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The House of Singing Wind
By
Sir Marc Wyld
Chapter 8
Road Trip
Home again, fresh and relaxed, my thoughts turn toward Slut, who my benefactor, Maelstrom, has brought into my little world directly from the New York Times. She is sitting on a Pulitzer gold mine if she is able to write this story and expose Singing Wind for what it is: It is a slave factory owned, as it turns out, by the wealthiest human being in history. On the other hand, just supposing that she can’t expose Singing Wind or prove its existence, she has a New York Times Best Sellers List number one novel. Heads I lose tails she wins. It is time to spend some quality time with the fourth estate.
It only takes the merest of suggestions to convince Li and Sollie to take off on a shopping expedition as I mention I may need clothes for four more auctions this season. That is what I love about these two: Their devout devotion to me. They will drop everything they are doing and attend to my most pressing needs without hesitation or reservation. They will climb aboard a small jet and travel tirelessly about the world in service of me. They will further sacrifice themselves by spending enough money to feed Africa for a week in pursuit my satisfaction. Yes, with only each other, and J.D. (but never Tommy) for spiritual and physical comfort, I can easily get everyone out of my hair to spend the special time I need with Slut.
* * *
Slut is learning the art of shaving a man with a straight razor when she receives word that she is to report to the Head Master. She can not fathom if this is a good thing or a bad thing; she has seen the office door but has never inquired about it or heard any stories of anyone being called into that office. She is, however, extremely pleased to be getting away from her mentor.
Fuckmeat has been assigned as Slut’s domestic trainer. Fuckmeat believes that one of the greatest and most selfless acts as well as being the ultimate sign of trust that a slave can receive is to shave her Sir. Slut certainly agrees with this statement; it has all the ingredients for an instant Sweeny Todd moment, just add sadist. In learning this task, Slut must be able to shave 500 balloons consecutively without popping any. To date, she is at one in a row.
What makes this worse is that she is required to service Fuckmeat with every failure. Everything losses its allure and luster after awhile and that is certainly true about eating pussy and Fuckmeat seemingly has an insatiable appetite for this. However, today, to get to her one in row streak, she has had 11 failures. Right now, Slut would gladly bend over the Head Master’s desk for a date with a cane or hop under his desk to smoke some pole rather than eat that skanky pussy one more time and she greets the summons with welcome. She does make a kind and loving mental note to seek out Fuckmeat at bath time tonight and give Fuck meat’s pussy the sweetening it so richly deserves.
Up close and personal to this door for the first time, she sees a small, brass plaque at eye level:
Knock firmly three times
She opens the door when she hears the word ‘enter’ from within. The first thing she sees is him.
* * *
I love this office. It is everything that a Head Master office should look like and I did not have a thing to do with its creation. It is a hold over from the previous tenant of this island, The Fellowship of Knowledge. This room, however, is the only remnant of that cult that still exists unchanged on the island. After all, there is room for debate about the moral ambiguity of the differences as well as similarities between Singing Wind and The Library Compound, as this place was once known. My predecessor is gone and so is his ideology. But I’m guessing he loved this room as much as I.
I now know that she can read as well as write when three firm knocks sound and I announce enter. She is standing there dumbfounded, wearing only collar and stiletto heels, wondering what the fuck to do, but this is understandable. Her life has changed extraordinarily. Last week she was some body’s daughter, girlfriend, best friend, and employee. Now, she’s a three holed wonder slut. She will fuck and suck whatever is handy and even licks her own piss off the floor. I am impressed that one could be so dedicated their craft that they would endure this shit for a story. “Kneel, you stupid, fucking cunt.” I say this in an eerily normal voice and she obeys. She starts to open her lips to speak when I put my finger to my lips and say, “Only open those lips only if I need a urinal. Are we clear?” She nods. Kneeling, head bowed, without dignity, I let her wait.
“It’s time to go home, are you ready?” Not only her does her head shake, her entire body sways. I can even hear Slut’s name tag jingle. “Yes, you are. I know you heard the jet leaving this morning and now there is just one way off of this island. Tomorrow, I’m taking you to Manila. Meet me at the garage. Do you know where the garage is?” She nods. “Good.
“Be there at seven sharp. Ask any one of the girls tonight to take you to the Purser’s to draw clothes for ten days. Any questions? No? Good. You may rest here until Vespers.” With that, I walk out the door and close it gently behind me. I would bet she neither heard opening nor closing.
* * *
Singing Wind sits on an island that is one of 7,000 in the Philippine Sea. It is forty-three miles long and seventeen miles wide at the extremes. It has been excluded from every known nautical chart since 1945 and it is one of thousands of places that are intentionally blinded from radar as well as satellite cartography. My predecessor paid dearly for the former and I paid even more dearly in the case of the latter.
To me, the entire island is Singing Wind. My predecessor eventually headed a religious cult that was an offshoot of the Krishna’s of airport begging fame. Their money and worldwide cash canvassing network allowed them to build this paradise of knowledge, with dreams of a library greater than Babylon. But it was not Nirvana found, it was Gomorrah revisited, in the end.
Not long after my service was over and I began my life as a free agent, if you will, this cult came to the attention of a fledgling democratic government after years of dictatorship. The group was amassing weapons as they began to teach doomsday prophesies as well as spiritual enlightenment, now sprinkled with morsels of free love, the compound soon came to have a population with a greater ratio of females to males, approximate 30:1. With a harem of over 900 women, the thirty-two men were well armed, motivated and as it turned out, somewhat professionally trained.
I signed a contract for my company to sterilize the threat on this island discretely. I took one million dollars in advance and the island as payment in full for preventing an embarrassing element from seeing the light of day. The siege took eleven days. We did not prevail because of greater and superior firepower, numbers or planning. We prevailed because when their numbers dwindled to ten men, they lit the fuse of their doomsday plan eerily taken from Jonestown playbook. Two Teams of eight men, as well as myself, hit the beach and within six hours, twenty of their number and two of ours were dead. Of the remaining twelve, after the element of surprise ran its course, we only picked off two more after they locked down their compound over the next ten days. When the second of the final two was taken, they abandoned their defenses and began the slow process of mass suicide. Despite our speed in discovering access to the compound, over 600 dead or dying bodies were discovered. Of the 356 surviving females, 104 live at Singing Wind, the only place that they can find peace in living the way they were trained. Of the 250 that were expatriated to their families, over half committed suicide within a month. There have been no suicides among the girls that call Singing Wind home.
* * *
Slut arrives carrying a small pack at quarter of seven. She is wearing sensible cross training shoes, shorts and a pastel blue low cut blouse. Her leather collar and name tag are clearly visible above her cleavage. I do not give her any greeting and only motion for her to sit on a bench next to the garage. I sit my pack, not much larger than hers, beside hers and turn to speak at her.
“This island is bigger than you think. Since the plane left this morning, the only way off this island is by sailboat. The boat, who is a she, by the way, is moored near the village of Bonca at a private marina. It takes about four days to get there, two days walking and two days on a bicycle. Once there, we will depart in Guilty Pleasure for Manila. If the gods of the sea gives us the wind, and we can make 75 knots a day, we’ll be there in 10 days. In another three, you will find you have a reserved suite at the Waldorf Astoria. Your passport and the luggage you came with are already aboard Guilty. Do not forget what you are, it is what you asked for, begged to be, remember that. Until that collar is cut from your neck, you are property to be used for pleasure and entertainment. That is your purpose. Are we clear?” She nods. “I cannot hear the marbles for the cob webs in the void, are we clear?” This time she answers “Yes, sir,” soft yet crisply.
“Alright then, it is five miles to Topanga Beach, well have lunch there and it is eight more to St. Veronica’s Convent where we’ll spend the night. There is a fridge inside full of water in the garage, pack at least 7 bottles, one for two miles, this is the tropics, more if you can carry it. I’m ready in five. By the way, Slut, be good and from here on out, I’ll answer any question you ask and I will answer as honestly and with as much candor as possible. Do we have a deal?” Dejectedly, knowing that the story of lifetime is about to slip through her fingers, she meekly agrees, hoping to salvage some semblance of a believable story from this adventure.
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