W's efforts to free the abducted members of The Society take him to a seedy BDSM club in Rio.
This is Chapter Two of a book. The characters and situations will be more understandable if the previous chapters have been read. Because it is a book, some of the chapters are more exciting than others, and some situations do not complete until the next chapter. I could have run this through my regular publisher and made a couple hundred dollars, but I am posting it instead because many more people read my posts than buy my books.
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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.
Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2019 by The Technician ([email protected] ).
Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.
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It was just a little short of two in the morning when both of my computers and three of my cellphones all began screaming in an imitation of those horrid European sirens which sound like a tenor donkey with his balls caught in a barbed-wire fence. To say that I was now wide awake would be the world’s greatest understatement.
One of the computers was showing alarm footage from my primary home, the second was showing my lake house. One of the phones was flashing the message, “Home,” the second said, “Lake,” and the third said, “Pearl Harbor!”
My house and the cabin at the lake were both in flames. It was apparent that there were several vehicles surrounding each. Had I been at either location, I would now be dead, but I was born paranoid and got worse as I grew up. As soon as I realized that things were getting wonky, I had moved to one of my deepsafe locations. The locals here think I’m an eccentric millionaire who likes to play hermit up in the old mine shacks on the mountaintop.
Part of that is true. There are five old mine shacks on the very top of the mountain– actually a broad “bald knob,” as such rounded summits are called here. There was evidently something valuable in this hunk of rock at one time or another because it is honeycombed with hand-drilled mine tunnels going every which direction. During one or the other of our various cold wars, Uncle Sam was the owner of this knob. Thanks to some outrageous, taxpayer-funded expenditures, it is possible to enter a highway tunnel at the base of this mountain and, by turning into a service area in the middle of the tunnel, drive all the way up to the top of the knob underground. The old command center is a rather nice living area if you don’t mind the fact that you are totally underground. When I need some fresh air or want to survey the surrounding countryside with my own eyes rather than through the network of cameras hidden in the trees, I can go up into one of the shacks– actually heavily-armored guard stations.
Since the existence of this facility was supposed to be top secret, and since I own it through several layers of dummy corporations, I feel relatively safe here. At least, I feel a lot safer than I would be at my now burning house or cabin. There are only two other people who know of the existence of this safehouse, and one of them just signaled that he was under attack.
The Pearl Harbor alarm was sent by Boris. There had obviously been a coordinated attack or raid on my houses and my associates. His alarm and the automatic alarms from my house and cabin had come in at the same time. I considered for a brief moment that it might have been a government raid of some sort, but the videos from my alarm systems made it clear that there had been no attempt to capture– or even talk– to me. There was intense covering fire as the SUVs arrived on scene at the house and cabin. The fiery explosions occur moments later. Someone wanted me dead. Hopefully, they did not have the same plans for Boris.
A fourth cellphone chirped indicating a text. I know, “What kind of person keeps four cellphones active at the same time?” The answer to that is “A very paranoid one who is still alive.”
The text was a short question, “Shangri-la 1,2,3, or 4?” Boris was still alive and asking where I was hiding. I have six safehouses, but if Boris didn’t ask about four, he was being pressured. If he asked about three, he needed rescue. If he asked about five, he was totally compromised. Six meant “I’m screwed. Save yourself.”
I texted back “3.” Had it been any of the other places, I would have had to send complete directions, but Boris helped me set up the electronics at this site. He already knew how to get here. There was nothing to do now, but wait.
Boris must have driven straight through... or as straight as a paranoid person like Boris would drive while doubling back, changing cars, and doing all of the other things necessary to make sure you weren’t being followed. It was almost dark the next day when I got another short text. All it said was “15.” He was fifteen minutes out.
I sat watching the cameras which showed the inside of the highway tunnel. A light gray compact car turned off into the emergency stopping area and then turned into the opening which said, “Maintenance Vehicles Only.” Once it was inside the small garage-like area, I opened the back wall to allow it onto the internal road. I would wait until I was positive it was not being followed and was alone before allowing them the rest of the way out to where I was holed up.
The vehicle stopped at the wide creek which flowed through a deep ditch that had been worn through the road. It looked like an underground stream had washed out this hidden road years ago. There was even a pile of debris on the other side of the creek which looked like a destroyed roadbed that curved off in the direction of the flow of water.
Boris got out of the car and stood staring across the creek. He was genuinely bewildered. He had only been here twice before and had never seen the full extent of my protections. I waited a few minutes to see what he would do. No one else got out of the car, although Boris appeared to occasionally be looking at someone in the passenger seat. No other vehicles appeared out of the shadows. After several minutes, he screamed out something and pounded his fist on the hood of the car hard enough to create a dent. Then he kicked a tire and stomped back over to the driver’s side. Just as he opened the door, I triggered the mechanism to lower the drawbridge.
Boris stared wide-eyed as the sheer face of rock on the opposite side of the creek slowly opened and a bridge descended across the stream to complete the roadway. As soon as he had driven over the bridge, I returned the drawbridge to the closed position.
His first words when he arrived at the control center were, “How much fucking money do you have, W?”
I smiled at him and said, “All of my currency if very chaste, but there is a lot of it. My machines and detective work are more like hobbies that I really enjoy. I am what I like to call, independently wealthy. I have patents on a couple of critical processes used in making microcircuits. The royalty payment is only a fraction of a cent each, but when you multiply that by hundreds of millions, it does add up.”
I turned my attention back to the car and said, “I assume that the person with you is Natasha... or whatever her true name is.”
A stunningly beautiful blonde stepped out of the car and stared intently at me with bright blue eyes that were obviously evaluating what she saw. She was wearing a rather loose-fitting black pantsuit that almost looked like men’s pajamas. Her voluminous curves, however, made it very apparent she was not a man. Her 38D breasts were clearly outlined in the front of the stretched material and the ample curve of her gluteus maximus strained the limits of the seams around her buttocks. As she walked toward me, I could see her muscles rippling beneath the fabric as she moved with the lithe grace of a dancer... or an athlete... or a highly-trained soldier.
“My name really is Natasha,” she said in a deep, almost husky voice as she approached me. She held out her hand. Her grip as I shook her hand was as firm as any man’s. “Boris, on the other hand,” she said with a smile, “is really Barry.”
She paused to look at Boris and then continued, “When we were children together in Moscow, the agents watching him always referred to us as Boris and Natasha. My father’s agents picked it up and...” She made a slight gesture with her shoulders and hands that was very typical of someone from Russia.
“My father was the political officer at the embassy in Moscow,” Boris said with a slight smile. “Natasha’s father was a high level officer in the KGB.”
Natasha quickly corrected him with “FSK, dear. FSK.”
“FSK,” Boris said looking over at her, “or FSB or whatever they call it tomorrow, your father was always KGB... like his father before him.”
“And like he groomed you to one day be,” I said calmly.
She again shrugged and said, “Perhaps.” Her voice had a sad quality to it as she continued, “But I fell in love with an American.” She stroked Boris’ hair and said, “An extremely nerdy, unbelievably brilliant American who loved me for what I could think with my mind...” The muscles on her face and arms suddenly went very tense. “... not for what I could do with my body.”
I decided to move the conversation back to the business at hand. “Are either of you hurt?” I asked. “Did you get away clean?”
Natasha’s face suddenly went blank and she said flatly, “They got poopsie. I couldn’t save her. I don’t know if she is hurt. I don’t even know if she is alive.”
I looked over at Boris and he had that deer-in-the-headlights look of a man who didn’t want to say anything. Then he let out a deep breath and began, “W, I think it’s pretty obvious that Natasha is more woman than I– or any man– could ever handle. ... And I’m pretty vanilla. ... She, on the other hand, is more... adventuresome.”
“Our relationship,” Natasha took over, “is as American as apple pie with vanilla ice cream on it.” Her voice was starting to show a slight Russian accent. Evidently she was becoming more relaxed about me. “And I remain faithful to him,” she continued. She gave him a quick smile and added, “... in my own way.”
She pulled Boris over alongside her. His head reached only to her shoulders. She continued, “I have never been with any other man since I met Barry.” She paused and once again smiled at him.
“We are equals,” she said firmly. “But I have other needs and I have kept a series of pets– all female– with which I amuse myself.”
“Should I call you Mistress Natasha?” I asked calmly.
“Only my pets call me Mistress,” she said quickly. Her voice sounded very hard as she said that. It softened as she continued, “To the world, I am just a nerdy brain with a good looking body. I prefer not to be noticed and do not call attention to myself by frequenting the clubs.”
“Like a well-trained spy,” I said softly. When she gave me a very angry look, I pushed my luck and added, “... or assassin.”
“That is in my past,” she said firmly. With the look she was now giving me, I greatly hoped that was indeed true.
“The men who attacked us,” Boris said slowly, “underestimated her.” He paused to take a deep breath and the added, “They already had poopsie in their van when they went for me in my lab.” A flash of intense anger showed on his face. “They somehow had neutralized all my alarms and defenses. Nat was asleep. I think they thought that poopsie was her and were caught totally by surprise when she dropped the first one. The other tried to shoot her, but she can put a knife through the center of an ace of spades from a hundred yards. He didn’t have a chance.”
“The others in the van must have been listening and heard the grunt of the man when the knife hit,” Natasha continued. “He also shot wildly as he went down. As soon as the man’s gun went off we heard the woosh of an RPG. Luckily it detonated toward the front of the house.”
“And even more luckily,” Boris interrupted, “my saferoom and escape tunnel are in my lab. We were in the bunker before the second RPG detonated, and down the tunnel before the third breached the reinforced walls of the saferoom.”
There was severe anger in Natasha’s heavily-accented voice as she said, “They must have gotten the plans from the previous owner because they knew exactly how to breech the saferoom, but they evidently didn’t know about the tunnel Boris added to the secondary safe room below the garage. We waited until they left and got the hell out of there.”
We stood looking at each other in silence for a long while. Then I said, “We have to get to Rio. I’m not sure where they are keeping slave ines but she was there.” I felt the bile gather in the back of my throat as I said, “Normally, I would call in a couple favors, but I don’t know who in The Society I can trust.”
“I can get transportation and some trusted men through my father,” Natasha said firmly. All accent had left her voice. So had any emotion. She was now well beyond anger. I wisely said nothing but instead kept looking at Boris.
“Any way you can find ines?” I asked
“Me, no,” he answered, “but I have friends who can... especially since we know she came in through Cabo Frio Airport.”
I made a sweeping gesture and ushered Boris and Natasha to the old control center which was outfitted as my electronics room. “Direct microwave link to the backbone,” I said softly to Natasha as her eyes widened at the banks of computer servers and work stations. Boris said nothing, but instead sat at one of the stations and began typing.
I looked over his shoulder as he connected to his cloud storage and ***********ed several images. I have no idea where he posted his message, which read, “I have been attacked and my wife’s most precious friend has been kidnapped. I am calling in all favors and pledging my future help to anyone who can help me locate this woman and the people who are holding her. She was brought into the Rio de Janeiro area through the Cabo Frio Airport sometime in the last ten days.” He then added a series of hashtags that looked to me like nonsense words. Those were followed by several emojis, the last two of which were the cartoon characters Boris and Natasha.
“Now we wait,” he said softly when he was finished.
Natasha, meanwhile was sending out messages of her own... in Russian. She was evidently texting someone. “I have a plane and four bodyguards,” she said firmly when she was finished. “They can be at the local airport in about three hours time and take us to Rio.” She gave me an odd smile and said, “Father says his men cannot get involved in local issues, but they have been ordered to keep me safe.”
“Meaning?” I asked.
“You really don’t want to know,” Boris replied flatly. Then he brightened slightly and said, “But with any luck we won’t need daddy’s muscle.”
“In that case,” I replied, “let’s get a couple hours sleep while your friends scour out some information on Master Randolph and slave ines.”
Boris shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t think sleep is what Natasha wants right now. She needs to work off her fear and anger and poopsie isn’t around.” He gave me a wrinkled smile as Natasha pulled him in the direction of where I had said the sleeping quarters were. I was starting to understand how Boris kept himself so thin.
Four hours later we were back in the control room. I... and Natasha... looked somewhat refreshed. Boris looked like a college student after an all nighter before mid-terms. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said quickly. “After Natasha and I... after I calmed down Natasha, I came back here and looked through airport security tapes that one of my friends sent me.” He brought up several images. One clearly showed ines and Master Randolph being led through the airport by several men.
“According to my friends, those are local thugs,” Boris said. “As far as I can tell, they have no connection to The Society. They do, however, run a local BDSM club called ‘Ela Diabo.’ I think it means She Devil or something like that.” He gave me a slight grin, “At least that’s what the online translator said.”
“I know of the place,” I said, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. “It’s a human trafficking den and the type of place that gives our legitimate clubs a bad name. The Society has worked to get it shut down, but there is too much local corruption.”
I could hear my voice hardening as I said, “It’s run by a man named Rodriguez.” I huffed slightly and added, “They call him Rod, or The Stiff One. He evidently prides himself on how long he can keep going... with or without chemical inducement. He’s pretty secretive. I’ve never seen him, and there are no known photos of him.”
“I’ll arrange a flight through poppa,” Natasha said. Then she added, “... plus ground transportation and extras at the other end.”
The flight to CFD airport was a little over ten hours. It would have taken a little over twelve for a a commercial flight, but the Gulfstream G650ER can fly higher and faster than most commercial craft. A commercial flight also would not have had a well-equipped electronics station.
“As Boris sat down at the computer keyboard, I said, “You do realize that everything you do on this plane will be recorded by the Russian government?”
He looked up at me and said, “And the US government... as it always is. My going through a Russian government hub just saves them both a couple steps in their data collection.” He smiled and added, “And the content will give the techs on both sides an excuse to check out some dark web porn sites.”
I slept. So did Natasha. Boris was the dark web expert, so there was little I could do. And in the small cabin there was little Natasha and Boris could do to relieve her tensions. I don’t think it would have bothered Natasha to go ahead and put more stars on their Mile High Club badges in front of everyone, but Boris seemed a little more conservative in his approach to sex. Natasha evidently could read my thoughts... or my body language. She leaned in toward me and said in a very soft, almost laugh, “My little Barry is more than vanilla. He is almost an uptight prude.” Her voice got slightly louder as she said, “But he loves me and I love him. ... And he lets me exercise my wild side with my pets like poopsie.” She leaned back in and said softly, “Not all men would be so understanding.” She then reclined her seat fully and settled in to sleep.
I must have been more tired than I thought, or perhaps it was because I was in a relatively safe place for the first time in a week. In any case, I didn’t notice anything else until the wheels touched the runway with a loud screech. That’s one thing about these small jets that I never quite get used to. In a large jet, you don’t normally hear the wheels touch down unless the pilot makes a really sloppy landing. In the small jets, even with a really good landing, there is always a little noise.
We didn’t go to the normal terminal. Instead the plane taxied to a private area near some small hangars. A black, SUV-style limo was waiting for us on the taxiway. There were four men in addition to the driver, so it was a bit cramped for changing clothes in the back, but the three of us managed. By the time we reached the club, Boris and I were wearing black tuxedos. Natasha was wearing a black, form-fitting club dress that nearly touched the ground. There was a slit on the right side that went up almost to her waist, showing a great deal of her well-formed legs.
While we were changing, I discovered three interesting things about Natasha. One she was a natural blonde. Two she didn’t wear underwear. And three, she had two knives plus a small automatic strapped to her body in strategic places that somehow still didn’t show through her skin-tight clothing. All five of the men who came with the SUV had that hard, military look to them, but I was betting that Natasha was, by far, the most dangerous person in the vehicle.
As we drove, Boris brought us up to date. “I’ve hacked into the club database,” he said quietly. “You and Natasha are listed as temporary members. I am listed as your guest. That is also how slaves and submissives are listed, but don’t get any ideas.”
“Don’t worry, honey,” Natasha said sweetly. “We are always equal.”
Boris gave her a quick smile and continued. “We are European sex tourists traveling from the United States. Hopefully, if we hang around long enough, we can pick up some clues as to where slave inez and Master Robert might be being held.” That wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best we had.
To say that the club was located in a seedy part of town would be a great understatement. It wasn’t quite a Favela shantytown built on the garbage dumps of many of Brazil’s large cities, but there probably aren’t many places in Cabo Frio that are more undesirable. The parking lot appeared to be bordered by heavy overgrowth, which worried me because anything... or anybody... could be hiding in there and no one would know. The driver and one of the bodyguards stayed with the car. The driver sat inside, pretending– I think– to be asleep, but the guard took up a position outside the car with a Saiga-12 in his hands. That Russian-built automatic shotgun is pretty useless beyond a hundred feet or so, but in the case of a zombie apocalypse, you could mow down a thousand zombies up close and none of them would reach you. Real, live people wouldn’t stand a chance.
As we entered, Natasha said something firmly in Portugese to the Maitre D’ and handed him several folded bills. A short while later we were ushered to a corner table. One of the guards squeezed in and stood in the very corner while the other two stood just outside the table against the wall. It wasn’t perfect protection, but it did proclaim that we were rich and powerful. To my surprise, the club stocked Munich Dunkel. I prefer a dark ale, but once you let it warm up a little, a strong lager like Munich D is nearly the same.
Shortly after we had been seated, an emcee walked into the large open stage area in the center of the club and announced something. Natasha softly translated everything into English for me and Boris. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began, “tonight we have a special treat. Two slaves have displeased their Masters and are to be publicly punished for your enjoyment.”
A woman was wheeled out into the center of the room. She was firmly restrained face down on a horizontal Flogging Cross that held her arms and legs firmly against the white wood. It isn’t totally correct to call it a cross because the four pieces of wood don’t really connect at the center but instead leave an open space to allow total access to a persons ass and groin. The slave was squirming slightly in her bonds and her body was glistening with perspiration and perhaps a slight amount of an oil of some sort.
“The first punishment,” the emcee continued as the Flogging Cross was locked into place, “is a slave who disobeyed her Master in public and then had the audacity to say, ‘You can’t punish me here. Too many people are watching.’”
He smiled. It was almost a smirk. Then he turned toward the slave and said loudly, “There are more people watching tonight, slave bianca, but Master Santos will most definitely punish you.”
He stepped forward and slid a single finger down the slave’s body beginning at her shoulder and continuing down one side of her back, over the curve of her buttocks, down back of her leg, stopping finally when he had reached her heel. As his finger slid down her body, her squirming increased significantly.
“You seem to be a little warm,” he said derisively. “Perhaps that is because this oil which has been sprayed on your body has been marinating ghost peppers for the past week.”
The slave’s wail of despair and fear almost drowned out the emcee as he continued, “Just imagine what it will feel like when the flogging begins?”
A not quite middle-aged man walked out to join the emcee. He was dressed in black jeans and a black dress shirt of some sort. “My contract with slave bianca”– even I could tell that he mockingly pronounced ‘bianca’ in a distorted fashion so it sounded more like ‘bitchanca’– “my contract says that I may never give more than twenty strokes... and, I may never use anything heavier than a whisk flogger to punish her.”
There was an appreciable groan from the audience.
He held up a rather limp-looking short-handled whip that appeared to have at least a dozen or more strands of very flexible leather– or perhaps rubber– each about twelve inches long. As he lifted the whip higher so everyone could see it, he smiled. His smile was at least as smirky as the emcee’s. “She even insisted that the contract specify with how much force I could strike.”
His voice changed. It became deeper. Even Natasha’s translation somehow sounded... evil.
“But she never said,” the Master continued, almost laughing, “that I couldn’t prepare her skin first if I wanted to.”
The slave began to weep, sobbing softly and continually repeating, “I’m sorry, Master. I’m sorry.”
“You will be,” Master Santos answered as he swung downward with the flogger, striking slave bianca on the right asscheek. “You will be,” he repeated.
The Master was actually swinging rather softly and he was not using his wrist to cause the whip to accelerate at the final moment before striking. Normally such a flogging would cause not much more than a slight reddening of the skin... and perhaps a very pleasant pain sensation for a sub. But the redness is caused by capillaries breaking in the skin and by the skin itself become slightly abraded and sore. Both actions cause the skin to lose its natural defensive state and allow penetration of the skin by sweat and dirt. That is why aftercare, even for such a mild spanking / flogging, must include wiping clean the surface of the skin with a soft rag and a non-irritating oil.
In this case, however, it wasn’t dirt or sweat that was penetrating the skin. It was a very irritating oil that had been made extraordinarily hot by absorbing the capsaicin that floods the flesh of a ghost pepper. Since the ghosts were only marinating in the liquid, but not actually cooking in it, the resulting oil was only hot enough to cause severe irritation, not actually hot enough to damage the skin. That technical detail was lost on slave bianca as the tendrils of the flogger quickly changed the warm glow on her skin to burning fire.
Master Santos was counting loudly as he swung the flogger. On about the sixth stoke, slave bianca began screaming for mercy and shouting loudly, “Crocodilo! Crocodilo! Crocodilo! Crocodilo!”
Natasha didn’t bother to translate that for me. Even if it didn’t mean crocodile, it was obviously slave bianca’s safe word.
“Don’t you remember?” Master Santos said sarcastically as his slave continued to scream, “according to the contract– which you helped write and then signed– you can object to a punishment and even prevent it, but once a punishment has begun, your safeword is null and void.”
The Master then went back to counting his carefully-applied strokes. He wasn’t swinging any faster. In fact, he may have even slowed down, but he was making sure that the flogger was thoroughly warming the entire surface of the screaming slave’s buttocks and legs.
After stroke nineteen, Master Santos stopped completely. “My little wayward slave,” he crooned softly, “just in case your sweat and your gyrations haven’t moved the oil all the way down into your sensitive honeypot...” He then swung upward with the flogger. This time flicking his wrist to accelerate the strands at the moment of strike.
The tips of the flogger, now wet with the tormenting oil, slashed into slave bianca’s partially-gaping cunt, striking hard, but more importantly, transferring the irritating oil onto her labia and even onto the inner tissues of her canal. Her screams became extremely shrill as she bounced against her restraints. Master Santos laughed softly and said, “Why do you make me go through this every couple months, my pet? I’ll let you think about that for the rest of the evening while I enjoy some drinks... and maybe much more... with some of my friends.”
The Master lay the flogger in the middle of the slave’s back and walked back into the relative darkness of the club as the emcee once again came into the spotlight. Slave bianca was no longer screaming, but was sobbing continuously as a couple stagehands wheeled her over to a blank area on the outside wall of the club.
“Would such a disregard of a safeword be allowed in one of your clubs?” Natasha asked quietly.
“The rules of The Society are very specific,” I replied. “Unless it is punishment for an egregious action against The Society, safewords must be honored.” I pointed to the slave who was still sobbing. The cross on which she was restrained had been rotated to vertical so she was now standing more or less upright against the wall. “In the case of a slave such as bianca, there would possibly be a double safeword system. One safeword, such as ‘Crocodilo’ would be to say that the event is more than she could bear. That safeword could be overridden in certain circumstances. A second safeword, perhaps ‘Alligator’– or whatever that word is in Portugese– would mean that the slave wanted to end– or at least modify– the entire relationship.” I looked around. “But I have a feeling,” I said flatly, “that there are much more serious violations of safewords and slave agreements in this club.”
Natasha looked like she wanted to say something else, but the emcee began speaking again and she switched to translating his words. “Our second punishment,” he began, “is a punishment by pleasure..” He held one hand flat to the ground and wiggled it slightly. “... more or less.”
A new horizontal cross was wheeled out into the spotlight. This one was empty, and was a complete cross. An olive-skinned, tall woman with extremely long, straight black hair walked out to join the emcee in the center of the room. “Mistress Diago,” he said, gesturing toward the tall woman, “is very upset that her slave,” Natasha paused a moment and appeared to be confused, then she continued her translation, speaking quickly to catch up with the words of the emcee. “... her slave, pumpkinhead, has said ‘Fuck you’ to her one too many times.”
Another woman walked out into the spotlight. She was naked and flanked by two burly men dressed in black jeans and black t-shirts. A tall, black collar covered most of her neck. A medium-sized, dark, rather anatomically correct, dildo pointed straight out in front of her from an extremely tight leather harness. The straps for the dildo harness appeared to almost cut into the slave’s hips and the crotch strap totally disappeared between her legs, cutting deeply into her cleft. It did not look like it had been adjusted for the comfort or pleasure of the user.
The emcee paused while the woman was pulled into place. “So,” he continued, “Mistress Diago is going to make her do just that.”
The tall, black-haired woman reached her arms around her head and with one fluid motion pulled the long dress from her body. She was– as expected– totally naked under the dress. The thick curly hair which covered her mound was even darker and more black than the hair on her head. Dropping her dress on the floor, she walked over to the cross and lay down on it, spreading out her arms and legs to match to the configuration of the cross. The two men who had brought out the slave quickly wrapped wide leather restraints over Mistress Diago’s ankles, knees, wrists, and elbows so that she was quite effectively held immobile on the cross. Before tightening the restraints, they carefully pulled her body down slightly so that her ass was slightly off the center of the cross, making her cunt accessible to whomever stood in the center of the cross.
“Slave pumpkinhead,” the emcee said with a slight laugh, “has been given the chance to fuck her Mistress. In fact, she must bring her mistress to complete orgasm four times.”
He paused and looked around the room, his smirking smile growing wider and wider as he made eye contact with many of the patrons at their table. “That doesn’t sound like punishment, does it?”
Two naked slaves ran into the spotlight. Each one was carrying a multi-strand flogger like had been used on slave bianca. “But Mistress Diago has ordered that her slave be flogged by two of our expert whipmasters while she brings her Mistress to each of those orgasms.”
The two men pulled slave pumpkinhead over to between her Mistress’ legs. One of them squirted some lubricant on the dildo. The other pushed on the slave’s ass and guided the dildo into Mistress Diago’s cunt. It went in more easily than I expected, indicating that the Mistress was turned on by what was happening and was ready for it.
The two men then took the whips from the slaves and stood just outside Mistress Diago’s bound legs. One was holding the whip in his right hand, the other was holding it in his left hand. The emcee shouted, “Begin!” and they both brought their whips down with great force, one striking the slave’s left asscheek, the other striking her right.
She gave a yelp and pushed forward. The two whipmasters timed their strokes perfectly. They waited until the slave pulled back and then struck just as she started to move forward. Sometimes only one whip struck, sometimes they struck in unison, but in any case, the slave was forced to ram the dildo heavily into her Mistress.
The first orgasm took about ten minutes. When it shook through her body, Mistress Diago turned her head back and yelled loudly, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” and then went into a long, loud scream that matched the wild thrashing– or attempted thrashing– of her arms and legs. If she hadn’t been restrained, she would have thrown herself off the narrow wood of the cross.
Slave pumpkinhead stopped thrusting while her Mistress came down from her orgasm, but quickly resumed when the whips again began to flail. She started saying something and soon was shouting it over and over and over again. “She is saying, ‘That hurts!’” Natasha said. “There must be something else going on that we aren’t seeing.”
As if to answer Natasha’s question, the emcee popped back into the spotlight and said, “We prepared a little surprise for slave pumpkinhead. The whips that are being used on her were soaked overnight in the same ghost pepper oil that was used on slave bianca.” He laughed in a very exaggerated and evil way. I almost expected him to rub his hands together and twirl his mustache like a melodrama villain. Instead he said, still laughing, “Slave pumpkinhead... and Mistress Diago... still have three orgasms left.”
He stepped back and shouted, “Resume! Faster!”
The two whipmasters sped up their assault on the slave’s ass, now moving their strikes further down her legs and up her back. The light was beginning to reflect off the oil that was deposited on the slave’s skin with each strike.
The slave was now thrusting furiously, attempting to drive her Mistress to orgasm and to end her agony. The next orgasm took about fifteen minutes, but pumpkinhead didn’t stop to let her Mistress come down before resuming. Instead she pounded into her even harder, driving her toward an orgasm on top of an orgasm. Mistress Diago was wailing continuously as her slave thrust relentlessly into her cunt with the strap-on. The third orgasm– or new peak to the second orgasm– was only about five minutes later, but the slave still did not stop. She continued ramming, driven by the whips on her ass and back and legs, until only two or three minutes later, a final, almost explosive orgasm tore through Mistress Diago’s body.
The whipmasters stopped and slave pumpkinhead stepped back, pulling the dildo from her Mistress’ cunt, but the scream and wild thrashing continued on for several more minutes. Some of the people in the club were starting to chuckle or even laugh as the Mistress continued to wail and thrash.
“Did I mention,” the emcee said with a leer, “that the cream used to lubricate the dildo contained an experimental drug that multiplies a woman’s sensations down there?” He gave another of his smirks. “I’m told it is almost addictive if used too often, but then, all pleasure can be addictive.”
The whipmasters walked into the darkness while two naked slaves came out and led pumpkinhead, still sobbing, out of the stage area. When Mistress Diago finally calmed down, the emcee walked over and stood above her head. “We have another surprise for Mistress Diago,” he said slowly and firmly. “You see, she has told Master Rodriguez ‘Fuck You,’ many more times than poor pumkinhead has said that to her. So it is only right that while she is restrained on a slave’s cross that a true Master fuck her properly.”
Mistress Diago began thrashing even more and throwing her head from side to side. “No... no...” she was screaming as a large man dressed in black leather walked into the spotlight and stood between her legs. He was wearing a Lucha Libra, a Mexican wrestler’s mask, so his face was hidden. The white design on the mask was evidently intended to be the face of a devil. His leather shirt was long-sleeved, so his arms were also hidden. Only his hands... and his eyes... were visible. His hands appeared soft, as if he were not used to manual labor, but his slate gray eyes were extremely hard looking. They were not the type of eyes that gave a person hope for mercy.
“The Master,” the emcee said flatly, “is protecting himself from the pepper oil which is all over slave diago’s skin... well, Mistress Diago’s skin... for now.”
The large man was obviously Master Rodriguez, and he was obviously protecting himself from more than just the spicy oil which had splashed on Mistress Diago’s open thighs. He stood stroking her for a moment and then spoke in a low and gravely voice. “Well now, little cunt,” he said, “It seems that your taunts and curses have gotten you exactly where you belong... on a slave’s cross.”
He reached up and tweaked one of her nipples and she moaned softly. It was hard to tell if it was a moan of pleasure or pain.
“I think,” he continued, “that you secretly want to be a slave. That is why you allowed yourself to be bound to a slave’s cross.”
She screamed “No! You pig! Let met go! Release me!”
“That is what your mind is saying,” Master Rodriguez said harshly, “but what is your body saying, eh? Why don’t we listen to your body?”
He opened his fly and pulled out a massive prick that was semi-hard. As he positioned it against the Mistress’ slit, he said, “If you don’t cum before I do, then I will accept that you are a true Mistress in mind and body. But... if you cum before I do, or if you cum multiple times before I totally finish, then I will know that you have the body of a slave.” He gave a low laugh before continuing, “... and we will all know that in the dark recesses of your inner self, your mind wants to be a slave mind.”
“No, no,” she moaned, almost crying. “Don’t do this to me, please. I beg you.”
The leather-clad figure laughed as he pushed forward, impaling the helpless Mistress on his prick. “Masters don’t beg,” he said derisively, “slaves do.”
With that he began thrusting in and out of Mistress Diago’s cunt. Despite his size, he slid easily in and out. Perhaps the lubricant from the dildo was still working, or more likely, the Mistress’ multiple orgasms had flooded her canal with more than enough natural lubrication.
“No, no, no,” she was moaning. “Please don’t make me cum! Please don’t do this to me! Please don’t make me a slave.”
The Portugese word for slave must be “submissa” because that is the word that Mistress Diago screamed out as she thrashed in her fifth orgasm. The ‘i’ is pronounced as ‘ee’ and the helpless woman held that ‘eeee’ sound for what seemed like several minutes.
Master Rodriguez didn’t stop. If anything, he began thrusting harder and harder. It was obvious he was asking a question, but Natasha wasn’t translating for me. I looked over at her. Her face was set firmly. I’ve seen that look before. She was a tiger about to pounce.
“Not here. Not now. Not yet,” I said firmly. “He has soldiers and protection all around the club. You would never get to him, and it won’t find slave ines... or your poopsie.”
I watched her body tremble slightly as she brought herself under control. Her face lost its tenseness, but it also lost all hint of emotion. She was once again well beyond anger. I would hate to see that face at the other end of a weapon. It would probably be the last thing I ever saw.
“He’s asking her if she is a slave.” she said flatly. “He’s asking her if she will submit to him forever.”
I looked back at the stage. Master Rodriguez was now moving slowly in his outbound stroke and very fast and hard for the inbound thrust. Mistress Diago– now slave diago– screamed out a single word over and over again, finally holding on to the ‘eee’ sound with a long, wailing, “seeeeeeem” as she once again was forced into orgasm.
Master Rodrigeuz grunted softly as he spurted inside her. Then he laughed and said, “I always knew you were a slave at heart,” as he pulled out from her still quivering cunt. One of the club’s naked slaves ran up and handed him a large cloth napkin with which he wiped himself before tucking his prick back into the leather pants.
Slave diago was still whimpering and almost crying, “No, no, this can’t be happening to me. It was the drug in the cream that forced me.”
She started to say something else, but Master Rodriguez pushed the slimy napkin into her open mouth and then forced more in until she became quiet and looked around wildly. The emcee now stepped back into the spotlight and stood right at her head. Leaning down close to her ear he said in a loud whisper that his microphone carried throughout the room, “I’ll let you in on a little secret.” His annoying smirky smile was nearly splitting his face. “There is no drug in the lube. I just say that so slaves will have an excuse to show how slutty they truly are.”
He then walked out of the spotlight laughing and pointing around the room and gesturing, indicating that everyone should join his laughter. Soon the entire room was laughing, almost loudly enough to drown out the anguished cries and sobs from the former Mistress as she was wheeled out of the club.
The emcee’s path led him past our table and Natasha clapped her hands together smartly and shouted out something in Portugese. She was smiling and her voice sounded friendly, so evidently whatever she said was an invitation for the emcee to come over to our table. No matter how friendly-sounding, an invitation by such an imposing woman comes very close to being a command.
The emcee acquiesced, or at least treated her as an equal and came over to the table. After what was apparently an exchange of pleasantries, Natasha quickly asked, “¿Se habla español?”
I knew that meant “Do you speak Spanish?” I also knew that any native Portugese-speaking Brazilian would rather stare blankly at you for an hour than speak in the language used in the rest of South America. He glared at her in silence for a brief moment and then said, “Inglés?”
She laughed and said to the emcee, “Oh, wonderful. You speak English. My husband is Espanole and I am Portugee. Everyone thinks we can talk to each other, but he murders the language so badly the only way I can understand him is for both of us to speak English.”
The emcee laughed and said, “So many ignorant Americanos with a little bit of Spanish think everyone here should understand them. So...” He made a waving motion with one of his hands. “... I have learned American.” He suddenly straightened up fully and said, in an overdone aristocratic British English, “Unless, that is, Madam, you would prefer to speak the purer form of the Queen’s English as I spoke it when I was at Oxford.”
“We will speak American,” she replied, her voice now heavily accented with a mixture of her mother Russian and Portugese. I hoped I didn’t look quite so transparently relieved as Boris did sitting to my left.
“This has been an excellent show,” she continued slowly, “but we were led to expect something more... dramatic... something worth traveling all this distance to experience.”
“Ahh,” replied the emcee, “you are seeking one of Master Rodriguez’s private shows.” He paused and looked individually at each of us, sizing us up. “Those can be a little... expensive.”
I reached into the inside pocket of my coat and pulled out six Brazilian 100 reais notes and fanned them out on the table in front of me. At the current exchange rate that was about $150, which was more than enough to get the emcee’s attention. “This,” I said, holding the notes out to him, “should more than cover your expenses in arranging for us to see one of Master Rod’s private shows.” I gave him a slight smile and a nod of my head before adding “... one of his best.”
He leaned down over the table and spoke softly. “The next show is at midnight tonight, but you want the two o’clock show. All of the legal clubs will be closed then. Master Rod’s private club is in an old mansion that was the Danish Embassy before the capital was moved to Brasilia. You will need special tokens to gain entry. The tokens are 500 reais... each.”
He paused and stared directly at me. I could see the surprise in his eyes as I calmly pulled a thick stack of 100 R$ notes out of my jacket and counted fifteen of them onto the table. His eyes narrowed slightly as I put the rest of the stack back into my jacket. I had accidentally opened it far enough for him to see the Glock in my shoulder holster.
“I have the proper permits for it,” I said firmly. “... as do my companions,” I added, nodding toward the bodyguards Natasha’s father had supplied.
He reached into an inside pocket on his jacket and pulled out three large black poker chips that had the same devil face design as Master Rodriguez’s Lucha Libra mask. As I scooped them up, he stood back up to his full height and said, “The address is on the back of the chip. Do you need a car to pick you up at your hotel or will you be arranging your own transportation?”
“I will arrange the transportation,” Natasha said as she got up out of her chair. She pulled five 100 R$ notes out of her cleavage and dropped them on the table saying, “That should cover the drinks.” She then signaled the bodyguards that it was time to leave. Two led the way out of the club with her following right behind them. I let Boris get in front of me and we followed her. The other bodyguard walked behind us, his head swiveling rapidly from side to side to scan for any danger in the crowd. By the time we reached the front door, the car was waiting.
“The Danish Embassy,” Boris said excitedly as we got into the car. “Those images were taken there.”
“Perhaps,” I said flatly as I settled back into the seat.
“We will know tonight,” Natasha added. Then she said something in Russian to the driver, evidently telling him to leave. We had a little less than four hours to come up with a foolproof plan to get into Master Rodriguez’s special show, find any captives, and get back out, hopefully with everyone alive.