White Silk & I Belong to You

Chapter Three-2

“And what is that purpose?” I ask—as though I’m doing an interview—the fact that I would open my mouth shocks me almost more than it shocks Colonel Broc.

“No questions, Miss Monroe,” he replies tersely.

“Sorry.”

“The fact is, both of you will make suitable whores. Even if you’ve never been paid for s*x in the past, from what we’ve gleaned of your lives, the basics come natural to you as if you were born sluts.”

Amie’s angry heart beats next to me with such passion that it begins to affect me.

“You scowl so, Amie Cortez,” Broc says to my turbulent sister in the red. “Your dossier makes great erotic reading.” He takes the file and thumbs thoughtfully through the contents for a minute. “Born in Queens, New York to an immigrant father. Your mother died when you were seven. You fended for yourself, starting to sleep around when you were thirteen.” He looks up to see Amie’s surprised face, then rambles on. “When you were seventeen, you hitched-hiked West and were eventually picked up by a motorcycle gang who passed you between them like a hash pipe. You opened your thighs at liberty, living on the lam with them for nearly three years. Then in Dallas, three years ago, you were arrested for indecent exposure—lewd dancing in a local nightclub. And in Vegas six months later you were picked up for vagrancy … Do I read on?”

Astounded, she shakes her head no.

“It’s only been in the last two years since the death of your father that you changed your persona and turned yourself into a chic, continental wanderer, living off his savings. Your methods haven’t changed, just your attitude. You still feed on the men who you seduce.” Broc puts the dossier down. “I doubt what you do for me—for the organization—will be much different; except, of course, you’ll f**k for survival, this is not a capricious lark. What you do will keep you healthy and alive.” He stares her down until she’s red in the face—as red as her red dress; then he turns to me, leaving me breathless with his question, “Shocked, Miss Monroe?”

I am too stunned to respond.

“It might interest you to know that I am not the stereotypical terrorist. I’m a college graduate with a master’s degree in sociology from the Ivy League.” He chuckles. “And here you thought I was some backwoods riffraff.” His smirk excites me. I haven’t met a man as exciting as this one since Jordan—I think of Jordan now, wondering why I led him on, let him linger, played cool and distant… and now… he’s gone… I’m gone … “I have my reasons, Miss Monroe, for what I do. Just as you have yours for the way you live.”

He exchanges Amie’s dossier for mine, and inspects what looks to be a thick sheaf of papers—many I can see have been printed off Internet websites. He reads the highlights, “Humph. Educated in a rival Ivy League school—few years after I left. Started making documentaries seven years ago. You were lucky, promoted from a grunt position with a travel company, mainly on your good looks and relative poise. But it says you’re not one to socialize with your crew. You tend to be stubborn and often unfriendly.” He looks up, engaging my eyes, which have stared fixated at his powerful thighs and remarkable hands. “I wonder if they’ll even miss you—or mourn your loss?” He mocks me, but there’s nothing I can say. Every word is the truth. He reads on…”You live part-time with Jordan Haversham, a mixed race male—Puerto Rican, Jew, Spanish and Black—amazing how thorough these investigations are (he amazes us both)—weightlifter, undercover cop, who was trained as a classical ballet dancer and has his bachelor’s degree in philosophy and music—then turned to archeology for his masters. Says here, you were suppose to be married last year and you called it off. He’s offered to accompany you on these trips, but you’ve refused to let him …” Broc nails my eye again. “You’ll probably regret that, or at least think you will.

“The good news about the both of you is the few relatives that will care about your disappearance. Miss Monroe does pose some problem with Haversham grieving for her, but it was worth the risk seeing what we’d be able to offer to our customers. But other than the boyfriend, there is just her weakened mother living in Schenectady; and you, Miss Cortez have only a few cousins and uncles who are so busy with their sadly impoverished lives that you won’t be mourned long. Yes, ladies, you are prime for taking this dive into my underworld. Let’s hope you can enjoy the ride as much as we will.”

“How can you do this!” Amie finally shouts. She’s riled again, about to jump from the chair, though the soldier behind her grabs her firmly by the shoulders and pulls her back. She wrestles him for a moment with her black pageboy thrashing back and forth.

“Humm, begging to be punished?”

“No!” she snaps.

“But I thought you enjoyed punishment, Miss Cortez. You let your biker friends abuse you…” he picks up the file again and flips through to the page he wants. “Says you were once the whipping girl in your surly community. Like to be tied up, ass bared, bottom blistered… is that true?”

She doesn’t speak.

“You’ve been in and out of S&M scenes for some time. Isn’t that so?”

Amie remains silent.

“Answer me!” Broc raises his voice for the first time.

“No!” she snaps and shakes her head.

Broc motions to Tahli, who waits on the sidelines observing her carefully—as if his lust builds with each second she remains defiant. It is a beautiful defiance, I think. This Amie is more of a woman than I understood her on the Orient Express, and the scene fascinates my own wickedness.

Tahli moves in front of her, looking oddly intrigued by this red-dressed woman. Their eyes lock as though there is some unspoken understanding between them no one in the room knows about but them. Tahli gestures to the soldier behind Amie, “Her dress,” he says.

The solider reaches to the thin straps of the red dress and pulls them off her shoulders and then tugs on the material until her breasts appear. The full rounds of flesh are lovely, the tanned skin flawless, while Amie’s n*****s darken at her aureoles, and turn darker still at the center where two tiny buds grow firm.

Captain Tahli holds a tiny reed-like implement in his fist, which he draws along her skin, as though he’s making an informal map. “Hands behind the chair,” he orders.

She’s too mesmerized now not to obey—even with her jaw tight with anger. All this makes my gut clench with fright. When Amie grabs her hands behind the wood, the soldier is there to wrap them with rope. All the while, Tahli draws his lines across her skin—as though he’s waiting for something, as though he has a plan. The real effect is to tease this b***h into her mindless panting. Her lips part, and when they turn dry, she licks them wet. I stare—feeling almost exhausted by the slow pace of the unfolding scene.

Broc stares with me. It takes some force to keep my eyes from him. I understand this will turn s****l… does that mean we’ll f**k? And will that mean that we’ll be lovers?

I am scared. I’m really scared, but it feels like a dream—and sleep is just around the corner of the next absurd turn. I wait watching the slow moving Tahli as he raises his slut’s attention with the tip of his thin reed.

Swish—Thwack!

The reed slices air and lands on Amie’s right breast.

She shrieks, I shriek and we both pull back.

As Amie twists to get away, another strike thwacks across the top of her left breast. Then Tahli steps away as all our eyes witness the results. Two red welts surface, these cut so deeply that the skin is nearly torn. Amie shudders, tears form in the corners of her eyes, and her mouth grimaces, as she struggles with her anguish.

Tahli then reaches forward with his baton again; this time to gently raise her chin with the cutting end.

“If you’d like, we can make these marks permanent, Miss Cortez,” he tells her. “What you have here will last a few days… maybe a week. But I can cut you permanently. Mind yourself—your bikers in Texas have no clue of the sadomasochistic acts we practice here. Mind your manners and that tongue.”

Amie’s riveted eyes do not move from the man until he backs away for good and Broc takes over again. “This is not a pretty place, but you can survive it without such suffering. Let this be your first lesson.” He looks at me, seeing all the questions I don’t dare ask. “Don’t fret, Miss Monroe, it will all be explained,” he snickers again. He paces for a minute and then stops in front of the desk again. “We have another two days on this train until we reach our destination—the bordello where you will be trained. There are just a few preparations to make you ready.” He speaks to me. “So, White Silk, your turn first, get up.”

Preparations, what does he mean, preparations?

I rise, faltering and scared. I’ve almost forgotten the white sandals and I stumble forward.

“Lie back on the table,” Broc orders.

I balk.

“Yes,” he nods. “Back into the edge of the table.” I look to him questioningly, but he doesn’t explain himself, so I sit first at the metal edge and then fall back. “Raise your hips.” His hands are there, pushing the white silk up to my waist and exposing my dampening genitals. Despite the cold inside my shoulders, the other half, the lower half of me seems to respond to the Colonel with desire. But my desire is scared and held at bay. Uncertain because I know to expect pain and I fear the turns they will take.

I notice how warm his hands are as they capture each foot in its white high heel, and position it on the table’s lip. He spreads my bent knees wide so that he can inspect every nook and cranny of my s*x: the pubic hair, my nether lips—the plump outer ones and the inner ones that come plainly into view—and finally, he see the brown rosette of my anus. As Broc’s hand glides over my crotch it raises a ticklish fire, and I begin to moan.

I wait, feeling nearly frozen. Like Amie waited for the rod to strike her breasts, I wait in fear of some rude blow across my crotch. But none comes. There is just the Colonel’s warm hand on my inner thighs, and along the cleft where a single finger runs from my anus to my c******s and above. Then he clutches the whole pubic mound in his fist and shakes it.

“You’re horny, aren’t you?”

“No,” I shake my head.

“Better not lie, Miss Monroe—could be dangerous.” His eyes seek mine so that I can see how serious he is. Examining my crotch, he pulls and twists the fluffy hair, looking as though he’s deciding something. Then he turns to Tahli, “Captain, get the bowl and razor, we’re going to shave her clean. And then,” he gloats at me wickedly, “Miss Monroe is going to c*m for us.”

“Never!” I think silently. How can the man suggest this now!

“You may dispute me with those eyes, White Silk. But I know what I’m doing, and I know what you’ll do.”

“You have no idea what I’ll do,” I say aloud.

“Oh?” He mocks me. “We’ll see.”

Tahli has returned with the items that the Colonel ordered, including a scalding hot towel that he slaps across my crotch. I wince.

“Burn?”

“No,” I lie—though the heat fades fast and settles into a warm and soothing bath. There is a straight razor on the cart next to me, along with a bowl of water and a pot of shaving cream, which Tahli mixes into a frothy foam.

When Broc removes the hot towel, he takes the bowl of cream and with the bristly brush begins to coat my entire crotch with the thick white substance. It, too, is warm for a time until it starts to cool from the air. As he slathers it generously over every strand of pubic hair, I feel the tickle of sensation add to my unexpected arousal. He beats playfully at my anus, so that my belly starts to clench.

“Too bad that this doesn’t affect you,” he gibes, while I stare him down with my cruelest expression. “You’re too easy, Monroe,” he laughs, then moves for the razor. All the while I’m shivering with fright. “Never shaved before?”

“Of course, I’ve shaved.”

He chuckles. “You’re an interesting study, White Silk… rather like that name.” He runs the blade against my inner thigh briskly. I’m sure it’s sharp, and won’t leave a trace of hair. “We have both ‘Red’ and ‘White’ today. Interesting contrast you two make. You start passive, then turn sullen; she starts angry and then relents.” He works the razor along my thigh, then begins the risky pathway to my labia. “Don’t jerk, White, could be dangerous.” I sense the joke. He seems adept at this, hardly about to slip as the razor carefully removes my p***y hair. I shaved once for Jordan when we first met, but let the hair grow back when looking at myself in the mirror made me uncomfortable. Broc opens my labia to reach my inner lips, and I clench again. “Steady, now. It won’t take but a second.” His seconds linger, and so do his fingers along the opening of my v****a. He presses on through the hole and teases it around inside, finding the “G” spot anxiously awaiting his stimulation. A second finger pushes against my c******s, rolling it around on the tip. I can hardly keep my response to myself.