Our Only Hope - S01 E05

Story 10 months ago

Our Only Hope - S01 E05

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 5

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.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

To Be Continued...