Our Only Hope, Chapter 08
WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.
All characters involved in sexual activity in this story are over the age of 18. If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.
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The Fourth Floor
I returned to The Blue Deuce a little after midnight. The same valet was still on duty. He greeted me with “Welcome back, Mister Guthrie. I’ll park your car in one of our VIP slots. Just tell them at the desk when you are ready to leave and I will have it ready for you.”
I handed him my keys and a twenty and said, “Remember it’s electric high torque and all that.”
“I won’t forget,” he replied as he took the keys and the bill. It’s funny how spending twenty thousand at a club in one night will greatly improve the service from the staff. Word evidently gets around in a hurry.
I walked past the reception desk to the elevator, which was open because someone else had just stepped into it. Elevators are death traps and I would normally never enter one that opened so conveniently, especially with a rather stocky man two inches taller than myself entering first. But since I was just Harold Guthrie, a rich business man from Ohio who wouldn’t be anywhere near as paranoid as W, I stepped into the elevator.
I swiped the key card through the reader beneath the standard buttons and waited. My pucker string got a little tighter when we started up rather than down, but then I noted that the button for the second floor had been pressed. The other man was evidently just a late visitor to the land of Bondage, Submission and Discipline. He and I did the standard avoid each other’s gaze routine required of all elevator travelers until the doors opened at the Second Floor and he stepped off. I again swiped my card and we started down.
I watched the lights above the door as they showed 2, then 1, then nothing as we still continued down. It felt like we went an additional two or three stories down before the elevator stopped and the rear doors opened. I turned around and stepped slowly out into a new reception area. There was a hostess desk very similar to what was upstairs except that the hostess behind this desk was wearing a slave collar, a very tight corset, very high-heeled shoes, and nothing else. I’m not normally into that type of fetish, but she did look sexy as hell standing there.
“Please swipe your card to verify membership and open a billing for food and drinks,” she said with a smile. When I did so, she said “Follow me,” stepped around the high desk and began walking into the inner room. Following behind her I realized why I’m not into corsets. From the front, the pressure from the corset cinched her waist and pushed up her boobs, but from the rear, it interfered with the natural motion of her buttocks. Her ass didn’t move like it should or at least like I preferred an ass to move.
“Is this table acceptable?” she asked brightly, gesturing toward a table a little back from front and center. There were a couple tables available up front, but I had a feeling I would have to drop more than twenty grand here to automatically be ushered up to those seats.
“This is fine,” I said as I seated myself such that I could easily see the stage and what appeared to be one or two side attractions at the corners of the room.
“Your slave will be with you shortly,” the hostess chirped as she turned and walked back to her station. At the restaurant in the hotel, the waitresses were “servers.” Upstairs in the main club, they were “servants.” Down here they were “slaves.” I wondered if the entertainment also stepped up– or down– accordingly.
A naked slave came running out a few moments later. She literally ran up to the table and dropped to the floor at my feet. Speaking from her prostrate position, she said, “This slave begs your forgiveness for my tardiness.” She took a deep breath and then, still with her head on the floor, said, “What may this worthless slave bring to an esteemed Master for his pleasure?”
With an introductory line like that, I wondered what all might be on the menu, but I decided to stick with bourbon no, Yukon Jack. I know a lot of connoisseurs consider it to be cough syrup made from distilled reindeer waste, but I find that the cheap Canadian whiskey, flavored with honey, makes a nice sipping liqueur and there is no danger that I might accidentally over-imbibe. With Jack, more than a sip is more than enough. “Yukon Jack,” I said. “ double neat.”
The slave ran off into the darkness and returned just seconds later with a heavy, double shot glass filled to the brim with an amber-colored drink. I took a very small sip and nodded at her. “That will be all for now,” I said.
She pointed to a call button on a pad near the center of the table. “If you need anything else,” she said hurriedly, “that button will buzz my collar.” She then turned and ran back into the darkness. I wondered how many tables she was responsible for and how fast she would have to be running before the night was over.
I sat back to survey my surroundings. Things seemed darker than the standard club dim upstairs. A dark blue-black curtain was drawn around the main stage area and all lights were off on-stage, but I could see or perhaps sense that there was more to the darkness. The carpeted floor was black. The walls up front were covered by the same dull, blue-black curtain that hid the stage. The ceiling was an open rafter works that had been painted a flat black. The walls, where I could see them, were either really old-style very dark concrete blocks or were some sort of faux-stone that was supposed to look like the basement dungeon of some ancient castle. I chuckled to myself. This was Master Walter’s club. This fit his personality.
On either side of the stage, in front of the curtains, were raised platforms– black, of course. On the platform on the left there was a wooden spanking bench which was currently empty. On the right was a strange pipe sticking up that had four large braces sticking out of it that were bolted to the top of the platform. Overall, it looked like it should be holding a large Christmas tree.
As I contemplated what its purpose might be, a loud argument caught my attention. A loud male voice was saying, “I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me tonight.” An equally loud female voice pleaded, “Please, Master, I won’t do it again. I’ll be good. Don’t do this to me. Don’t make me do this in public.”
I was wondering what “this” might be when the lights over the left-hand platform brightened and the Master at the table where the argument was occurring stood up and began dragging a naked girl toward the front. He had one hand on her arm near the shoulder. The other hand held her leash, which was pulled tight. It must have been a choker collar leash of some sort because as long as he kept tension on it, she moved with him. When he relaxed his pull on the leash, however, she would struggle as if trying to escape his grip.
Once they were up on the platform, he released her arm and she stood glaring at him defiantly. He pointed at the bench and said, “In place or it will be worse.”
She pulled back against the leash a couple of times and then said, “How could it be worse than you fucking me in the ass in front of all of these people?”
He laughed and said, “I could make you beg me to fuck you in the ass.”
In response she crossed her arms like an angry two-year old and continued to glare at him.
“OK then,” he said angrily. Then he called out, “Could I have some assistance up here?” and two muscular young men dressed in black jeans and black t-shirts with the word “Security” on their back hurried up onto the platform. He nodded at them and they grabbed the young woman by her arms, nearly lifting her off of the ground.
These two weren’t muscle-head type of muscle. They were lean and efficient and knew exactly what they were doing. They effortlessly set the naked slave over the top portion of the spanking bench and then one of them held her in place while the other strapped her shins to the lower padded step. Once he had one leg strapped in place, she tried to kick out at him with the other leg, but he grabbed her crotch as she started to kick and the energy left her leg. He didn’t seem to be grabbing her pussy, but instead seemed to be pressing his thumb into the inside of the leg joint in her crotch. She whimpered and lowered her leg slightly. He grabbed it and forced it in place. It only took him a few seconds to secure it to the padded step.
He then walked around in front of her and grabbed her arms. Putting a foot against the lower portion of the spanking bench frame, he pulled outward, stretching her arms tight. This forced her hips forward so that they were against the upper pad on the bench. The first security man then strapped her abdomen in place. He reached around her and made sure that her breasts were hanging down in the open area between the abdomen support and the shoulder support and then strapped her neck in place. The other man handed him one arm at a time and he forced them slightly forward and strapped her wrists to restraints alongside her head. When they were finished, they lifted the front end of the bench and turned it so that it was parallel to the front of the platform.
“Thank you,” the Master said gruffly, “but hang around. I might want you to turn the bench again once she begs me to fuck her.”
“That will never happen,” the bound slave almost yelled. Then she spat out, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
“No, you don’t,” her Master said almost gently. “You love me. And you love this.” He ran his hand down her back and over her ass before continuing, “You just can’t bring yourself to do it unless I make you.”
He stepped away from her and held out his hand. A naked waitress ran forward and placed a short, black leather paddle in his hand. He moved to stand next to his slave, patting the paddle softly against his hand. “Beg me,” he said. “Beg me to fuck you in the ass in front of all of these people.”
In response, the bound slave shook her head violently back and forth.
“OK, then,” the Master said, “we do it the hard way.” He then began spanking her ass with the leather paddle. It was nice to see someone who knew how to properly use this kind of flexible, whippy paddle. He started with standard spanks which he spread out over her entire ass and upper thigh area. Each spank hit with a loud “Thwack!” and the thwacks were evenly spaced a little over a second apart.
After maybe a minute’s worth of those, he started putting some wrist action into it that changed the sound of the paddle in the air and the sound of it striking the slave’s ass. There was a slight whooshing whiz just before a loud “Thawack!” You could hear the tip of the paddle strike just microseconds before the main portion of the paddle hit flesh. He was no longer warming her up, he was striking for effect. And it, indeed, had an effect. She began grunting and squirming with each strike.
After a short while, she began yelling at him, “You bastard! You fucker! You Son of a Bitch!” She kept up a varied rotation of those screams for the next five minutes or so. Then he stopped and walked around to the front of the platform. He stood there with the paddle held down in front of her face.
“There are two ways you can stop this,” he said firmly. “You can use your safe word or you can beg me to fuck you in the ass.”
She looked up at him defiantly and said nothing, so he moved back around into position and resumed spanking. He was now bringing the paddle well up past his shoulder on each strike. The whoosh-whiz now seemed slightly higher-pitched and the sound of the spank, itself, returned to being a very loud “Thwack!” I watched several strokes before I realized that he was stopping his hand slightly above her asscheek and letting the flex of the paddle carry through the strike itself. That is very hard to do, and takes some of the energy out of the swat, but it concentrates the blow onto a much smaller area of flesh.
After just a couple dozen of these swats, she called out, “Stop! Stop! Please Stop!”
“You know what will stop this,” he answered. “You either say your safeword or you beg me to fuck you in the ass.”
She looked up at him defiantly and he again began swinging the paddle. A half-dozen swats later she screamed out, “Stop! Stop! Fuck me! Fuck me!”
He leaned down close to her head and said in almost a child-like tone, “Fuck you where?”
“Fuck me in the ass. Fuck me in the ass,” she called out and began sobbing.
The Master gestured to the two security men who were standing by and they jumped back up onto the platform. “I want her to watch all the people watching her as I fuck her in the ass,” he said firmly. The slave’s sobs increased greatly when he said that.
After the spanking bench was turned so that the slave was staring straight out at the crowd, the two security men left the platform. As the Master walked around behind the slave, a naked waitress ran up and handed him a tube of lube. He walked back around in front of the bench and held the tube down in front of the slave’s face. “I should fuck you without this,” he said, “but you will have enough pain from the spanking.”
He then walked around behind her and opened his fly. He was impressively average. He didn’t appear to be overly long, but his girth would probably make anal not very pleasant for most women. He squirted some of the lube down between the slave’s swollen asscheeks and began rubbing it into her rosebud.
She immediately began moaning slightly. This was definitely not a cry of pain. She was very turned on and was responding to his fingers going in and out of her ass. He worked on her for several minutes, slowly working up from one finger to two and then three and then pushing all four fingers, bunched up into a wedge, in and out of her now stretched-out asshole.
She was starting to buck back against him and was shouting hoarsely, “Fuck me! Fuck me! Please fuck me!”
“You’re forgetting something,” the Master said mockingly.
“Fuck me in the ass!” the slave yelled back. “Please fuck me in the ass!”
“Since you beg so nicely,” he responded and pushed his prick into her waiting rosebud. He slid in an inch or so with no real resistance, but then he paused as she slowly opened up to allow him full entry. Then he started slowly pumping.
As he pumped, he ran his hands along her ass, obviously causing pain as he massaged the red and purple bruises. In response, the slave began a low, hoarse moan that got louder and louder and louder. He was as measured with his pumping strokes as he had been with his spanking strokes. There was no indication of anything from him as she continued to grow louder and her struggles against her bonds grew more and more frantic.
After several minutes, her cries suddenly turned very shrill and she began crying out, “No, no, oh God, no. Don’t make me cum. Don’t make me cum from an ass-fucking in front of all these people. Don’t let these people see me cuuuuuuummmmm!”
As she screamed out the word “cum” a final time, he drove hard into her ass, reaching forward and grabbing her hips to give himself even greater power as he pushed into her and, from his slight grunting groan, spurted into her bowels.
The Master pulled out of his slave shortly after climaxing, leaving her sobbing and calling out softly, “I am so ashamed. I am so ashamed.”
A naked waitress ran up to him and handed him a small towel or napkin. He wiped himself off and tucked himself back into his pants. Slave dolly meanwhile continued her sobbing litany of, “I am so ashamed. I am so ashamed.”
He patted her ass smartly and said, “Well then, we will just leave you up here for a while so the people can see what an humiliated ass slut really looks like.” She groaned loudly in despair as he stepped off the platform and returned to his table. As soon as he sat down, a naked waitress came running out to see if he desired anything now that he had finished with his slave.
A noise on the other side of the club brought my attention back to the right-hand platform. Six security men were carrying a large, round, metal object up onto the platform. I recognized that object, and I recognized the woman bound in the center of it. It was Mistress Tenesha in her steel globe.
The six men set the globe into its stand. There was a large, round apparatus that seemed to be attached to the globe and fit exactly around the shaft on the platform. It was hard to tell if the globe was supported by the shaft or the apparatus. Maybe they worked together. A thick electrical cord led back under the stage curtain. Once the men were confident that the globe was in place, one of them went backstage and evidently started the mechanism because the globe began to slowly turn.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Master Walter said from the center of the stage, standing in front of the curtain, “Masters and Mistresses, may I present Mistress Tenesha White in her World of Pain.”
As soon as he said those words, several blue-white arcs jumped from the interior peaks of the globe to the Mistress’ skin. “Whenever you buzz your servers this evening,” he said, smiling broadly, “you will also be buzzing Mistress Tenesha.” He paused to look over at her and chuckled. “I know that many of you will greatly enjoy that.” He chuckled again. “Mistress Tenesha, however, will not.”
As if to accentuate his point, several more arcs jumped from the metal peaks and Mistress Tenesha screamed in pain. Master Walter looked up slightly and said, “The Germans and the Argentineans have already redeemed their Masters and Mistresses. Why has nothing been done for Mistress Tenesha?” I looked up at the ceiling where Master Walter had fixed his gaze. The black dome of a security camera was barely visible amidst the black steel trusses.
The spotlight illuminating Master Walter went off and he strode off the stage. A few moments later, the curtains along the sidewalls were pulled towards the stage area, revealing five naked people restrained against the concrete walls. I didn’t recognize two of them, but one of them was Master Tyrone, one was Mistress Kelly, and one was Mastress Barbette. Mastress Barbette was semi-dressed in a tight corset which accentuated her breasts, but below the corset she was naked. Or perhaps I should say, he was naked below the corset because below the corset was obviously male genitalia.
Mastress Barbette was a cross-dressing transvestite Master whose secret fetish was not discovered until he was elevated from the Shadow Council to the Inner Circle. He felt he could not accept the position unless the rest of the Inner Circle knew fully what he was and accepted it, so before their vote, he revealed himself to the members of the Circle. To say it was a shock to most of the circle would be a great understatement. He had been a female shadow for Master Brodrick who never revealed to the Circle that Mistress Barbette was a man. No one could ask Master Brodrick if he had known because it was his death which elevated Mistress Barbette to a position on the Circle. After a great amount of discourse, the Circle said that they would accept him, but only as a Master, since he was a man. He argued that since he was a man who dressed as a woman, he should be received as a Mistress. Finally, one of the members of the Circle said, “What should we do? Receive you as a Mastress?” Mistress Barbette answered, “Exactly!” and that is what was done. Mastress Barbette became the first transvestite member of the Inner Circle.
I knew that if I left now, it would look suspicious, so I decided to stay for the show– or whatever it was that passed for entertainment down here in The Fourth Floor. I had just taken another sip of my Jack when the sound system started wailing a very familiar tune and four of the security men walked slowly up the aisle carrying a basket that was hanging from two poles held over their shoulders. The curtains opened and they walked up the stairs onto the stage.
After they set the basket down and left the stage, a familiar-looking green arm began snaking its way up from the basket. She had just begun to rise out of the basket when I noticed someone pulling the other chair away from my table. I turned my head slightly to see Walter Monty sitting next to me.
“So,” he said nodding his head at the stage, “is this the act you remember from Iowa?”
The fact that at least four security men in addition to his bodyguards were standing behind him told me that my answer was very important. In fact, my life could very well depend on what I said. Obviously, something was the same and something was different from the act I had watched in Iowa. I sipped my drink, trying to look relaxed while at the same time carefully examining everything I was seeing on stage. The basket was different from what was used at [/i]Colonel Boogie’s[/i], but Wyatt only had two people helping him so there was no way they could have brought in the basket hanging between two poles. Looking more carefully at the dancer, I could see that she seemed slightly different than the dancer I had watched in Iowa. She looked older and harder.
I took another sip. This was possibly a trap. No, this was definitely a trap. Master Walter was trying to somehow verify WHEN I had been at his brother’s club. I had no way to know the correct answer, so I just had to go with my gut and guess.
“Well,” I said, “the girl looks the same, but that is definitely a different basket.”
“They’re sisters,” Master Walter said. “I wanted to give her little sister a chance to break in someplace where it wouldn’t affect my club’s reputation, so I sent her off to Iowa. Big sister wanted to protect little sister and went out there for a couple weeks to make sure everything was safe. Little sister just started there last Friday.”
I looked over at Master Walter and put on my best concerned face. “Something bad happened to your brother, didn’t it?” I said. “And you needed to be sure I had nothing to do with it.” I paused and said, “I hope it’s not something you can’t help him get out of.”
“Not your problem,” he said flatly. “I’ll deal with it.”
He then turned to the men standing behind him and said, “He checks out. He’s just a dumb rich bastard from Ohio.”
I waited until he and his entourage had walked back into the darkness before again picking up my drink. I didn’t want him to see how badly my hand was trembling. One of these days, I’m going to guess wrong, but so far my gut hasn’t let me down.
I finally took a large sip of my drink and watched as Lady– big sister– Anaconda danced her way around the room, slithering from table to table. As she came past my table, I was able to get a better look at her. There was a family resemblance to the young woman who danced at Colonel Boogie’s, but this woman looked much harder and more experienced than her younger sister. I wondered how many years of dancing in clubs like this it took before a woman acquired that hard, plastic shell.
I waited for her to dance her way back to the stage and then pressed the server call button in the center of my table. The scream from Mistress Tenesha reminded me that it wasn’t only my server who got “buzzed” when I pressed the button. My close brush with Walter Monty had distracted me and I forgot. Maybe that was for the best. Even if I knew what it would do, I would still have had to press the button. Harold Guthrie would enjoy hearing the bound woman in the metal globe scream. He might even push the button a couple extra times just to hear the sound of her screams.
My slave came running up to my table. “Do you have a menu?” I asked. “I might be in the mood to try something new.”
She replied, “I can recite the menu for you. Do you want food or beverage?”
“Beverage,” I replied.
“Beer, wine, or liquor?”
It was like using an on-line menu. “Beer, I think,” I said, wondering what she would say next.
What she did was start down a litany of every beer that they carried both on tap and in cans or bottles. I was trying hard not to laugh when suddenly I heard, “Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier Dark.”
“Wait!” I said rapidly. “Go back to the weird sounding one. That sounds different.” Actually I am very familiar with that brand. Weihenstephaner is a German dark ale that is imported into the United States.
“Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier Dark?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “that one. Is it any good?”
“It’s a dark ale if you like that sort of thing,” she said. It was obvious it wasn’t her choice of drink.
“I don’t know if I’ll like it,” I answered, “but I’m trying a lot of new things tonight, so why not?”
Less than a minute later, a 1 liter bottle of Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier Dark and an ice-cold, frosted glass were sitting on my table. I didn’t bother to tell her that German beer or ale is supposed to be served at room temperature or only slightly chilled. Harold Guthrie wouldn’t know something like that. The bottle felt like it was only slightly chilled, so I held the glass in my hand for a minute or so, warming it while I pretended to be trying to read the label on the bottle. Then I poured the ale into the glass. I slid the first part of the bottle down the side of the glass and then moved out to the center to create a proper head. When I was done, I had something to enjoy while I waited an appropriate time before leaving.
I had just taken my first sip when Walter Monty stepped out on stage. Lady Anaconda was gone. The four men with the poles had carried her basket back out through the club while I was futzing with my glass. I hadn’t seen how she ended her act, but I assume that she somehow actually dropped back into the basket since the lights had never dimmed.
“We need a volunteer,” he announced loudly. Then he laughed and said, “ or an unwilling participant.”
While he was speaking, two security men rolled a strange-looking device out onto the stage. It was about six feet long and had what looked like two small flatbed train cars on it. In the very center was a silver pole.
“Now, gentlemen,” Master Walter said sternly, “don’t make me draw membership numbers.
I heard a young woman loudly whine, “But I went up there last time we were here.”
“I know,” her Master replied. “That’s why we came back.”
A tall, willowy redhead stood up and walked slowly up to the stage. Except for her collar and leash, she was completely naked. Although she was devoid of all hair below the neck, there was no doubt that she was a natural redhead. Only true redheads have nipples that are that pink and only natural redheads are that pink between the legs. Her labia, as well as some of the skin outside her slit, was a bright shade of pink.
As she stepped up on stage her master called out loudly, “Show ‘em your pink little asshole, cutie-pie.” She paused and bend forward at the waist until her head was nearly on the floor. Her rosebud definitely looked like a rose bud shining out from between her porcelain white asscheeks.
There was a drunken cry of “I’ve got to taste that,” and a very inebriated young man staggered toward the stage. Six security men appeared from nowhere and grabbed him while he was still a good distance short of the steps. One of them said loudly, “Now, now, Frankie, you come with us and we will call your daddy. One more time, and he will revoke your privileges or we will.”
The young drunk went with them willingly. He really didn’t have much choice. A security man was on either side of him tightly holding his arm just below the shoulder. Another was behind him with a solid grip on his neck. One of the other security men walked in front of them as they went to the back of the club. The other two walked behind them, heads swiveling back and forth in case he had any drunken buddies with him who might want to cause a scene. I was definitely impressed with Walter Monty’s security team.
Meanwhile on stage, Master Walter was saying, “The safeties are on,” as he took the naked slave by the hand and positioned her on the strange machine. He made sure that one foot was on each of the little flatcars and that the shiny pole was aimed directly up between her legs. A naked young woman– perhaps one of the waitresses– came up on stage and strapped the slave’s feet in place.
“We have to get this pole at just the right height,” Master Walter said as he twisted and raised the shiny spear and pushed it slightly into the slave’s cunt.
“Now we give you something to hold on to,” he said brightly as the naked helper lifted a chain and fastened a restraint on slave cutie pie’s left hand. She then repeated the procedure with the right hand. When she was done, the chains hung slack, but Master Walter held up what looked like a remote and said, “Let’s set the hand pulls.” He pushed a button and both chains pulled taut. Either they were spring loaded or, more likely, they were connected to an electrically-driven ratchet system of some sore.
“Here is how this works,” he explained to the obviously frightened slave. “Once I release the foot rollers, they will be free to slide all the way out or all the way back in.” He chuckled. “You don’t want them in either of those positions. What you want to do is to hold your feet exactly where they are now. Do you think you can do that? for ten minutes?”
Slave cutie-pie gave a very nervous nod. Then Master Walter turned to the crowd and asked loudly, “Do you think she can do that?”
There were several calls of “Yes,” but the majority called out, “No.” One very loud voice, which sounded like her Master, yelled out, “Hell no!”
Master Walter again turned to the now terrified slave and said, “Since so many of the people here think you can’t do it, we are going to give you some encouragement. Whenever the sliders come all the way in, you will feel an electric shock on your feet like this.”
The slave yelped and attempted to pull her feet together and lift her cunt off the silver pole. Master Walter laughed and said, “I think you have discovered that since both feet are riding on the same rail, we had to find somewhere else to act as a ground terminal for our electric current.” He laughed again and wiggled the shiny pole that was impaling slave cutie-pie. “Or maybe I should say we found a ground stake.”
He looked at slave cutie-pie who was starting to breathe hard and was looking like she was close to panicking. “Now that was an unpleasant shock, wasn’t it?” Master Walter asked her. Then he said, “But the shock is three times stronger if you let the foot sliders touch the outside stops.”
Master Walter now stood alongside the machine and once again held up his remote. “The controls are set for ten minutes” A digital display descended from above showing 10:00 minutes on it. “ and once the timer starts nothing can stop it not me not you and definitely not slave cutie-pie.”
I doubted that was true. I was sure that a simple push of a button on the remote would shut down the machine, but Master Walter was making it clear to everyone– especially slave cutie-pie– that her safeword would be ignored for the next ten minutes.
“So that you don’t accidentally fall off the machine,” Master Walter said firmly, “we’ll need a safety support.”
A cable now descended from the ceiling. The cable was split in two about three feet from its end. The two branches connected to what looked like a steel posture collar with Frankenstein bolts extending out several inches from the sides of the neck area.
“This is one size fits all,” Master Walter said cheerily as he strapped the metal posture collar in place around slave cutie-pie’s neck. It was somewhat loose on her neck, with plenty of room for her own collar under it, but the flare which went under her chin and behind the back of her head seemed to be adequately tight to hold her head. Once it was in place, he used his remote to tighten the cable until she was just barely held upright by it.
“A drum roll please,” he said dramatically and the sound of a drum came over the speakers. On the final hit of the drum roll, he pressed something on the remote and slave cutie-pie’s legs suddenly slid wide apart.
You could hear the sliders slam against the outside stops just before she screamed and pulled her legs back together. She screamed again as the sliders hit the inside stops. There were four or five more slams and screams as the sliders slid to the inner and outer extremes before slave cutie-pie was finally able to stop her legs mid-way and prevent further shocks.
She stood rigidly still for a moment, but then one of her feet moved slightly and she tried to pull her legs partially together to stop the slide. With both feet sliding freely, however, she overcorrected and slammed her legs together. This time she didn’t scream, but only yelped slightly as the current went through her feet and her cunt. She tried stopping her legs as they automatically spread from the pain of the shock, but she was unable to regain control and her left leg went all of the way out.
There was no loud slamming clunk this time, and no scream. There wasn’t even a yelp, just a low-pitched grunt as the current buzzed her left leg and her cunt. I could see muscle tension in her arms as she tried– unsuccessfully– to stabilize herself. Her left leg pulled in while her right moved out and she ended up hitting the stops with both feet, her left leg hitting the inside stop and the right leg hitting the outside stop.
Without pulling her right leg in, she moved her left leg out until it, too, was against the stop. Then, with her body vibrating from the shocks, she slowly pulled both legs inward until they were at the midway point. The look of relief on her face lasted for several seconds until one foot again started to move slightly. She pulled as hard as she could against the chains holding her hands, but the little stabilization that pull provided wasn’t enough and the whole cycle began again.
When the shocks hit, she threw back her head and again screamed loudly. This time much more loudly than she had originally screamed. She also lost control of her bladder and sprayed the stage. Obviously, the voltage had stepped up higher. Her body now more than vibrated. It shook violently as the higher voltage assailed her feet and her cunt, the current coursing through her legs causing them to shake like a cheap Elvis impersonator. She must have done a cleansing routine in preparation for going out with her Master tonight because she did not lose control of her bowels– or at least there was nothing to expel.
This cycle of pulling herself into the center and holding it for a few moments before losing control and slamming into either the inner or outer stops continued. The voltage evidently stepped up twice more, judging from the yelps and the increased shaking of her legs. Finally, shortly after the timer read 03:00, she gave up, letting her legs spread completely and hanging there from the weird posture collar letting the voltage bounce and shake her body like a marionette on a puppet stage.
When the timer finally ran out, there was a huge burst of applause from the crowd. Master Walter went back up on stage and called for some assistance from his security men. Four of them hurried up on stage and held slave cutie-pie while he adjusted the chrome spike down out of her cunt. When he removed the steel posture collar, she slumped forward and would have fallen if it had not been for the men holding her in place. Master Walter then stepped away and the men released her arm restraints and unstrapped her feet from the roller platforms. One of them then picked her up and carried her back to her Master’s table. When she appeared to have difficulty staying in the chair, one of the men produced a long, black silk scarf and tied it around her body under her arms to hold her in place. She sat there staring glassy-eyed at her own Master as Master Walter stepped back on stage to introduce another act.
While he was talking, I got up and walked to the elevator at the back of the club. I had seen enough. I now knew where Walter Monty was and where several of the hostages were held, including Master Tyrone and Mistress Tenesha. The only problem was that there was no way some simple trick out of Boris’ magic box was going to set them free. Master Walter was no Wyatt; his highly trained security team were not Bill and Ted; and the specially-constructed room beneath The Blue Deuce was no Colonel Boogie’s. I was going to need some serious help pulling this one off.
Luckily for me, among the few trusted people for whom Master Randolph had given me names was Sam Two Feathers. I knew Sam. I had helped him when his wife’s sister was abducted by some crazies who hated “Indians” but for some reason wanted Precious Rock as their squaw / sex slave. Sam knew who they were and where they were, but the tribal authorities wouldn’t listen to him because they considered him white. The local authorities wouldn’t listen to him because he was “just an indian,” and “it was an indian matter.” He needed a white man to act as a go-between with the racist white authorities and I was eminently qualified for that.
He would handle the tribal side of it. He was eminently qualified for that, or should have been. Sam Two Feathers was full-blooded Sioux, or at least as full-blooded as anyone can be anything, but he wasn’t on the official tribal registry and therefore was not a member of the tribe. His wife, Ruby Waters was removed from the tribal registry when she married Sam against her father’s wishes. Sometimes it’s nice to know that prejudice and bigotry isn’t isolated to one ethnic group.
We got Precious Rock back alive and intact, but she would need a lot of counseling and therapy before resuming her normal life. I had the foresight to take a couple of federal agents with us when we raided these scumbags’ love nest in the mountains. Their presence had a calming– or at least restraining– effect on Sam, so the four men who had abducted Precious Rock ended up alive, but would spend most of the rest of their lives in prison. In appreciation for returning Precious Rock, Sam’s father-in-law got Ruby Waters reinstated on the tribal registry. That means Sam Two Feathers’ children are official Sioux even though they live off the reservation.
Sam works as a private security consultant in the LA area. If you ask him what he does, he will tell you that he provides a scary face when rich people need to keep tourists and paparazzi away from their gates. I’ve seen his company at work and he definitely can provide more than just a scary face.
I waited until morning, got out an unused burner phone and re-registered the phone number to one of my standbys. Then, using my computer program, I texted him on his private number, “Hi Ho Silver to my favorite contrary. Need to talk. Burner phone #3. Text back time you will call.”
About fifteen minutes later, I received a text that said only, “14:05"
It was a little past eight in the morning, so that gave me some more needed sleep time. I woke up around noon and went down to the hotel restaurant for lunch. I debated taking a swim, but decided that a sunburn might interfere with the task at hand. Besides, if people saw me in swim trunks, they might wonder how a businessman from Ohio ended up with so many battle scars. I was waiting on my balcony when the phone rang at exactly five minutes after two.
If someone was somehow listening in on the call, they would have been very confused. Sam and I had talked about the Contraries in Sioux tradition. They lived their lives backward. They also talked backwards sort of. Their answers were always reversed. When I called him my favorite Contrary, I indicated that this was to be a contrary conversation.
His first question was, “Is this W?”
“Can you talk?”
I then asked some questions of my own, beginning with, “Are you under any pressure from anyone concerning me?”
I relaxed. The Monty brothers and their traitor within The Society weren’t pressuring Sam.
“What was the name of Tonto’s horse?” I asked.
“Silver,” He answered. Then he added, “The Lone Ranger rode Scout, Kemosabe.”
I laughed and said, “Enough contrariness. We need to talk in person.”
He said flatly, “High Rooftop Lounge, Venice Boardwalk, One hour.” Then he hung up.
It took me fifty minutes to drive to Venice Beach and another ten to find the High Rooftop Lounge. After I had climbed the stairs, the hostess came up to me and I said, “I am supposed to meet someone here.”
I was still trying to decide if Sam had given his real name when a young man with a very military bearing walked up to me and said, “Are you Kemosabe?”
The hostess looked shocked, but I nodded and said, “Yup.”
“Follow me,” the young man said and turned and walked to a nearly empty section of the club. Three additional very lean and muscular young men were standing near the outside edges of the roof. As we approached the table where Sam was seated, the man guiding me veered off and took up a post on the outside wall. All four young men were facing outward, forming a square around the table where Sam sat smiling at me. I had forgotten just how intimidating Sam Two Feathers’ smile could be.
“You look pretty good for a dead man,” he said as I sat down.
“What do you know about the Monty brothers?” I asked.
“I know you are after them,” he replied. “Master Randolph said you might be in touch, but that was before the incident in Vegas.”
“Some poor sap stole the wrong truck,” I said slowly. “Unfortunate for him; lucky for me; they think I’m dead, so I’ve been able to infiltrate Walter Monty’s club here in LA.”
“And you need my help to capture him and free the hostages,” Sam said in his flat, bass-voiced way of talking.
“That pretty much says it all,” I answered.
“What have we got?” he said, leaning forward and setting a piece of paper and a pen on the table. I started drawing the layout as best I could remember.
“The only entrance seems to be the elevator from The Blue Deuce,” I explained, “but I’m betting there are fire escapes or rat holes out through the strip mall. We might be able to get in through there.”
“Have you looked at the Fire Marshall’s files on both buildings?” he asked.
“I think Boris would have checked that,” I replied and he laughed.
“Not unless he had someone on the inside or got a court order,” Sam said. “Those files aren’t kept on line. You have to go into the office itself to look at them, and you have to have a court order or be part of a Fire Marshall investigation.”
I said “Shit!” and Sam smiled at me.
“Luckily,” he said, “I have both when I need them.” He then laid a small tablet on the table and brought up some images. There were three fire exits out of the hidden club area. Two led directly into the hallways. The third led through the dress shop.
“We will have to block the elevator entrance,” he said flatly, “and create enough threat and confusion that people will stampede out the safety exits.”
“How will they know they are even there?” I asked. “I was down there and didn’t see any indication of them.”
Sam smiled again. “In case of an earthquake,” he said in his flat way of speaking, “those doors will automatically open and guide lights will glow in the walls or on the ceiling.”
“Great!” I said, sounding much more animated than Sam. “Now all we have to do is arrange for an earthquake on cue.”
Sam’s smile widened. “Did you know,” he said, “that all elevators are required to have an earthquake sensor in the bottom of the shaft? And that a relatively small explosion would trigger that sensor?”
“Wouldn’t that be a little rough on anyone in the elevator?” I asked.
“I hate collateral damage as much as you do,” he said firmly. “There will be no one in the elevator because you will be the one triggering the blast. And with my help, Boris will have control of the elevator. But we have to go tonight before they move the hostages.”
Hopefully, the W team was about to score a surprise run in a game that was supposedly already over.
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END OF CHAPTER
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