White Silk & I Belong to You Read online

  The worst of my dilemma occurs after my cursory inspection, as I feel my cunt throbbing with a desperate need to cum. Do I dare? Or would I only set myself up for more punishment if I get bold enough to take the top off of this hounding energy? I start to play, running my hands along my belly tentatively while I watch at the doorway for signs of people passing by. There have been none since I awakened. I believe I can manage a quick masturbation, then I absently gaze at the corner of the room and spot a camera. My hand retreats and I turn my back to the lens, moving as far away from the device as I can. Unfortunately, there is no way to hide.

  “Monroe.” I hear my name. “Monroe?” he calls again and I turn over.

  Colonel Broc stands at the doorway, and finally inserts a key in the lock. Just seeing him, that infernal madness in my groin grows angrier.

  “Thought you could use this,” he says, holding out a jar of cold cream—at least it looks like cold cream. “Turn over.”

  Lying on my belly is no better for my sexual arousal—only means that I have these rough blankets to rub against. As Broc smears the cold cream on my back and ass, my body starts to turn orgasmic. The cream is cool against the roughened skin, while the Colonel’s hand is warm. The substance seeps into my pores and makes me drift on a magic carpet of body waves. I squirm, but only slightly afraid of what Broc will think. But when he slips his hand between my legs and burrows deep, he finds my pussy wet and aroused. I realize this is what he wants.

  His massage goes deeper still. Then his fingers stir the opening of my anxious portal, and rub the sensitive nub below. Then, with little warning, it all breaks free and I rock on his fingers with my ass rising eagerly for more. “Oh, yes, please,” I beg. I begged him at the whipping post without success, but this time he gives me everything I want.

  I clench and lunge, then my body starts to thrash about. “Gawwwwww, aaaaaaaaaaugh!” I’m almost over his lap by the time he’s finished, where I limply fall into a moment of slumber. When I awaken, he’s stroking my hair like a loving father. Turning to my side, I see his ruggedly handsome face, the promise of a smile, and the blue in his eyes—which are not nearly as hardened as I’ve seen them before.

  What kind of man would ruthlessly whip me, then just hours later, lay so gentle a hand on the wounds to soothe them? Why do we have to be in this odd reality outside time? Why does this have to be a nightmare?

  “You are a strange man, Colonel Broc,” I say softly.

  “I’m sure you think so, Monroe.” He rises from the cot. “Has the jailer been using the liniment on your crotch?”

  “He has, can’t you see?” It’s hard not to notice my crotch looking virginal without a wisp of hair.

  “Give in, White Silk.” He swipes the dress from the foot of my bed and chuckles darkly, looking more normal. “I suppose you’ll have to get a new one.”

  I just stare at him.

  “I’m leaving in the morning. The General will take over from here. Mind your tongue and your anger, and tell your friend Red the same thing. Otherwise that whipping post is going to start feeling like home.”

  He turns on the heel of his thick black boots and removes his sexy masculinity from my eyes. I won’t be seeing him for some time.

  Chapter Five

  They teach me to submit, all of which is oddly familiar. Though Jordan would claim that I submit, “like a house afire…”, not at all. Jordan was right about me when he said that, but I’ve changed since then. Though now, he’s out of the picture forever. He’ll have new lovers, ones to soothe his grief. I was never good at that. All the nurturing he did for me, I was piss poor giving back.

  This life is easier if I want to forget that there is any purpose to my days. Sexual servitude is recklessly easy. I fit the mold—one of the many things that Broc decided for me when we were on the train. That was not a romantic time; there was no romance in being frightened for my life every second. But I do wonder about Broc and where he is now, what new whore he’s found to snag into their game. Or if he’s off staging another kind of terrorist plot. The details of this place and its purpose remain unclear. It appears there are other things going on around us—other than the training of whores. But there are almost no facts leaking out from behind dozens of closed doors; and if the other whores know anything, they wouldn’t admit it.

  I accept my role and let my anger go. They have me—what good would it do to fuss?

  I bow, obey and follow commands almost before they are given. It helps to have an intuitive mind. And in this brothel, I have lots of opportunity to listen to the empty ethers for telepathic signals floating my way. We don’t talk much, chatter isn’t tolerated, and only late at night when the building is quiet do Red and I speak. Even then, we say little. I’m afraid of the other whores … at least right now. They seem to know things I don’t, or maybe they just look as though they do.

  Red, however, rebels, rebukes and ends up on the raw end of the punishment rod far more often than I could take it. I wonder if she loves it, even though she looks like disaster has struck when she’s finished, and I sometimes hear her sobbing in the middle of the night. She upset me so much one night that—camera or not—I crawled into her cot behind her and held her until she quit crying and fell asleep. Apparently, our captors didn’t care that we spent the night that way. For myself, I’ve forgotten how to cry.

  “I should be more like you,” she tells me after these messy forays.

  “Don’t bitch, Amie.”

  “I can’t stop myself. It’s been this way since I was a kid. My life with the bikers didn’t help.” She blushes. “Obviously, I’m not the woman who introduced herself to you on the Orient Express.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m not much of the woman I was either.”

  I can tell now how much of a persona she wore with her prefect clothes and make-up. Now, I think her allure is just as provocative, though she’s a much earthier whore in these circumstances.

  “Is this hell?” she asks.

  “Could be. But it seems we’re safe as long as we do what they say, and pretend we’re having a good time when we have sex.”

  She giggles. “I do have a good time, sometimes. When Captain Tahli is here he wants me almost every night.”

  “Is he good?”

  “Yeah,” her eyes look dreamy. “He’s a good lover when the lights are out and he can’t see me. Makes me wonder if he isn’t thinking of another woman. Still, he’s warm. And I love his lips—the best I’ve ever had.”

  “Then take comfort in that, Amie. I get the men who want to fuck me while they chew on their cigars and jabber with their friends.”

  She laughs, a little more carefree than I’ve heard in some days. “I should be more content, but the anger boils in me and I can’t stop it. I think it’s flashbacks.”

  “The bikers?”

  “Naw, they were honey. Queens…” Her eyes drop, and she sighs heavily, biting her lip because she doesn’t want to say more.

  Eventually, she’ll confess. We have a lot of time to spare, and nothing else to do. This could be decent therapy, though I’d still give my eyeteeth to have my freedom.

  I cringe watching the masters take Red to the whipping post and string her up. I think they purposely taunt her to see how much she can take before she sounds off. It’s been several months now and her hair has grown past her shoulders. The punishment administrators have to tie it out of the way with a ribbon when they scald her back with a flogger—or briars. They want an uninhibited target.

  Briars are a favorite here because they leave such stirring remains. Amie’s smooth skin can bear a hundred marks of punishment and be healed in a matter of days. She’s a durable slave.

  The days move on so that I can hardly remember one to the next. We are used for sex—or sent to the kitchens or a task master who gives us chores—cleaning, scrubbing, garden work, mending uniforms. But with so many women—there must be thirty in the brothel consistently—there’s hardly enough work to keep us occupie
d for even eight hours a day. This gives us lots of time to brood. I find this the worst. I think too much, and become vulnerable. Days, to weeks, to months, I’m restless; which is a sign of danger. Red blows in small tantrums; I do it all at once.

  Six months in the life, I have a week of nearly nothing to do. The men who’d normally screw us are on maneuvers. Funny, how much my body needs those brutes. The restlessness builds a little bit each day and my submissive attitude retreats. I snap at a superior, and snap a little more the day after. I start getting cocky, enjoying the risks I take with my words. I used to do this with my lovers when I was restless with them. Either they would knock me down to size with a few barbs of their own—like Jordan would, or run off. No one pays much attention until General Hanan begins to bait me.

  I’ve been dressed in a new white silk—they are surprisingly consistent with my slave name and the metaphor they make of my attire. The general is having a dinner party in his private quarters and wants me there. I should feel a bit proud being tapped for such an important duty—it’s my first time—but I’m in the middle of my restless snit and can’t seem to stop my tongue from wagging. Though I contain myself for a time, once dinner is served for the General and his six guests, I feel my anger start to rise when I become the focus of the conversation.

  Jorges’ guests are all military comrades with an eye for female flesh. They are a regular United Nations of bloodlines—two men from Eastern Europe, a black African, a white South African, and two Westerners. Obviously, this elite terrorist organization to which I’ve become a slave ranges far beyond the territory they inhabit. That hardly matters when it comes to me; as these men have one thing in common. They like the pale color of my skin, and have been running their rough hands over my bare shoulders, admiring the soft feel. I hate this. In my many months of captivity, I’ve taken one man at a time, two or three when I’ve been in the middle of an orgy; but not since I came here have I had so many pawing hands assaulting my body, and so many eyes leering at me with such lusty gazes. They’ll be licking their chops any minute.

  “We picked her up on the Express six months ago,” General Hanan tells them. “Hardly caused a ripple in her world. Her boyfriend was putout, but her mother let her go rather easily. The memorial service was very nice, wrapped up her life with a short but tender ceremony. The boyfriend and the mother divided her belongings in one afternoon, and they were back to their lives after a single weekend of grief. And, no repercussions since then. I guess we have the US State Department to thank for that. They hate Middle East messes.”

  I’d like to cry, my eyes are wet with tears, but there’s more anger in me now than sadness. I hate the way he speaks.

  “Now she’s ours—our White Silk. Aptly named, don’t you think?”

  “She’ll sell well,” one of the commanders decides. He’s the one next to me, the South African, with a studious manner and thick accent. I hate his hands; they are clumsy and not alluring. He’s smug. The kind of man who would charmingly woo women in the outside world; but here he doesn’t have to be nice to get what he wants.

  I shake him off—my first mistake.

  The General scowls, so I lower my eyes submissively hoping that will assuage him.

  “Yes, she’ll bring a good price,” Jorges tells them. “Though I have the feeling she needs a rougher action before we put her on the auction block. Then, too, she has six months to go before we can offer her in our general sale. There’s time.”

  “She photographs well,” a black man tells him.

  Another man, who has been eyeing me from across the table, starts to smirk as some lousy thought crosses his mind. I can almost anticipate their sly insinuations. The man beside me starts to twist my blond hair through his fingers. My natural instinct is to jerk it away.

  Another scowl from Jorges, I smile faintly and say, “I’m sorry.”

  I’m surrounded by them with their lecherous eyes and the comments and barbs that rally back and forth like I’m not here. They discuss my body, make me stand up and raise my dress. After everything I’ve been through, you’d think this would be easy, but it’s not. If it’s a test, I’m going to fail.

  “Ah! She’s been shaved clean.”

  “It’s been permanently removed,” Jorges returns proudly.

  “I see,” the man says as he reaches out to stroke my soft and hairless pubis.

  “Open your labia,” the South African orders.

  I obey.

  “Now rub yourself.”

  My face begins to burn with humiliation. I hate this and my anger rises. I know this is just my pent-up rage speaking, but I can’t help it. I love sex. But I’m still too much a woman to submerge my other selves. I hate what they have done to me and I’m telling them this with the grimace on my face.

  “What is this?” another man speaks, as he noticed the expression. I’m frozen and can hardly move anything but my mouth.

  “What do you bastards expect from me!” I finally roar. It feels damn good to blow my stack.

  General Hanan’s eyes darken—if that’s even possible. They seem to squelch the immediate fire and I offer him another simple, “I’m sorry,” which he won’t bother to acknowledge. I’ve gone too far this time.

  “Sorry is hardly enough, is it General?” A voice comes out of the blue.

  It’s Broc. His voice is unmistakable—six months and I remember it as clearly as if he spoke to me yesterday. I can feel him now behind me, staring into my shoulder blades as though they are a target for his knife. I start to shudder realizing how much I’m drawn to him. My contempt rises. It burns in my gut. But now I’m in such a horrible fix, I know that the only way out won’t be pleasant.

  “You have a solution for her madness, Colonel?” the General asks.

  “I’m sure I can find one,” he says with determination.

  “It’s not exactly what we had in mind tonight, but perhaps her training hasn’t covered all the vulnerable places—at least not yet.”

  “That’s usually the case, sir. I told you before that she’s as wily as a fox.”

  “Better to get it handled now than to have this kind of rebellion rise once she’s in the hands of her new owners. If you will discipline White Silk for us, Colonel, we’ll be happy to watch.”

  I feel the Colonel’s hand as it clutches my bare arm. Its inherent power sends a deluge of desire through my shoulder down to my crotch.

  One hundred and eighty days I’ve been submissive in this unreal world and I choose this one day to rebel—the day Colonel Broc returns.

  The Colonel drags me to the far side of the General’s dining room where a heavy ringbolt is embedded in the wall. Cuffs go quickly around my wrists and are attached to the ring so I hang there, virtually on tiptoe. Broc cuts the straps of my new dress and tears the material away with a broad sweep of his hand. Makes me wonder if the brothel has an inventory of white silk dresses to replace the ones they destroy. Shivering and naked in my white high heels, I cringe more, knowing how dearly my backside will pay for my thoughtless crime.

  Broc whispers in my ear, “I returned because I wanted to screw you, Silk, and you pull a stunt like this. The Ivy League should have taught you better, or at least your survival instincts should be more acute.”

  The Colonel’s anger focuses my own. If I’d have known he’d walk into the room at the moment of my worst offense, I’d have never voiced my anger. It is a matter of pride with him. Broc of all people is the last man I want to witness this kind of weakness. I’m not sure why it matters, but it does. Now, I’ve humiliated myself in front of a room full of no-count bastards, and one very enticing man. How could I be so stupid! All this and he wanted to screw me!

  I look at him from the corner of my eye. “It was a big mistake,” I whisper in the most contrite voice I can manage.

  His attire hasn’t changed: military fatigues, pants tucked into thick black boots, sleeves rolled to the elbow, black belt around his waist. I watch him unbuckle the leather and d
raw it from his pants while my whole body quakes and my ass begins to tingle. It’s quite a theatrical move, which I could appreciate if that leather wasn’t about to connect with my naked backside.

  Doubled in his fist, the leather is all he needs to send my poor body into spasming convulsions of pain. He strikes fast; muscles the blows about my ass in a cadence so quick that there is no way I can keep up with the intensity and turn it erotic. Again and again, the leather smacks my pale skin crimson. My whole ass must be aglow as well as the skin halfway to my knees.

  He grunts. I moan. And I gasp and shriek and think the pain will never end as it comes in such a fierce onslaught. The look of anger in his face arouses me. We are symbiotic sufferers. For some unfathomable reason we expect more from each other—at least he expects more from me than he does the other whores. And me? I’m too mixed up to know what I feel for him, but I do know where my desire is leading.

  In time, my body starts to twist away from his strikes. Broc stops. “Put your feet to the ground and don’t move them,” he roars the command.

  I do as he says, even though I can hardly stop myself from these useless attempts to get away. The pain is in charge, not me. I’m begging him to stop; my plea is so impassioned that I finally get through to him—at least I can imagine as much. The last strikes of the belt on my ass seem almost half-hearted, as if his own passion for punishing me has finally dwindled.

  Broc has broken me as a cowboy breaks a horse.

  When he finally puts his belt back in his pants, there is so much rampant sexual energy between us that I suspected we’ll fuck it off. After what he’s told me in his finest whisper, I have little doubt. But when he leaves me hanging in the room with my ass bared before the seven snickering faces, I almost start to weep.