Our Only Hope - S01 E24

Story 10 months ago

Our Only Hope - S01 E24

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 24

Maybe that was how it worked. Maybe the voltage was always the same and whenever she relaxed slightly, her body would sag just enough to get close to one of the mountains. Then with a loud snapping “Zap!” a high-voltage arc would jump to whichever portion of her body had gotten too close. As she screamed and thrashed from the pain, additional zaps from different mountains would strike other parts of her body until she was finally able to hold still and hold all parts of her body a sufficient distance from the steel stalactites.

Maybe it worked that way... or maybe she was just supposed to think that was how it worked as she lewdly exposed her taut body trying vainly to stave off the pain of the miniature lightning strikes. Despite my rising anger, I had to admire whoever had designed this particular instrument of pain. I knew several Masters– and their pain slut slaves– who would love this terrible machine. The fact that the Monty brothers were posting a video of its use, however, meant that they were trying to increase pressure on the Shadow Council.

Below the video, the scoreboard now had three “innings” filled in. The W team had two runs listed– one for Master Dominic and one for little brother, Wyatt. The M team– the home team– the Monty Brothers– had one run, but that run was tallied in the third inning with a large number one that covered the zero in the W team’s score and even spilled out into the image area. In the remaining squares for the M team, the words, “Game Over!” were flashing.

Beneath the scoreboard was a white caption area which read, “W is dead. We have no hope.”

“Just got a message from Master Bouchard,” Boris typed. “He is still getting the texts intended for the Shadow Council. The ransom is now five million US for each hostage. They didn’t give a deadline, but they included the video of Mistress Tenesha and promised more like it as time passes.”

“OK,” I typed back. “I guess my next step is to get to LA and scope out The Blue Deuce.”

***

If you leave Las Vegas at exactly 11:45 in the morning... and it is not a weekend or a holiday... and there are no accidents or other delays... you can get to LA in four hours. Just about any other time of the day, or if there is even the slightest delay, you will be on that god-awful stretch of road for six to ten hours. I lucked out and arrived at my hotel at 3:30, beating the GPS time by fifteen minutes. Hopefully that small victory was a portend of larger victories to come.

As I held out my keys to the valet, I said as firmly as I could, “This looks like a restored ‘69 Mustang. The body is... but inside it is a modern Tesla power system. Do you know what that means?”

He looked at me rather blankly and I continued, perhaps a little more harshly that I had intended, “That means it accelerates like an electric race car because it is one, and...” I dropped the keys into his waiting hand. “... it costs more than your life insurance policies are worth.” I gave him my best glare and finished with, “Now, do you understand?”

His eyes opened wide and he stammered out, “Yes, sir. I understand. I will dive it very carefully and I will park it in the VIP area with the wide parking places.”

I smiled at him and handed him two twenties. “I appreciate that,” I said, trying to sound sincere.

In a way I was sincere. I really didn’t want anything to happen to that car. Assuming I was alive after all this was over, I was hoping to do a transfer purchase and add it to my personal collection. An electric muscle car is practically unique and I didn’t want some punk smashing it against the back wall of a parking deck because he didn’t expect it to accelerate to 60 mph in less than twenty feet. But I wasn’t truly letting my personal wants and feelings interfere with the task at hand... at least not very much. I was mostly trying to make sure that the valet remembered me and remembered my face so he could describe the scary, powerful, rich man with the strange, expensive car to anyone who asked about me.

***

One of the advantages of working without a plan, or at least with a minimal plan, was that you can more easily take advantage of opportunities as they arise. The totality of my plan was to get to LA, find The Blue Deuce, and hopefully be led to one or more of the Monty brothers. The Deuce had a website which gave good directions, etc, but I needed more of an in if I were to find out anything rapidly. And then, right after I checked into my room, an opportunity presented itself like a sign burning in the night sky.

Actually, it was a sign burning in the night sky. I had chosen this hotel because of its proximity to the club, but I hadn’t expected to see a giant, revolving, blue deuce of clubs hanging in the night sky about three blocks from my hotel window. I waited a respectable period of time and walked back down to the desk.

“Pardon me,” I said as I approached the desk, “but I noticed a giant rotating sign from the balcony of my room that looks like a blue two of clubs. What is that?”

“Oh,” the desk clerk said, quickly sizing me up, “that is The Blue Deuce. It is a rather exclusive exotic club... if you are into that sort of thing.”

“You mean a strip club?” I replied.

“Well,” he answered, still speaking carefully, “it is more than that. It caters to men– and women– with exotic tastes... kinky... expensive... exotic tastes.”

“I’m both, sometimes,” I said, trying to sound more interested. “Is it private? Or could I drop by to check it out?”

“It’s not exactly private,” he answered, “but it helps if you have an invitation.”

I made a fifty appear in my left hand. “Could you arrange such an invitation?”

He took the bill and said, “Consider it done, Mister...”

“Guthrie,” I replied, “Harold Guthrie, owner of Guthrie Tool and Die of Manchester, Ohio. I’m going to be traveling here a lot over the next couple of years and I might find such a diversion... interesting.”

Two hours later, I was handing my keys to the valet at The Blue Deuce with a warning similar to the one I had given the young man at the hotel. Since I didn’t need him to remember me, all I did was make sure he realized that there was a powerful electric car under that classic Mustang exterior.

The Blue Deuce was definitely not run down or slip shod. There was no cover charge, per se, but I had to purchase a “visitor’s membership” for two hundred. I was told the visitor’s membership could be converted to a First Floor membership merely by paying for a year’s dues, but no dollar amount was mentioned.

Once the paperwork was complete, I was escorted to a table by a young woman dressed in a nicely-cut pair of dress pants and a white, ruffled shirt like you would see under a tuxedo jacket. “Your servant will be with you shortly,” she said pleasantly. “She will take care of all your needs.”

While I awaited my servant... I noted that she said “servant” not “server”... While I awaited my servant, I watched the display with took up most of the center of the room. There were six men and six women bound somewhat tightly in naked Xs on a big carousel that was slowly rotating. Three of the men and three of the women were bound facing inward, the others were bound facing out. A man in tight leather pants and what looked like paratrooper boots was riding inside the carousel, walking from person to person fondling them, or stroking them, or lightly whipping them with a soft, multi-strand whip. A similarly-dressed female was walking around the outside of the erotic merry-go-round doing the same thing. For me, the oiled breasts on the female were much more interesting to watch than the oiled chest and abs on the man, but there were some women– and men– present who probably had a different opinion.

At first I thought the twelve bound individuals were perhaps slaves being trained to hold back an orgasm, but then I heard one of the men cry out, “Please! Please! Make me cum! Make me cum! Take me all the way! Don’t torment me like this!”

A pleasant voice next to me said, “Master Mark and Mistress Angela are experts at this. They can hold all twelve of them right on the edge until just before closing time.” She gave me a cute smile and said, “Their cries around one am start getting rather pitiful.”

“You must be my servant,” I said, matching her smile. “What is your name?”

She was not wearing a name tag. In fact, she was not wearing anything. Her mousey brown hair had been cut short and hung close to her head. It and her eyebrows were intact, but below the neck she was completely bare, there wasn’t even a slave collar. Her breasts looked firm and natural, but her slit had that porn star, clean clam look that normally requires some help from a skilled plastic surgeon. I’m not sure when it became fashionable for women to not have labia protruding from their cunts, but someone must have said it looked sexier for the clam to be more than clean-shaven. It had to be pre-puberty smooth. I don’t mind some meat showing out of the taco, but I had to admit on this particular young woman the effect was sexy.

“My name is servant,” she said sweetly. “What may I bring you? We have a well-stocked bar as well as a kitchen capable of preparing various snacks.” She paused a moment and then asked, “Would you like a menu?”

“No,” I replied, “I’ll just have a bourbon on ice.” I paused as if thinking and then said, “Make that a double.”

I really wanted a dark ale, my drink of choice when I’m working, but I wasn’t W tonight. I was Harold Guthrie from Manchester, Ohio, and Harold Guthrie drank bourbon. For all I knew, the servants had been told to be on the lookout for anyone ordering a dark ale. Covers have been blown for less important details.

The servant returned a few moments later with the drink on a tray. She did not set it on the table, but instead bowed low in front of me in a curtsy-like movement and presented the tray to me.