strip of hair that adorns her pubis.

“Ten…” one of them begins to say, immediately interrupted by the other.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” his partner corrects him. “But we’re in a hurry to close the deal, and the auction won’t be held today. For fifteen thousand, she’s yours.”

I look around before answering. The “auction”—as they call it—consisted, before it started raining, of the sale of half a dozen young Arab women captured by the rebels during their raids on nearby villages and a dozen black girls, malnourished and worn out after weeks of travel from some country in Central Africa.

Only the blonde—an aid worker from some NGO or an unfortunate tourist—has any value, and I don’t think any of the potential buyers could pay more than five thousand dollars for her.

“All right, fifteen thousand,” I reply, and hold out my hand to the organizers to seal the deal.

I pay them with two small gold bars and cover the blonde’s body with a dirty blanket. I run my hand around her waist and guide her to my jeep, helping her climb into the passenger seat.

“Idiots!” I mutter under my breath as I watch the two guys practically dance with joy, thinking they’ve outsmarted me.

If I decide to sell her right away—after a week of enjoying her—in the markets of Cairo, Baghdad, or Algiers, I’ll get between fifty and a hundred thousand dollars. If, on the other hand, I spend three months training her, I have half a dozen buyers in Riyadh, Dubai, or Tokyo who’ll pay half a million for her without a second thought.

I drive for ten minutes, and when I decide there’s no longer any danger of an ambush by the rebels who were watching the market, I pull over.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

I pull back the blanket with a slow motion so I can get a better look at her body now that we’re alone.

“My name is Lorna. I’m French… they kidnapped me in Rabat two nights ago when I was heading back to the hotel,” she replies, her voice breaking. “I don’t know how to thank you for rescuing me from those guys; they kept talking about raping me and selling me into slavery.”

“I’m sorry, Lorna, but I didn’t rescue you… I bought you,” I reply, allowing myself a slight smile at her reaction. “And I’m also going to sell you as a slave.”

Hearing my words, she panics. She tries to unbuckle her seatbelt to escape, but can’t. I’ve seen that same reaction too many times; the mechanism is locked, and only I can release it.

“The difference is that those guys were going to sell you to a brothel where ten men would fuck you every day,” I explain. My hand grabs her chin to force her to look at me. “I, after training you and turning you into an obedient slave, will sell you to some Arab, Russian, or Japanese millionaire. Your life will be full of luxury and comfort and, of course, plenty of sex and submission.”

Without letting go of her chin, I bring my mouth close to her face and gently lick the tears streaming down her cheeks. I kiss her on the lips and feel her body shudder.

“I know how you can thank me for ‘rescuing’ you from those guys,” I whisper. I slide my hand from her chin to the nape of her neck and, without using too much force, guide her head downward.

***

I admire Lorna’s body for a few seconds before covering her with a blanket. The nights are freezing in the desert, and I have no intention of lighting a fire. We’ve stopped far from any caravan routes or known oases. That’s where girls like her end up kidnapped and guys like me end up feeding the vultures.

In a couple of days I’ll be back in Jeddah. I’ll stay there a week before setting out to acquire new assets. During that time I’ll decide Lorna’s fate, though I’ve almost decided to keep her; it’s been a long time since I’ve had a slave like her.

She’s a blank slate; she has almost no sexual skills. A few hours ago, in the jeep, she was unable to take more than half my cock into her mouth before gagging and being unable to breathe. However, when I sat her astride me, her pussy opened slowly as my cock entered, squeezing it like none of the many virgins I’ve enjoyed had ever done.

For the more than ten minutes I had her impaled on me, she didn’t stop sobbing and begging me to stop. Her mind resisted, but her body betrayed her: the moans that barely let her string two words together were the first sign; the two intense orgasms were the final proof.

A little while ago, after eating a couple of cold military rations for dinner, I fucked her again. This time she barely protested. The sensations of taking her from behind were much more pleasurable for her from the start; her hips moved in rhythm with mine, and she gave herself over completely to the pleasure. Only when I brought my index finger to her ass did her whole body tense up. I had serious trouble getting even the first knuckle in; she’s too tight. I’m going to have to use plugs to stretch it out and prepare it before I can enjoy her back door.

***

She lets out a little scream when I pull the plug out completely. I had to twist it, push it in and pull it out little by little several times, before finally yanking it out with a sharp tug. Before her ass starts to close up, I slide two fingers inside and feel her insides squeeze me, hot and throbbing. It’s hard to believe how much it’s stretched in just a week.

The first thing I’m going to do as soon as I get back from Rome is fuck that hole—which isn’t so tight anymore. The second is to brand her pubis; not the trademark, but my personal one. Lorna will become part of my private collection of slaves: nearly a hundred submissive, obedient beauties scattered across the dozen residences I own around the world.

Lorna has no idea how lucky she is to be a new slave; if she weren’t, she’d already be hanging from chains on the ceiling and dancing to the beat of my whip. What she won’t be able to avoid is me fucking her harder than ever and forbidding her from reaching orgasm.

I should be flying to Moscow for a carefree week. At night, private parties with dozens of aspiring models and actresses for entertainment.
By day, visiting the private finishing schools for young ladies that I sponsor. The goal: to select about thirty girls to train them into the finest pleasure slaves and sell them in six months.

Instead, I must travel to Rome to resolve a serious problem that has suddenly arisen: a nosy journalist has started asking too many questions. I’d already had my eye on her after she published a couple of reports on her blog last year—though they seemed more like stories for Literotica or similar sites—that caused quite a stir.

The problem is that now she’s getting too close. Maybe she’s a better reporter than I thought, though it’s more likely she’s found someone who’s let the cat out of the bag.

I have three suspects as to who the informant might be, and before I land in Rome tomorrow, they’ll be dead. The reporter should meet the same fate, but the fact that she’s a redheaded beauty with a magazine-cover body changes everything. I’m going to play with her a little before deciding her fate.

I pull my fingers out of Lorna’s ass and insert the tip of the new plug. It’s bigger, but after lubricating it with her pussy juices, it slides in easily until it’s fully lodged.

Without giving her time to process the sensation of the new intruder inside her, I grab her by the hips and thrust into her hard. She lets out a scream and jolts forward slightly, forcing me to hold her tight, as if I were riding a wild mare. Given the size of the plug, it’s practically as if she had two cocks fucking her pussy and ass at the same time. She resists, protests, and begs; but, as happened the first time and happens every time I try something new, her body responds before her mind does: she reaches the orgasm I had decided to deny her.

“I’m going to tie your hands behind your back so you can’t touch yourself,” I threaten, as I pull on the gold chain connecting her nipple piercings. Or better yet: I’m going to put a chastity belt on you. You won’t come until I return from Rome.

My threat makes her clench tighter around me. The friction as I fuck her makes me come with a loud grunt. I pull out of her pussy and stand in front of her; I don’t have to say a word for her to start cleaning up the traces of semen and juices.

She runs her tongue along my entire length before wrapping her lips around the head. Using the movements she learned after hours chained to the wall training with a dildo, she takes my cock in, inch by inch. She still can’t take it all the way down her throat, but I hope it won’t be long before she can. Lorna knows that her reward for succeeding will be a ring and a chain for her clitoris, matching the ones on her nipples.

As I get dressed, Lorna doesn’t stop staring at me, waiting to see if I’ll carry out my threat.

“Alice and Tania will handle your punishment for coming without permission,” I tell her.

A small look of terror crosses her face. Both are two of my oldest slaves. As economics and business graduates before they ended up enslaved, they’re in charge of running part of my business; they even go out on their own. They know they can’t escape—the chip in their collar and the one implanted in their bodies make it impossible. Besides, neither of them wants to trade the life of luxury they have now for a brothel in Asia or South America.

I haven’t asked them or Lorna what happened each time I’ve left her in their hands. I don’t care. All I know is that, after each time, the blonde returns more submissive and obedient.

I’m not going to put a chastity belt on Lorna; I think she’d go crazy if she went a week without coming. I’m going to order Alice and Tania to bring her to one orgasm after another, without rest, until she begs them to stop. From that moment on, once they’ve made it clear to her that her pleasure no longer belongs to her, they’ll teach her how to control it.

***

“Miss McGrady?” I ask.

I take a deep breath to keep my composure when I see her. Although it’s not what catches my eye first—as it would for any man—or any woman—with blood in their veins: I scan her body from head to toe.

She’s either gutsy or reckless. Maybe both. She’s conducting research on the sex trade, and yet she dares to meet me at a BDSM club in Rome where girls destined for clients with very specific tastes hone their skills.

“Do you like what you see?” she asks me.

She doesn’t wait for an answer; she downs the glass of wine she had at the bar and gets up to walk away. I arrived half an hour late on purpose, just to make her nervous, and it seems my snub has had the desired effect.

I’m about to tell her that I really like what I see: the thigh-high boots with six-inch heels, the fishnet stockings with a garter belt, the miniskirt that barely covers her ass, and, of course, the corset with metal buckles that cinches her waist and lifts her breasts. All in new, worn, and suggestive leather. Only the jacket—with its sleeves and that cut that stops halfway down her torso—seems out of place to me.

Without the jacket, and with a collar and a leash to walk her on, she’d be perfect.

“I’m Vasili Alexei. Arthur sent me,” I tell her.

I give the waiter a quick nod when I notice he’s about to speak to me, surely calling me by my real name—something I can’t afford. The redhead stops, but doesn’t turn around. That pause allows me to get a perfect look at her firm butt and long legs.

“In all the time I’ve been in contact with Arthur, he never mentioned your name,” she replies. She turns slowly, holding the phone in her hand, ready to call someone to get her out of here if the situation goes south.

During the hours my men spent interrogating Arthur before taking him out, we obtained a lot of information about everything he’d told the journalist, but we never expected he’d been feeding her information for a year.

“He called me an hour ago to ask me to come in his place. The shipment from Brazil was moved up, and he had to fly to São Paulo,” I reply, keeping my eyes on her as I wait for Arthur to tell us the truth. “He told me he was going to send you a message to let you know.”

“I haven’t received any message,” she replies, her fingers sliding quickly across her phone screen.

“If you’ve been down here for a long time, it’s normal that you haven’t received it. This place is full of signal jammers to prevent anyone from recording what happens here.”

Although it’s very slight, for the first time I notice a look of nervousness on Miss McGrady’s face. Any escape plan she might have had has vanished in an instant. I walk toward her and feel her tense up, but I don't stop; I keep walking calmly.

“I’m sure that as soon as we get up to the main floor of the club, you’ll start getting messages.”

We’ve barely climbed halfway up the stairs when her phone starts beeping. Her face relaxes when she sees Arthur’s message.

“Please forgive my brusqueness, Mr. Alexei. I think you’ll understand that I have to be cautious,” she apologizes.

“I understand perfectly. I can imagine what they’d do to you if they found out about your investigation, but I have no doubt that I’d end up dumped in some landfill with a hole in my forehead.”

“I had the whole trip to Rome planned with Arthur,” she says. “I hope everything’s still on exactly as planned.”

Her tone returns to what it was at the beginning: confident, convinced that she’s still in control of the situation.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, Miss McGrady, but the entire schedule has changed.”

I pause. I look into those huge green eyes that struck me so much when I first saw her and smile as I watch her pupils dilate.

“I can give you access to places Arthur wouldn’t be able to go,” I explain. “For example, with him, in this club you wouldn’t be able to go past the bar where you were sitting; with me, you’ll have full access to any room, and if you’d like, I can even arrange a show for you to participate in.”

“That sounds like great news,” she replies, clearly pleased. “Where do we start?”

I could take her to a dozen places, but I prefer her to be more impatient, with her guard even lower.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss McGrady, but I spent eight hours on a plane to get here on time. I need to rest; we won’t have much time for that in the coming days.”

“All right, Mr. Alexei. Let’s meet tomorrow at ten; I’m staying at the hotel…”

“Hotel Hassler, next to the Trinità dei Monti, room 402,” I interrupt her. “As you might expect, even though I trust Arthur, I’ve looked into you. I’m staying in the presidential suite; I’ll wait for you in the lobby at ten. Be on time, Miss McGrady; I don’t like to wait.”

I get up without giving her time to reply, though I doubt the surprise would have allowed her to utter a word. Before walking away, I stop and turn around.

“One last thing, Miss McGrady. You haven’t answered the question I asked you earlier.”

I pause briefly before continuing. She shifts nervously; in the first spontaneous gesture I notice, she bites her lower lip in a way that strikes me as so provocative I feel my cock swelling against the fabric of my pants.

“I really like what I see.”

I wait for Kayden —a perfect name for a slave— to turn the corner before heading back to the club. I go downstairs and make my way to the bar, straight to greet the bartender.

“Good evening, Mr. Martin,” he greets me. His expression is serious despite having a blonde kneeling on the floor tending to his cock. “I hope I didn’t screw up.”

“Relax, Roger. I didn’t have time to let you know I was coming; you handled it well.”

I look at the blonde. She isn't one of the club’s submissives. Her torso is bare, but her nipples don’t bear the usual rings of the house. She’s wearing a green miniskirt, black stockings, and sneakers. The collar she’s wearing is a simple strip of leather: a recent acquisition.

“She’s just an Icelandic tourist; we haven’t processed her yet,” Roger explains. “She was with the redhead they’ve prepared for you in your private room.”

“Have fun with her tonight. Tomorrow, send her to Jeddah along with her friend.”

I walk through the stone corridors, observing the mosaics that adorn the walls behind the glass installed to protect them. All of them depict images of chained female slaves: some in various positions, others being whipped, or simply hanging with traces of semen on their bodies.
They are over two thousand years old, but little has changed since then; at least not in the dark rooms that surround me.

I enter the playroom. The musty smell after months of disuse still lingers above the scents of incense and oils. In the center, with her arms chained to the ceiling above her head and her legs secured to the floor, stands the redhead Roger told me about.

I pick up a sharp knife from a table and approach her. With quick movements, I cut through her clothes —her panties and bra— which fall in tatters to the floor. Her sweaty body is now exposed. She’s nowhere near as voluptuous as Kayden, but tonight she’ll do to get the reporter out of my head.

I’d planned to make it quick; tomorrow she’d be chained right here, out of the picture forever. However, after interrogating Arthur and talking to her, I need to know everything; I don’t want to leave any loose ends. Besides, I’ll have more fun taking it slow.

I bring my hand to the redhead’s pussy and start masturbating her. She protests against the gag, but, as happens to all of them, her body betrays her instantly and gets my fingers wet.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “Tomorrow they’ll transfer you to Jeddah; they’ll take care of you and your friend there. If you behave yourselves, you’ll be happy slaves, surrounded by luxury and barely touched by men. If you misbehave… I don’t think you want to know.”

I don’t stop until I bring her to orgasm. As I do, I shake my head several times. I’m getting too sentimental for this business. Maybe once this whole Kayden business is over, I should retire; I have enough money for a hundred lifetimes and slaves I’ve only fucked once. Although, with Lorna and, possibly, the journalist, they’ll have to keep waiting.

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