Slaver's Bait: The Taking of Cheryl (11 page)

Denise moaned as she felt the Turk fill her. Their lips were still pressed together, and she sucked long and hard on the hot tongue that filled her mouth. The Turk was plunging wildly into her pussy, grunting each time he sheathed his sword to the hilt. Dissatisfied with its reach, he reached for Denise’s thighs and pressed them towards her chest. Denise felt his cock penetrate deeply into her pulsing gash. She yearned to swallow it with her cunt, wanted to suck it inside her.

Oblivious to all else but their passion, the couple bucked and heaved against one another. The Turk felt his loins fill with telltale heat and rammed his cock home. As he jetted spurt after spurt of his hot cum into her cunt, Denise cried out and thrust her hips up to meet him. Her orgasm hit with a jolt. Their tongues were still intertwined and Denise poured her lustful moans down the Turk’s throat. Finally, their lusts spent, the two collapsed.

Turk was sated. He had, temporarily, driven his demons from him. His whole body sagged with physical and emotional release. A few moments later, he was fast asleep.

Denise lay under the heavy, somnolent man, her arms still stretched out above her. The Turk’s deep breaths rocked her gently. For the first time in three days, her mouth was left uncovered. She reveled in its freedom. The Turk’s head lay along side hers, and she placed a light kiss on his temple, careful lest she disturb him. She yearned to encircle him with her arms, to whisper her blissfulness into his ear. She knew that she dared not. She would do nothing to destroy this heavenly interlude. A small tear ran down her cheek, sparkling in the soft, comforting moonlight. She lay her head back and fell asleep.

The moon had fled and the room was almost pitch dark when Denise felt the Turk stirring. He unleashed her hands from the head of the bed and pulled her up. Silently, gently, he had her stand and rebound her arms behind her back. Denise stifled a cry as she realized that she was to be cast back into the dungeon for the night. The Turk led her to the door and, before opening it, reaffixed her leash. When he opened the door, Denise saw the old woman sitting in a small chair in the hall, fast asleep. She stirred to wakefulness at the opening of the door and smiled at the naked couple. Turk placed his hands on either side of Denise’s head and kissed her, a long, soothing kiss redolent of their passion. When he was done, he gently, almost kindly, eased the gag back into her mouth. He buckled it behind her head and handed the leash to the old woman. Denise watched as he closed the door, retreating into his room. She felt a soft tug on her leash and she let herself be guided down the stairs.

PART ELEVEN

HAIL TO THE CHIEF

About three o’clock that afternoon, Stoner’s choppers finished their return to their base. Great swirls of brown African dust swirled around the choppers as they landed. The soldiers hopped out dragging behind them the coffles of newly captured slave girls. The ride back had been uneventful. The frightened women moaned and cried, huddled on the chopper floor. The soldiers took sport in poking and prodding them. Their mocking taunts and cruel laughter could barely be heard over the loud grinding of the helicopter engines.

The women were marched quickly to the parade ground that stood outside the soldiers’ barracks. They were made to stand in two lines, shoulder to shoulder. An officer went down the lines, enforcing his orders to spread their legs with a riding crop.

The girls were all shapes and sizes, although large, firm, breasts predominated. A corporal followed the officer down the lines ripping the tape off of the faces of the girls. This was an inspection after all, and their faces needed to be seen.

Stoner waited until the girls were all lined up, mouths freed, before he strode up to take measure of what he had stolen. He had picked out the twenty most desirable of the great crop of women he had harvested. Now he would select the best of the best.

Slowly, leisurely, Stoner walked down the lines of frightened, naked women. He stopped before each one, measuring their breasts with his hands, peering into their faces. When he had made one full pass, he repeated his inspection. This time, he pointed out several girls with the riding crop and they were freed from the coffle and dragged away from the lines. When he was finished his second pass, seven women had been selected. They stood in the hot afternoon sun, hands tied behind them, legs spread.

Stoner made an even more detailed examination of the seven women. He rubbed their naked loins, measuring their response. He had them turned around and bent over so that he could caress their buttocks. The bodies of the women glistened with sweat, partially from the still fierce rays of the sun, but also from their natural sense of panic at their severance from the pack
. What special hell was being prepared for them?

Stoner had two of the women separated from the group of seven. The first was about 5’4” in height, closer to 18 than 25. She had firm round breasts with large, reddish doubloon sized aureoles. Her nipples were tense from fear and Stoner tweaked the short, thick buds of flesh. The girl was crying and rivulets of tears ran down her face. She shook noticeably as Stoner turned her head right and left, seeking out imperfections in the smooth, black face. He saw none.

The second girl was tall and slender. She had long, delicate thighs. She stood about an inch taller than Stoner. Her face was long, her cheeks high. She was not crying. Her hatred of Stoner was easy to read on her face. She had tiny, tea cup breasts with long, almost pointed nipples. Stoner ran his hands over them, pinching them fiercely. Anger lit up in the tall woman’s eyes, and she spit in Stoner’s face, crying out doubtlessly rude epithets at him in her native tongue. Stoner reacted swiftly by giving the woman a fierce slap across the face. Two soldiers grabbed her arms, protecting their leader. Stoner smiled. Looking over at his general, Kurim, he said, “She’ll do. Give her five lashes with the bullwhip and put her in isolation. I’ll take the other one with me.”

Kurim gave a curt order to the men holding the tall girl. She was dragged by them to a gibbet that stood on the edge of the parade ground. It was set upon a small platform, one large enough for a full grown man to swing a bullwhip from.

Another order from Kurim caused an underling to dash off into the barracks. A few moments later, he returned with a long leather whip. Kurim took it from him and mounted the platform.

The soldiers were having a hard time with their captive. They had loosened her hands from behind her back and she was twisting and turning, struggling to free herself from their grasp, desperately seeking to avoid attachment to the extended arm of the gibbet. It took another man’s help, but the soldiers soon had the frantic black woman’s hands tied before her. They took a rope and affixed it to her bound wrists and looped it through a small iron ring on the underside of the extended arm. With a few tugs of the rope, the girl was standing on her tip toes.

She had long, braided hair, jet black, as black as her skin. She screamed and yelled in protest as she dangled naked before her former friends and neighbors. The other women had been forced to crouch down on the grass. Their silence was enforced by a soldier’s whip. Kurim mounted the platform and shook out the long, sleek whip. The crowd of women let out shrieks and cries of protest, precipitating the repeated application of a soldier’s riding crop.

The bear-sized general played with the whip, letting its end drag across the platform, snapping it in mid air. The cracking sound silenced the on-looking women. The soldiers had crowded round, intent on enjoying the coming spectacle. Stoner had the other beauty he had selected by his side, a leash attached to her collar, and was alert with anticipation. It wasn’t every day you saw a woman bullwhipped.

The tall, lithe woman was now begging Kurim for mercy. She twisted and turned on the platform fervently pleading to be spared this ordeal. Kurim smiled at her, an evil, vicious smile. He reared his arm back and snapped the bullwhip forwards. Its tip struck the woman on the front of her thighs and she screamed.

A blot of blood appeared at the point of contact. The woman’s agonizing scream resounded throughout the compound. All over the mansion, servants rushed to the windows. Mary, who had spent the afternoon naked and alone in the women’s dormitory, dashed to the window to find its source. She looked and cried out in disbelief, just as Kurim snapped the whip again, landing a fierce blow against the tall woman’s right buttock. Her scream echoed anew across the parade ground. The crouched women wept and cried at their friend’s plight. Another ‘crack!’ and then another. Two red rivulets began to run down the girl’s body from her breasts. She danced and squirmed in terrified pain. Kurim let go with one last blow from the whip. This one struck the woman’s unmarked buttock, creating a line of blood across it to match the other.

After a few moments, the woman’s wild screams faded into a desultory moan. She hung on the platform listlessly, all of the fight and spirit taken from her. Kurim barked out an order to the guards who began shouting and screaming at the crouched women. They rose as one and ran off into the front door of the barracks. Once inside, they would be led to individual cells where they would await their ravishment. In the morning they would all be branded, a large slanted “S” on their buttocks.

The remaining five of the seven who had been culled out by Stoner were to be divided among the officers. Kurim got first pick, of course. The rest would be shared. They would all receive their brands in due course.

Stoner walked up the hill towards the mansion, his prisoner in tow. He dragged her up the porch stairs where he was met by Jeremiah. “Take this cunt, clean her up and put her in my room. I’ll deal with her later,” he told the large, jet black factotum.

“Yes, Lord,” Jeremiah replied. “Your wives await you in the discipline room,” he added.

“Yes, I’m looking forward to seeing them. Get me a tall scotch and soda.”

Jeremiah gave a short, curt order to a houseboy who scooted off to do his master’s bidding. The tall man took control of the master’s new slut and led her into the house.

Stoner received his drink a moment later. Taking a long swig, he watched the tall, now compliant African girl being dragged across the parade ground to the barracks. She would be spared further abuse for the time being. He had a plan for her.

Having sucked down the cold, biting refreshment, Stoner went into the house and found his way down to the Discipline Room. Justine and Cheryl had been left there, their tongues cruelly impaled, their leg muscles stretched to intense discomfort. Jeremiah knew his business. The girls were stretched just enough to cause maximum pain and cramping in their legs and in the muscles of their mouths, but not enough to cause serious damage.

Because the cruel piercings to their tongues were connected by the long leather strap threaded through the ring on the bar, any movement by one to ease the strain on her body had an immediate effect on the other. They had had all day to rue their incipient rebellion. Rebellions had to be ruthlessly crushed. Jeremiah had ensured that the women paid severely for their foolishness. Henceforth, they would think only of the need to avoid their own punishment and let the chips fall where they may for the other.

Both women gave a small start when they heard the door to the Discipline Room open, an action they both immediately regretted as their movements exacerbated the pain to their mouths and legs. Stoner smiled as he heard the women’s piteous moans. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he called to them as he slammed the heavy door shut. “Have you been enjoying yourselves?”

The women quailed in fear. This was the moment they had been dreading all afternoon. They had suffered the fierce cramps in their legs, the painful throbbing in their tongues. Their mouths were dry, their throats burned with thirst. The constant need for attention to the delicate balance they maintained between the strain on their tongue and their legs and feet had been exhausting. And now came their tormentor in chief. What brutalities would he add to their suffering?

Stoner grabbed a long rattan crop from the cabinet and approached the grotesquely postured women. He stroked it over Cheryl’s bare ass. “Wouldn’t you prefer to be sucking my cock, cunt?” he asked her. Cheryl could only look at the fearsome man out of the side of her eye. She dared not move her head. She moaned a forlorn plea. Stoner laughed, “Cat got your tongue?” He shook in his merriment. He looked at Justine’s cruelly stretched body and rubbed the crop over her breasts. “Sorry for your little game this morning, bitch?” he asked her. “I think that next time you will jump at the opportunity to suck me off, won’t you?”

Justine gurgled a reply.

“Now someone’s going to get ten strokes across the ass with this whip,” he taunted the miserable women. “The other, I’m going to fuck in the ass. Frankly, in your position, I don’t know which one will hurt worse.” Stoner stepped closer to the women and grabbed one of Justine’s tits. He twisted it fiercely. Justine moaned in agony. Her discomfort was translated immediately to Cheryl, who felt Justine’s every movement in her aching tongue.

“I think that I’ll give you the whipping, Justine,” Stoner told her. “You should have known better. You’ve been here the longest. I think that you believe that your artful mouth has earned you a permanent berth here. Perhaps I should ship you out. Maybe you want to be sucking thick black cocks all day instead?”

Justine fruitlessly tried to communicate her obsequiousness to her owner. Her words came out as mere grunts. Each syllable evoked a twinge of pain.

To Cheryl, Stoner said, “Get your ass ready for a fucking, cunt.”

Stoner stepped behind Justine, admiring the taut, twin globes of flesh on her rear. “Yeah,” he thought, “maybe its time that this one moved along.” He reared back his arm and slammed the cane onto Justine’s delicate, white buttocks. Justine and Cheryl both moaned in pain. The French girl’s flesh twitched as she absorbed the blow. Crack! Another blow fell causing Justine to gurgle and dance. Cheryl tried to make up for the added strain on her tongue by standing on the tips of her toes. But the more slack Cheryl gave to Justine on the infernal strap that connected them, the more that she seemed to want. Blow after blow fell, ten in all. Justine’s ass was cherry red from its abuse. Tears flowed freely down both anguished faces.