Stealing Simone Page 11

  She cried out, in time to the motion of his cock. The lull of his words. “I don't know ... I feel so ... helpless."

  "You are,” he pressed on into this darkly erotic game. “You have nowhere to go. You're confined. They will do you as much as they want. You will have to serve them all, over and over."

  "But ... why? Why me?"

  "It was all Charlie's idea.” Martin didn't think there was any harm in letting her know at this point. “He was pissed about the bonuses, he figured that his money was going to you now, and also, you were the one who caught him padding mileage."

  "He wanted to punish me?” She asked in amazement.

  "Basically. We all get some fun with you and then you're supposed to get dropped back off with the boss man, along with a little note, telling him to expect some blackmail."

  "Oh, poor Mick,” she breathed, as if suddenly reminded of something. “Samuel, you don't understand, Mick is in grave danger. The Russian mob is after him."

  "The Russian mob?” He whistled. “If I were Mick I'd get the fuck out of town."

  "I have to help him.” She tried to get up, but Martin pushed her back down.

  "You're in the middle of something here, sister, so don't even think about going anywhere.” He thrust his cock in and out hard, wanting to see that look on her face.

  He backed off, though, when she seemed in real distress. “Are you all right?” He asked, prepared to abandon his position.

  She was clearly conflicted, but her desires were winning out. “No, keep fucking me,” she exclaimed. “Make me fuck you while Mick's in trouble ... don't give me a choice."

  "No choice,” he murmured, only half convinced.

  "No choice,” she cried, smacking him in the face, forcing his hand.

  Provoked by design, he smacked back. She went docile, a punished bitch.

  "You see, I have to obey,” she smiled in satisfaction, her eyes lit by an odd, unearthly light. “I'm a captured slut."

  Martin filled her cavity with his sperm, grateful at not having to understand her psychology any further at the moment. Women were abstruse, inexplicable creatures. That's why he stuck to the kind of fantasies you could conjure by computer image as opposed to the real thing.

  If he ever survived this caper, he would go happily back to those nice, neat and tidy simulations, where he could control everything, every action and reaction and where he would never, ever have to be surprised ... or hurt. Nor would he ever risk hurting anyone else.

  "Good,” she hissed as he deflated above her. “Now go and get me another one."

  Martin laughed. His little Simone, transformed. Maybe Charlie was right after all. Too bad he wasn't next. As it was she had to go through Lucien first. “Yes, of course, my Sim-sim. And may I say, I think you'll find him a delight ... a real gentleman."

  Martin kept on laughing all the way up the stairs. The Haitian raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  "You all right?” Jenkins wanted to know.

  "Me? Yea, sure. Nothing a little more whisky won't cure. Come to think of it, how about the whole fucking bottle."

  Charlie gave him the bottle and put a hand on his shoulder. “I think I've figured it out, old buddy. You have feelings for her, don't you?"

  Oh, man, he thought, wouldn't this have been a much better and more helpful conversation to have had an hour ago.

  "Not anymore,” he grinned. “Not anymore."

  "I'm locking the door,” announced Lucien. “I will not be disturbed."

  Not giving a shit anymore, Martin took the gun off the bar and aimed it at the Haitian's head. “Bang,” he said. “Is that disturbing enough for you?"

  Lucien looked at Charlie, his face hard and dark in a way Martin had never seen on a fellow human being. “Control him,” he said. “Or I will."

  Charlie grabbed the gun. “Cut the shit, Martin."

  The Haitian was already bolting the door. From over on the couch, the Russian was rocking back and forth, muttering to himself, his eyes doing a little dance of unknown origins.

  "Jeezus, Charlie, tell me we're getting out of this alive still?” Martin pleaded.

  Jenkins tucked the pistol into his belt. “I got it covered, buddy, like peanut butter over jelly."

  Martin knew they were in trouble now, because Jenkins always said shit like this when things were about to nosedive in a hurry. “You can't spread peanut butter over jelly,” he pointed out. “It's too thick."

  "Shut the fuck up,” said Jenkins, “and drink."

  * * * *

  "Ooh, you look like quite the player,” purred Simone as Lucien approached her with the items he'd selected from the dungeon's stock.

  The former torturer chuckled as he laid the various tools at her feet on the bed. Simone was up on her elbows, one leg down, one raised, bent at the knee. She was careless, insolent about her nudity. As to her reaction to seeing Lucien's “toys", she seemed surprisingly blasé. The riding crop and paddle he'd gotten from the wall display. But the pliers and the razor knife, these had come straight out of the tool kit.

  "Americans never cease to amaze me,” he mused. “So big and bright and beautiful, astride the world, but all that would disappear if they did not have their full bellies, if they had to fight to live as we do. Things change very quickly at every level, trust me."

  "Are you going to rape me or talk me into submission?” She challenged.

  Lucien smiled, very tightly. “Rape, you know, in Haiti, has very different meanings. It is a form of political retribution and control, it is a means of social expression. Many more things are conveyed by it than here. My mother and my sister were raped by army soldiers, you know, when I was a boy. It was one of the main reasons I joined myself. I vowed that I would be high enough up to be the one to give the orders one day."

  "And to think, now you scrub floors for a living."

  Simone did not know where her bravery came from, or if indeed it was not something else, something darker and more despairing. Then again, it may have just been the brittle tips of frazzled sensations, long since overwhelmed.

  The Haitian seized her nipple with the pliers, swiftly and viciously. “That may be,” he reduced her to piteous whimpers. “But to you, this night, I am a god."

  She made no attempt to beg, which was wise on her part. What she did was watch, making his mouth the center of her world, alert for whatever orders he might give.

  "Pull apart your cunt lips,” he said, “and tell me you are nothing but an American slut whore."

  Simone did as she was told, presenting her glistening sex even as she repeated the demeaning words.

  "Let's see if we can find your clitoris, shall we?” Artfully, he moved the pliers between her legs, slapping her tit hard to get her to stop squirming. Thrice more, he backhanded her breasts before she got the message. With the precision of a surgeon, then, he found and gripped tight the center of her sexual being.

  She was his now, utterly enslaved and controlled.

  "Grab your breasts. Slap them. Good, now pinch.” He rattled off the commands, enjoying ordering her about like a robot.

  "Were we in Haiti, I might ask you questions, then again, this might only be for fun.” Without letting go of her clit. Lucien picked up the riding crop, sleek, black and frightening. “Tell me, have you ever orgasmed in pain?"

  Simone was panting, short, stabbing, near spasmodic breaths. Eyes wide, beyond spell bound, she shook her head.

  "Hands over your head, palm up, arch your back and thrust up your tits for me."

  She obeyed, which of course meant that when he struck with the whip again, he was able to leave a full welt across both breasts.

  "Flinching,” he manipulated the pliers, “is not advised."

  Simone held herself rigid, grinding her teeth as he began to lash at her belly. Six times he struck, on each occasion leaving a nasty mark as well as a burning trail of pain.

  "If you orgasm before you are commanded,” he paused to take from his pocket the small
vibrator, which he'd apparently found somewhere in the room. “I will introduce you to a level of suffering you cannot even imagine."

  "Mercy,” she groaned, her voice a pure exhalation of feminine surrender.

  "I know no such word.” Lucien popped in the vibrator, which was already on. At once she felt the quaking in her pussy. There was no way she'd be able to hold out.

  "Lie still,” he chastened, whipping her across her pubis, just above her pinched clit.

  Simone screamed.

  "This is what you are,” said the general. “A piece of flesh to amuse your betters. You think we didn't have women like you in my country? You think I didn't whip even the cunts of rich girls and debutantes to my heart's content?"

  She was in agony now, her every motion, unavoidable as it was, bringing her more and more pain. She looked as though she might be ripped apart. So much fear and anguish written on her face. He wished he could burn that image in his own brain, so that he could take it back out whenever he wished, replaying the intoxicating rush, the building up of inestimable pleasure.

  It was a fact among professionals such as himself that there was a satiation factor, a kind of desensitization such that more and more stimulation and pain was required on the part of the victim to produce the same pleasure in the torturer. It had been a while for him, which helped in this case, plus the girl was so fresh, such an intriguing combination of naïve innocent and wanton woman.

  Making her ride the razor's edge a few more strokes, inducing a few more light twists of her potently vulnerable clitoris, he finally commanded her to what the French call the “little death."

  "Climax, little slut. Come for me, now."

  Lucien was an expert. He knew how to keep her from tearing off her clamped clit in her sudden paroxysms. He also knew how to whip her nipples in the process, nearly doubling the sensations. His mouth watering, he worked three more orgasms out of her before readying himself for the main act of the performance.

  The finale, as it were.

  It would, of course, result in Jenkins losing his turn with the girl, but he really needed to tend to the matter now, while he had the chance. Besides, he was desperately wanting to orgasm himself and he was not sure he could achieve that fulfillment without some mayhem of a far more serious nature.

  "You must hold very still for this,” he advised, holding the razor knife to her throat. “It will be much quicker and more painless that way."

  The girl, just barely recovering from her forced pleasure explosions, began to cry out, making what protests she could. “Please, don't. I'll do anything."

  "Of course, you would. But that is beside the point. The one thing I would have from you now is the one thing you cannot give on your own: your total and guaranteed silence, forever."

  "I'll never turn you in,” she swore, understanding the implications of what he was saying. “I won't say a word. Ever. To anyone."

  "I know,” he soothed. “This is just for insurance purposes."

  The Haitian was pressing down the knife to her jugular when he suddenly went stiff. His eyes reflected some kind of trauma, a deep wound to the back, likely fatal. He gasped to fill his lungs with air, one last gurgling time and then he fell forward, losing the razor knife and dropping his body over hers.

  Simone's screams were muffled by the weight of him. A line of blood trickled from his newly murdered mouth.

  "It's all right,” comforted Vladimir who had appeared once again out of nowhere. “He is gone now. He will never bother you again."

  * * * *

  Charlie felt for the Haitian's pulse. “He's gone,” Jenkins confirmed.

  "Great,” said Martin. “Now what are we supposed to do?"

  They were both looking at the girl, who was huddled into a ball on her side, crying. Neither man had the inclination to touch her or speak to her.

  "We get rid of the body, that's what,” said Charlie.

  "We'll need Uchenko,” Martin pointed out.

  Jenkins nodded. The Russian was being of no help, as usual. Having killed one of their own company, he had now returned to the couch upstairs for another rest. As to the specifics of why he'd stabbed the Haitian in the back with a screwdriver, he would say nothing, not one word. The girl wasn't talking either, which didn't help the man's case any.

  "I wish Uchenko were dead, too,” confided Martin.

  "Men like that never die,” replied Charlie. “At least not without putting up more of a fight than you and I could ever handle."

  "We're not killers,” Martin told him, as much looking for confirmation as making a statement.

  "No,” he put his hand on Martin's shoulder. “We're mess hiders. Now how about we go cover up a big one?"

  "What about the girl?"

  "Dara will take care of her."

  "And the Russian?"

  "He'll come with us."

  "You think you can still control him?” Martin wanted to know.

  "We're about to find out,” Charlie answered grimly.

  * * * *

  Dara slashed at the sobbing girl with a riding crop. “Snap out of it, bitch. It's play time, you and me."

  Simone cried out as the younger woman pulled her to a sitting position on the bed, using a handful of her hair for leverage. “You're hurting me."

  Dara hit her again with the whip. “You'll call me, mistress, you little slut, is that clear?"

  "Y-yes, mistress."

  "I told you you'd be mine,” dara reminded, yanking her hair to the roots so as to force back the prisoner's head. “And now you are. Oh, yes, we're going to have a good time. The masters are gone, probably for hours."

  "Dara, I'm so tired ... can't you please just..."

  Dara seized Simone's cunt, cutting her off mid sentence. “What did you say to me?"

  "N-nothing, mistress."

  "Damned right it was nothing. I think what you did mean to say was, ‘please, mistress, fuck me with a dildo.’”

  Simone had a piteous look on her face, one that made dara feel warm all over. Was she just identifying with the victimized woman, she wondered, or was she showing a little streak of sadism?

  "You wait here, sweetie, I'll go get it,” dara crooned as soon as Simone had repeated the request under duress.

  Dara fetched the black leather strap on and also a collar and cuff arrangement that would allow her to fix Simone's wrists to the back of her neck. This would serve to keep her hands out of the way while rendering her open and vulnerable for every penetrating position.

  For starters, she would fuck the bitch in the mouth. Pushing her onto her back, she climbed astride her disgustingly flat belly. “You're going to suck now, cunt, and you better moisten this thing up good, cause this is going in your asshole next."

  Simone parted her lips cooperatively for the thick, black member. It was made of hard rubber, bitter to the taste. Dara herself had been fucked by it a few times, on various occasions when masters would invite other girls over to dominate her.

  "Take it deep, cunt. Show me what a slut you are."

  The collared, shackled prisoner sucked obediently, drawing as much of the monster dick as she could to the back of her throat. Dara showed no mercy, fucking her face as if it were indeed a pussy.

  "You like this, don't you? You're a natural slave. It's written all over that slobbering, cock-sucking face of yours. I hear my master hasn't even done you yet. Too much other shit going on around here, right?"

  Dara wondered what it would be like to have a man get killed on top of her the way the Haitian had died on Simone. In effect, it would be like two men fighting over her, life and death. She hated Simone for being that kind of woman. No one had ever fought over dara. No one had ever even wanted her, not really, not till her master came along.

  "When they come back, if my master fucks you, he better hate it. You better make sure he has a shitty time. Or else.” Dara made her gag on the dildo, just to show her it could be done. For good measure, she plugged her nose, cutting off her air
. “We can have more than one body go out the front door today; just cross me, sweetheart and you'll find that out."

  Of course she would never dare do this, but Simone didn't have to know that. Dara pulled out, deciding she had had enough of this hole. “Turn over,” she ordered. “Get on your face."

  She made Simone pull her knees to her chest, sticking out her ass. It was awkward for her, with her hands so tightly confined.

  "This is where you belong, isn't it bitch?"

  "Yes, mistress."

  "A woman like you, probably lies awake at night, dreaming about men doing this to her."

  "Yes, mistress."

  Dara slapped her ass hard. “Don't bullshit me."

  "It's true mistress,” she winced. “I-I need this."

  "You fucked up my master's life, didn't you?"

  "I didn't mean to..."

  Dara pushed the dildo into the girl's anus, making her scream. “The hell you didn't."

  "I did ... I did ... I'm sorry."

  "You had too much power. Master says women shouldn't have power over men, it distorts their nature, and the men's, too."

  The artificial cock went deeper. Dara didn't care if she split her wide open. She just wanted her in pain, suffering.

  "We women are supposed to be the slaves. It's the natural order of things."

  "Oh, god ... no more, mistress!"

  "You'll take it if I say so."

  "Yes, mistress."

  "The only way I'll stop is if you lick my pussy. Would you like that? Would you like to slop up my pussy juices?"

  "Yes, yes, please, mistress, let me lick you!"

  She pushed an inch deeper. “Hypocritical bitch. Yesterday you wouldn't have let me kiss your big toe let alone offer to eat me out."

  "I was ... a bitch,” she grimaced. “Needed ... punishing."

  Dara punished her all right, with cock, keeping her in this split open misery a little longer. “I'm tired,” she said at last, flipping to her back. “Ride me, slave."

  Simone was made to mount the cock, sliding it into her sopping wet hole. Dara compelled her to buck wildly, slapping her with the whip every time she slowed down. Simone was screaming and coming and fucking, deprived of her hands, her breasts open to slaps and stings and bites. Dara managed to fit her own fingers under the strap on to reach her pussy so they were able at last to share a climax together. It was one of dara's best ever.