Our Only Hope - S01 E04

Story 10 months ago

Our Only Hope - S01 E04

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 4

***

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.