 |
|||
|
|
Slave Hunters, Slave Preys Ch. 02
by Nikita and Wolff
Synopsis: In a phantasmagorical tale
of sexual slavery, a mysterious man and woman, a generic sheik, twin
submissives, and even some celebrities, come together in a story exploring
submissive and dominant needs. Just for
fun, there are many references and allegories to pop culture. It is surreal at times but it is not fantasy
or a spoof.
The story begins with a dance of
dominance and submission between two strangers on a plane, Wolff and Nikita,
and moves on to unravel a sinister plot brewing in the bowels of the
aircraft. The intensity of events grows
with each chapter. The scenes include
the sacrament of a sadistic communion between the generic sheik and The
Catholic Girl, a female switch turned to slave, a pair of twins separated at
birth, one who is Wolf's pet and the other is Nikita's slut slave.
This series is a work in progress
because our perverted imaginations take us to unknown destinations. We hope you enjoy the journey with us.
This chapter was written by Wolff.
A Day at the Races
By Wolff
© 2006 Wolfwerks and Nikita
Was The Wolf pissed off as he
watched this damnable fellow move on his territory just when his half erect
cock oozed some of his precious fluid on the little slut's upturned face?
Pissed off? No - he had VISIONS!
He envisioned this pilot chap in an
opera-like Nazi costume and he saw...
Das Kapitan's mouth turn into an
O. Wolf thinks it rude so he shoots him.
* * *
Then the pilot moved to Nikita and
the Wolf had THIS vision:
When the startled Kapitan protests
the misuse of flight attendant Wolf slaps his forehead in a mock surprise:
"You mean passengers are not
allowed to fuck the airline's property? Well, spank me, I never thought of
THAT! However, she is not your property - she only works here. Now - scat!"
* * *
And, finally, when this
robber-pilot, a key in his hand, walked towards him to take away cumcovered
Carleen - THIS was The Wolf's vision:
Das Kapitan looks with amazement at
the action going on in front of his very eyes.
Then he regains his composure, straightens up and says in his most
official voice:
"Ladies and gentlemen, there is
no need for a alarm, but, for your information, the dogs are OUT!"
The Wolff gives him an eye, then
looks down cooly at Carleen's bobbing head and replies in the most
conversational tone:
"My good man, the only dog I
see is definitely IN."
"What dogs?” asks Nikita.
Das Kapitan has no time for answers
as a very real baying is heard and then the first of heavy body thuds into the
door. Das Kapitan runs down the aisle
screaming. The Wolf whirls towards the
door, this time really pissed off at the intrusion.
"Now WHAT!!!"
As the first of bloodhounds bursts
through the smashed doors The Wolf rips out his plastic Derringer. His cock involuntarily jerks and starts
pumping its essence in vain. His weapon
cracks dryly as he pumps his only two slugs in the ugly head of the hound. It crashes and dies in a pool of sperm and blood.
The second hound appears at the
door. Nikita screams and faints.
* * *
‘Heh heh,’ thought the Wolf,
returning to reality, ‘talk about dog eat dog.’
He watched the little waif jump up
at the Marks' mark, a line of cum still trailing from The Wolf's cock to her
face. She looked at him regretfully,
then fearfully at Nikita. She jumped
over the seat like regular fuckbunny and was off with the Pilot.
The Wolf glanced at smiling Nikita.
‘ALL right,’ he thought. ‘The chitchat and the
bounce-the-ball is over, this woman is in for some serious conversation.’
He tucked his cock in, jacking his
cell phone out. He mumbled few words,
listened, tucked the phone in his designer jeans, then, he decisively started
towards Nikita.
(Note to sanitary inspectors: Yes,
we know that TUCKING IN uncleaned cock is not a regular procedure but consider
these facts: The Wolf is really agitated and he is used to have his cock
cleaned by slaves, anyway.)
Nikita was still smiling as he saw
the funny stranger coming right at her, growing suddenly larger, his dark
shadow engulfing her. A pang of strange
fear ran down her spine and on, towards her pussy. She stopped him with:
"Seems we are out of toys,
Mr. Wolf."
"Indeed. I was wondering Mrs. Wilson..."
"Nikita, please."
"Of course. I was wondering, Nikita, would you join me
for a day at the races? Camel races?"
At the mention of camels, another
strange pang ran through Nikita. Why
should she fear something so absurd as camels? Nevertheless, she threw her head
back and laughed.
"Come Mr. Wolf, you will have to come up with something
better. Camels? On a plane?
That's pretty lame."
"Indulge me, please.” he said, offering his arm. She realized that this is it. ‘Do I?’
Gracefully sliding from her seat she
slid her arm over this perfect gentleman's forearm, and she felt clutched even
if they were barely touching.
* * *
They went back towards aiplane's mid
compartment dividing 1st class from the sardines in the back.
As they passed by the reader - yes
this means YOU - The Wolf winked.
('How's this for an in-stride dialogue? Have we broken down those long
paragraphs yet?')
They went towards the stairwell. Nikita knew there were private lounges
upstairs, but the Wolf took her down in the bowels of the plane. She followed, puzzled.
The lower compartment was pretty
much the same and looked makeshift and unfinished.
In the shadowed corner, among steel
girders, a kneeling girl was sucking a man off.
Nikita couldn't care less. She
was fascinated by the plain partition in the plane's belly and a half open door
gaping in it.
The sounds: the soft
clomp-clappipty-clomp. The camels? Impossible! There were faint voices cheering and jeering,
the wind, a distant cry of the hawk.
Then she felt the smells. Yes,
the desert. Hot, dry, creosote, sage,
burning firewood and a distinct tang of camel dung. ‘What in the world?’
She looked at The Wolf. His smile showed just in the corners of his
blue eyes. He led her towards the
door. She did not like being led, but,
she was.
As they passed the door the desert
hit her with full force. The evening's
rubensque light, the dunes stretching on all sides, a few palms, the hot wind
gently ruffling her hair, touching the perfect pink skin of her face, the grit
of shifting sand under her feet.
The odors grew intensive, the stench
of camels, the human sweat, the dung, burnt stone, there was a clay kiln and a
fire in the distance, sage bush, cardamom, and was that wild poppy?
‘The sea must be close,’ she
thought.
Then the Wolf chuckled and waved his
hand around, shattering the illusion. Of
course, it was obvious, now that she looked carefully. The walls were covered with huge crystal
screens, in the corners were sprinklers, fans and a huge PA. The palms were plastic. The fire was real.
"Sheik Hasan i Sabbah is off
his rocker, of course. But he is a good
'un."
In the center of this vast space a
large circle of people were cheering something she could not see.
"This sheik must have ripped
out the whole storage area,” thought
Nikita.
She was led on as the sound system
delivered another, most realistic 3d camel charge.
‘Not hoofs,’ she thought distracting
herself, ‘Those are TOES. Camel toes.’
As they pushed through the throng
consisting mostly of men but some women too, a cigar smoking, mustachioed
little chap slid by, muttering to himself.
He looked so much like *Hugo Hackenbush that she felt another pang of
weirdness grab her.
Then she was completely disjointed
as she spied another mustachioed, barechested guy. It was **Freddie Mercury. He was leading a leather-encased blonde
bondage barbie on a short leash.
‘Am I on Candid Camera or the
Twilight Zone?’
The Wolf propelled her towards the
center of the shouting crowd. They burst
through the first rank of the circle and she saw the camel racetrack. It was some fifteen meters in diameter,
etched in the sand, marked with poles, bright flags gaily flapping in the fake
wind.
Four camels were running, encouraged
by the flailing whips of oil covered, bare-torsoed handlers.
Each camel had a gear of distinct
color. (‘Of course they are yellow,
green, blue and red, silly!’)
Crawling girls had small, stylish
humps (‘Galliano?’) on their backs with waving flags bobbing above them. Fake jewel-studded reins connected the humps
and shiny metal bits in their mouth.
Colorful tassels hung down. Dune
colored leather strips and gold chains held their humps in place. The camels' breasts were bondaged by
crisscrossed, color-matched braided ropes with a huge metal rung at the base of
swaying, plumped out and slightly purplish teats. Matching kneepads and short tails, obviously
stuck in their assholes, completed their Galliano attire.
They wore whip marks on their
glistening skin. Many of them, livid
marks, crisscrossed their flanks, buttocks, bottoms.
Pressed on three sides by jeering
crowd, Nikita was bewildered. Her
fascination focused at sickening emptiness in her guts, emptiness needing to be
filled.
The big girl, adorned in red, was
passing her by, shuffling and throwing sand around, her kneepads almost
torn. Whenever a whip kissed her back
she would jerk, jumping forward two paces, trying to gulp air and sob at the
same time.
Nikita saw her wild eyes, the
flushed, tear-stained face, teeth gripping the bit, saliva flying around. As she jumped down the track, her breasts
swung forward and slammed back oh her lower torso. In a flash she was past Nikita and The Wolf.
Her flag proclaimed 'Running
Holes.' She was followed by 'Fast Dip, Lighting Suck and Whore of the
Deserted.'
Nikita felt the crowd pressing on
her, pushing her out towards the racetrack.
In the heat, sounds seemed to recede and world shifted into a slow
motion mirrored in lake of fuming quicksilver.
She saw The Wolf's hand gesture
slowly towards the 'camels', his smile sardonic.
‘What is he ...,’ she wondered
groggily. ‘Is he asking me if I like
this sick spectacle? Or is he ...
offering ME a place as a contestant?’
She barely managed to shake her
head, returning her mesmerized gaze towards the race.
The race vanished. All she saw were disjointed snapshots, a whip
kissing a heaving flank, lips trembling around the brightly steel bit, froth
flying, heaving breast with a stretched out, ringed nipple, a tail wildly
flailing at a reddened ass, a metal rung slapping the pumping stomach, tears
and sweat glistening on the puffed cheek, a frenzied body spurred forward by
the hot invitation of the whip, the crack, desperate eyes, and the voices.
The voices were no longer aimed at
the race.
They were aimed at her, asking,
demanding, 'Why isn't she in the race?’
She was in her own race anyway. Is her goal in sight?
‘Are you going to run forever?’
They kept mocking her, jeering,
pushing her towards the unknown vortex filled with million eyes, all fixed on
her. Then she became aware of just one
pair of eyes. The Wolf's.
Moving around, those eyes cast
around like a beacon ray in the fog, finding her, clutching her, piercing
deeper, finding depths she didn't know were there.
At the same time she felt his hand
moving over her hip, towards her trembling ass cheeks, clutching them as his
eyes were clutching her soul. Those
fingers pushed between the globes of flesh, went downward, stopping
inquisitively. Fingertips tapped the
message of their discovery on her burning flesh. No panties.
She was uncovered, exposed and offered.
The hand suddenly receded and just
grabbed her dripping sex, mercilessly squeezing.
She almost swooned but the Wolf's
eyes held her; his hand on her pussy held her.
He was asking something, demanding something that can never be put into
words.
She nodded. He kept demanding.
Licking her dry lips she managed to
whisper, "Yes."
* * *
The whirlwind of passion swept
her. She was whisked through the
pressing thong of sweating bodies and ogling faces. His finger (‘WAS it a finger?’) was on her
secret button, her asshole, pushing her.
He almost carried her out of the circle.
Nikita felt like a child in his arms.
Yet, she still felt her feet. She
was walking. Undefined rooms and
corridors whirled by.
Was she pushed through space or the
space flowed through her, Nikita wondered, as she tried to size up the room she
was finally led to. The words 'Fuck-drome,'
flashed in her mind.
It was almost bare. Thick carpeting, enormous posted bed, huge
hookah in the corner, strange contraptions of steel bars along one wall ('are
those chains swaying, swinging invitingly?'), more posts, iron chairs, other
things immaterial.
"Keep still, little one,” she heard.
Her view was cut off by the leather blindfold tied snuggly.
He stopped touching her and just
intoned, "Keep still! And not a peep.
Understand?” Then, he left her.
She could not even nod. She felt a wave of anxiety sweep trough her,
a forlorn feeling of being left, unwanted, and un-cuddled.
Standing there, she trembled at
every sound. Soft feet, shuffling, a
door being opened, a breeze on her cheek.
Trying to cock her head to catch soft voices behind her. Was that a cough, a stifled laugh, a chortle?
Nikita waited, trembling.
She almost jumped when the hand
touched her neck. The soft hand was not
The Wolf's. It was too small, too
warm. His was cool.
Fingers traveled her neck, brushed
her cheek and a lock of her hair. Then
they started unbuttoning her blouse.
Quickly.
The blouse was pulled out her skirt,
almost yanked open, offering her bare breasts.
The touch of the chilly air burned her tactile skin. The blouse was removed. Then the skirt was just slid down her legs
and she was helped to step out of it.
As her hands were pulled behind her
back a soft voice whispered in her ear.
"Stay still, mistress.This will
help."
A female voice! Faintly familiar. Her wrists were firmly held together, her
arms straight, her palms in praying position.
Strong fingers, ('The Wolf's?') slowly wound what seemed a long leather
string around her imprisoned wrists, binding them tightly. Then she felt stiff and cool leather encasing
her arms. Nikita knew it was an
armbinder and she imagined it was black, unknown hands pulling it tight,
pushing leather strings through silver loops, tying them.
She was left alone. Naked, except for her heels. There was only heat permeating her body,
pushing from the hidden knot deep in her guts outward, through her goose bumped
flesh, reaching out towards the hidden power holding her motionless. Her mind at a standstill, blinded and bound.
The wait seemed endless. Her arms were thrust out in a V spike, at an
angle towards her torso. She found it
increasingly difficult to stand upright as she knew she must, shoulders
straight, breast outthrust, nipples hard as adamant. The dull pain in her shoulders developed into
painful throbbing, counter-pointing the throb of her wet pussy and the
rhythmical pangs of impassioned shame that plagued her body.
Every breath was like the grasping
hands of strangers exploring her nakedness.
Every sound was an order to fall on her knees, an order she loathe to
follow.
Finally Nikita's sojourn in
loneliness was broken as the hands touched her shoulders and slowly pushed her
forward, step by stumbling step.
Nikita was seated on the edge of the
bed. Her torso remained straightened,
bound hands barely touching the tight silken covering. She felt warm hands spread her ankles, gently
but firmly pushing them aside. Feeling
the cold of the manacles grasping tightly her legs above the ankles, she heard
the clasps close with finality. She
didn't need to try to close her now widely opened legs.
Knowing that she was tied to a
spreader bar, she found comfort in it, in its ability to hold her open without
her needing to force herself to do it.
Suddenly the blindfold was loosed
and removed. She found herself looking
at the eager face of Carleen peering at her at the close range. Except, it was not Carleen. Not only the raven black tresses were wrong,
but the smile was different, brighter, and there was something in the
eyes. They were eager, full of admiration
and worship, but also of amusement and even a hint of teasing. It was an eternal
catch-me-if-you-can-and-then-punish-me of the Natural Born Brat.
Nikita trembled.
"Please Mistress, please...” Carleen soothed and pleaded simultaneously,
holding Nikita by the shoulders.
She was bubbling over with joy and
mirth diluted by dread as she cast fearful glances across her shoulder.
"Please Miss...give me a name
Mistress! You must!"
The eager waif jumped up, her naked
body glistening, metal cuffs at her wrist and feet casting shards of
light. She ran again to Nikita, caressed
her cheek and her heaving breast, moving her hands to Nikita's bald mons, and
down her legs. Finally she settled into
a trembling heap of the supplicating female flesh at Nikita's spread feet.
"Please Mistress, a name for
me!” she repeated tearfully, yet there
were no tears in sight.
"You are so beautiful and you
play so beautifully!"
The bubbling urchin bent down and
licked the ebony bar between Nikita's legs.
She was looking at Nikita with glee, her pink tongue caressing the bar.
"Mistress you played so
beautifully with me! Yes, you did! Once I took my sister's place and you were
so cruel and naughty. I smarted for days!"
Finally it dawned on Nikita. This must be Carleen's twin sister. There was no other explanation. And she remembered that at least once, perhaps
more, Carleen was more alive then ever, more difficult then ever. She kept cumming as she flogged slut's
pussy. It must have been THIS little
slut.
'A Natural Born Brat,' thought Nikita.
THIS little slut was feverishly
licking Nikita's shoes. She moved on to
kiss her ankles, then her shackles, and onward, up her leg, blubbering almost
out of control, salivating on Nikita's calves.
"Please Miss, I'm just plain
Mary. I am older! And Jane was just Jane
until you christened her. Carleen, mmm,
such a tasty, adequate name,” she sucked
her lips in, as if sucking sweet morsel.
"Sooo beautiful and sweet, like
pain. And, she is different now, the
juiciest and the easiest slut on the plane! And she loves it! Please Miss, a
name for me too?"
She kissed Nikita's knees and was
moving up her smooth inner thigh, kissing, licking, and pawing her way towards
the wet secret of Nikita's pussy.
Looking at those dark,
uncontrollable tresses dancing between her thighs, ticking and teasing, Nikita
felt her orgasm almost bursting the dam, flooding without being touched by
hands.
"Please Mistress, name me,
before The Wolf comes back. He helped me
get to Sheik Hassan, but he will flay me alive if he hears me talking to you,
asking for a boon ... a name for poor
Mary?"
She backed up, like a hot little
cobra ready to lick mercilessly and went into a dive towards Nikita's exposed
pussy.
"Stop!” cracked the voice.
Mary froze. Then she slumped down in front of Nikita's
fastened legs. Nikita suddenly realized
that Mary only called him that, never Master or even Sir. The Wolf was at the side of the bed. He seemed angry but his eyes were dancing.
"THAT belongs to me! However,
such a beseeching plea should be answered.
She deserves a fitting name."
He cupped Nikita's face and looked
into her eyes inquisitively and asked, "Don't you think so?"
He then pushed her face so that she
was looking into the tear brimmed eyes of Mary's. The sweet slut was begging by her posture
alone.
"Yes, name her Nikita,” he patted Mary her head. No, he petted her, she realized.
"You are so good at it! What
will be... no, what IS the slut's real
name! Do it! Name her!"
"And then we'll see about
flailing impertinent brats and find out if YOU have another name..."
Nikita stared into waif's forlorn,
expectant eyes and licked her lips. On
the surface her mind was in a conflicting whirlwind.
But, deep inside, there was a calm
spot, and out of that eye of the storm, a name floated up, "You name
is..."
*******
*Hugo Hackenbush is a fictional
character played by Groucho Marx in "A Day At The Races".
**Freddie Mercury is an even more
fictional character played by the singer of Queen from their album of the same
name, "A Day At The Races."
The exact nature of the other
characters, (fictional or otherwise,) is yet to be determined. Still, it seems that Mary and Jane are
completely real.
|
|
|