This is the second chapter of a story a previously submitted as a full novel
A young woman knocked and hesitantly put her head around the door of the Criminology Team office. “Excuse me, I’m looking for the chief investigator” she said.
“Come in, please” said Katya, opening the door to a beautiful woman in her early twenties, tall and slim-hipped in jeans and a sweater, carrying a backpack with the crest of the Technical Institute. “You must be Dana” she said, taking her hand. “Please call me Katya”. The girl smiled prettily. “I had them bring lunch” she continued “and my diary is clear for the rest of the afternoon”. They took their seats and both smiled when they laid identical ministry binders on the table between them.
“It’s so kind of you to make time for me” Dana said.
“Not at all” Katya told her. “I read your work with particular interest. I think your approach is very like my own” she smiled into Dana’s eyes “and there is no doubt in my mind that this is the right internship for you”. Caught off-guard, the girl began to blurt out her thanks until Katya put a hand on her arm to stop her, and she grinned winningly as she regained her composure.
“Then this isn’t an interview. Am I starting work already?” Dana asked, surprised.
“Not quite” said Katya and took a folder from her binder. “I made these notes as a final-year student, nearly twenty years ago. I sat in when the professor interviewed Grigori K at the beginning of his sentence. He - my teacher - took ill shortly afterwards and did not recover, so the notes were never reviewed and published”. Dana leant in closer, her face aglow with excitement.
“This is wonderful” she exclaimed. “I thought I’d read everything about the Marie-Claude murder”. She blushed a little. Katya moved her chair beside Dana’s and opened the folder on the table in front of them.
“Nobody has seen this” she said. “I read your thesis on compliant victims before it was withdrawn by the university senate. I thought it was very perceptive”. She held up her hand when Dana started to thank her. “I know that we can work together,” she continued, “because I know that we have the same perspective”. She began to read and soon they were both transported to the disturbing atmosphere of the old regime’s demi monde.
“My name is Grigori and I was the owner of the Carcosa private club on Brechova Street in Mirenburg. This is my account of the events of the sixteenth of February, when the woman I knew as Marie-Claude came to my establishment”.
It was past midnight on a Tuesday in February, and the two brick-lined vaults which constituted the Carcosa Club were quiet. The few regular customers had amused themselves earlier in the evening by abusing Alexandra and were now relaxing together in front of an imported Japanese video, smoking and finishing their brandies. Alexandra was softly moaning where they had finished with her, chained by her wrists to the ceiling and locked into a steel chastity belt. Her traditional waitress's black dress and white apron were pooled at her feet and chemise and stockings hung from her in tatters; her slender body was striped front and back where many whips had bitten her. All were surprised to hear a knock at the door.
“It’s probably someone looking for directions” said Grigori, rising from his seat amongst the guests and climbing the stairs to answer it. He returned with an elegant woman wearing a long leather coat. All eyes turned from the tormented Asian woman on the screen.
“Tell them what you told me at the door” he ordered. She looked boldly from face to face, pouting, and unbelted her coat to reveal an athletic physique clad only in yellow stiletto shoes and gold jewellery.
“I was told that in this place women are broken” she said, speaking with a heavy French accent. She looked solemnly to Grigori “I will be broken”.
There was a brief silence, and then a scraping of chairs as the customers stood as though in greeting. The men moved their drinks aside and cleared the table of bottles and ashtrays. The Captain – no-one used names in the Carcosa – and his wife went to the array of equipment along the back wall, returning to pass around a ***********ion of riding-crops and rattan canes. The hugely fat, hook-nosed man known as “The Greek” accepted an ebony-handled length of whalebone and brought it down onto the edge of the table with a crack that resounded around the cellar. The Frenchwoman licked her lips and ran her fingers down her nude flanks and thighs. He glared at her.
“You won’t enjoy this, bitch” he spat.
“My name is Marie-Claude” she said, staring him down. The Greek‘s eyes flashed and he drew himself up to his full height, throwing his shoulders back. Marie-Claude strode towards him, swinging her hips arrogantly, and bent over the table. Her long arms snaked across the stained oak and she arched her back, raising and rolling her hips. His nostrils flared and he thrashed her upturned arse in an explosion of fury. She bucked and squirmed under the barrage of blows; her long legs kicked out wildly and she pounded her fists on the table top. The crop sliced cruelly into the tops of her thighs and she twisted aside, falling to the floor with a piercing scream.
“Now she is ready to be punished” said the Greek, smirking and satisfied.
“What are you doing, bitch?” asked Pierre. He was a young, well-built man, blond-haired and blue eyed, and his biceps tensed as he flexed a long cane. Marie-Claude had crawled over to one of the benches and, as he spoke, she turned to hold out the set of shackles she found there.
“L'esprit est prompt, mais la chair est faible” she said softly as they gathered around her. Hands reached from all sides to fasten her wrists and ankles to the table, spreading her burning arse for more punishment. “I shall scream” she warned. There were mirthless laughs from the clientele.
“Nobody will hear you down in these cellars” the Captain told her and he cut a fierce, red line across the flesh of her back with a rattan cane so thin that it bit like steel wire. She went rigid in her chains and drew a great breath. The Captain’s Wife span around and swung her whip with great force onto Marie-Claude's arse, raising an ugly, red welt. The Greek made another cut over his last and blood started where the lines crossed. Marie-Claude cried out pitifully for mercy and the blows fell all the harder. Cane and leather beat her freckled skin from calf to shoulder while she screamed and howled. After one particularly resounding smack of Vadim’s single-tailed whip her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped forward on the table. They paused for a while. Grigori released Alexandra from her cuffs and, after she had rubbed the numbness from her wrists, ordered her to bring ice and serve bottles of mineral water. She hurried to and fro, déshabillé and debauched. Marie-Claude lifted her head from the table when Grigori forced an ice cube into her arsehole.
“Merci” she breathed, trembling. He unfastened the leather cuffs that held her thighs chained to the table-legs and made her kneel on the top with her head almost between her legs and her breasts squashed into her knees. Again, many eager hands worked quickly to strap her into position, her arse and cunt lewdly exposed. The Captain reached down to Marie-Claude’s mouth and put two fingers between her parted lips. She sucked on them obediently and once he was satisfied that they were properly wet he rammed them into the bud of her arse and began to frig her slowly. He twisted his hand around as it pumped to and fro, adding a third and then a fourth finger until his hand was driving in to the knuckles and out again to the fingertips. She gasped and panted at this treatment, pushing back into his thrusts as far as her bonds would allow. When he judged from her throaty cries that she was approaching crisis The Captain pulled his fingers out and stood back.
“Bring me tabasco from the bar” he ordered. While his victim’s desperate sobs filled the air, Alexandra brought a small bottle and carefully poured the scarlet sauce into his cupped hand. He dug his wet fingers back into Marie-Claude’s open arse and churned them around until she howled like a wounded animal, long and loud. Then he stepped back, wiping his hand on a napkin, and the crops and canes began to fall again, cutting into her cunt lips and inner thighs as often as her scarred and welted buttocks. Marie-Claude convulsed and shook in her chains and shrieked until she had no voice left.
When she passed out again, they quickly released her from her upturned position on knees and shoulders and laid her on her back across the table to recover safely. Her eyelids fluttered and her lips moved silently. Moisture trickled from her cunt and her arse clenched spasmodically. The Greek swigged at a bottle of water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“What is your name”?
“I am only a bitch” Marie-Claude sighed, closing her eyes. The Captain’s Wife opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, and looked to her man uncertainly. He narrowed his eyes and returned her look as though angered, but he nodded his unspoken agreement all the same.
“Fuck her, all of you” the Captain said, turning to his fellow members, and his wife began to unbutton her blouse. She was a handsome woman in middle age, and she uncovered a heavy-bosomed, broad-hipped figure, generously curved and bearing the white marks of a recent and severe beating. She clambered over Marie-Claude’s trembling body and brushed soft curls away from her forehead to kiss it tenderly. The nipples stood out long and hard from her ample breasts, and she fed one into the girl’s soft mouth.
"Yes” she breathed through clenched teeth as she felt Pierre’s hands spread her cheeks open and the head of his prick searching for her wet cunt. He pounded into her like a man possessed, grunting in time to the rapid slapping of their flesh. Earlier, he had been the quickest to spend when they had taken turns ravishing Alexandra’s rosebud mouth and now he was determined to shaft the Captain’s Wife until she begged for mercy. The brutal fucking continued for long minutes, until she began to shout out incoherently, her head tossing violently from side to side. Marie-Claude sucked even harder at her nipple and the others laughed and clapped when she fell forward gasping and Pierre’s spunk spurted over the Frenchwoman’s open thighs. There was no respite. The Greek pulled his fat cock from his trousers and The Captain lifted his wife’s head by hauling on the peasant braids she wore to please him. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked hard on their old friend’s prick; The Greek came more quickly but, like Pierre, he was careful to pull free and spend over Marie-Claude’s face and neck.
The Captain’s Wife shifted position so that her cunt was over Marie-Claude’s mouth. She howled obscenities while The Highlander seized her fleshy hips and buggered her roughly – and while Marie-Claude sucked and nibbled at her clit. Her husband stopped her cries with his prick and fucked her mouth until The Highlander, Damir and Vadim had each used his wife’s cunt and arse and stood around her, stroking their rock-hard cocks. She climbed off the table and sank exhausted into a chair, frigging luxuriously, and watched intently as the four men moved in. They jerked their pricks and, one after another, shot spunk across the French stranger’s outstretched body. Marie-Claude licked up all the drops her tongue could reach and then relaxed back onto the table, content and at peace.