INTRODUCTION
The Stage Is Set
On the seventeenth floor of a tall, grey, glass encased skyscraper in the city of Los
Angeles, a pretty, pale-skinned young woman kneels in the center of a ten-by-ten
windowless room. She is naked and her hands are intertwined behind her head, her elbows
up, causing her ample breasts to rise prominently on her chest. She has long, straight,
black hair that descends to just below her shoulder blades. Her knees are spread wide,
exposing the pale white, tender skin of her inner thighs, and the outer lips of her
hairless sex. The floor is covered by a thin, light blue, rubberized mat. Next to her,
along the wall, is a rolled up futon, a small locked chest, a plastic bottle of water and
a covered chamber pot. A small desk-like, free standing platform sits in the corner of the
room behind her. It is about two feet high, perfect for someone kneeling before it to
write on. On the platform is a 5”x8” piece of ivory colored writing paper and an addressed
envelope, both covered with the graceful lines of a woman’s handwriting, and a pen. In the
other corner is an empty 3’x3’ steel cage.
The girl is trembling, her inviting breasts quaking softly. Her long, wide nipples are
taut and distended. There is a thick, black leather collar around the lithesome young
woman’s neck with gold colored rings at the front and back and similar bracelets around
her ankles and wrists. A single drop of perspiration runs down the woman’s right side,
rolling slowly down her slender and shapely torso and dissipating as it reaches her right
hip. It is clear that the woman is expecting someone, someone that she fears.
A slight moan escapes from the young woman’s pursed lips. She has been holding this pose
for an hour and her arms have become increasingly heavy, causing a deep, burning ache in
her shoulders. The remnants of long, pink trails of abused skin suggest the reasons for
the woman’s trepidation. The faded lash marks cover her breasts and her flat, taut belly
as well as the pale white skin of her rear and thighs. If one could see her back, one
would see fresher, angrier red marks, the results of a recent whipping with a thin,
leather covered reed, spread across it. The woman is breathing slowly, almost
rhythmically, purposefully, as if preparing herself for an ordeal to come.
She shudders when she hears the sound of the handle of the door to her small prison
turning. She has been staring at it for over an hour, anticipating its movement.
Nonetheless, when it does move, it startles her.
A tall, heavy set man of obvious Asian descent steps into the room. He is wearing a
bright green and red silk flowered kimono that accentuates his broad chest and the narrow
grace of his hips. His legs are thick and long and he is wearing woven, straw sandals on
his feet. His hair is jet black like the girl’s, but is cut short. There is no hair on his
hard, square jaw or above his thin upper lip. The door closes behind the man and he places
a plastic key card in the pocket of his kimono. To exit the tiny cell, one needs both the
key card and the combination to the heavy, push button lock that seals the door shut. The
combination is changed daily.
The man looks down on the kneeling, trembling woman. He takes the time to admire her
luscious form and to enjoy the outer signs of her fear. In his right hand he is carrying
the same thin, leather covered reed that has marked the young girl’s back. He utters a
sharp, one word command to the girl as he loosens the belt to his kimono and pulls it
open. It is a command that the girl understands completely although she does not know the
literal meaning of the word. She inches forwards on her knees, keeping her arms raised and
her hands interlocked behind her head. Kneeling, with her back straight and erect, her
mouth is just above the level of the helmeted head of the Asian man’s long, limp cock. She
has to bend her neck slightly to capture it between her lips.
Edging closer to the Asian man on her knees, the young woman wraps her plump, red lips
around the thickening meat. She massages the man’s tool with her tongue, encouraging it to
hardness. The man gives out a low sigh as the hot moisture of the girl’s mouth causes a
wave of pleasure to flow through him.
Once the cock has hardened to its full length and thickness, the woman, known here only
as Number 7, drags her lips slowly up and down its length. She knows that if she fails to
pay proper obeisance to the man’s pleasure, she will surely feel the bite of the leather
crop that he still holds in his right hand. She forces her head forward until the head of
the cock passes the entry to her throat. She coughs, slightly, as she fights off her
body’s rejection of this invasive flesh. The man has placed his hands on her head and, by
his mere gentle pressure, keeps it positioned, the girl’s face crushed against his loins.
The young woman groans as the need for oxygen begins to become urgent. But the hands keep
her head still just as if it were held in place by a steel chain, the wad of thick, hard
flesh still down her throat.
A low moan escapes the man’s mouth just as the girl commences an almost silent,
desperate whine. The hands guide the girl’s head up slowly until his stiff manhood has
breached the outside of her lips. She frantically draws a deep breath, her heart pounding
with need, her mind dizzy from lack of sustenance. She is allowed one more before the
hands push her head forwards once again. She can feel the plush, bulbous head as it glides
across the roof of her mouth and over her tongue. She keeps her mouth narrow to maximize
the man’s pleasure, granting his instrument maximum friction against her moist, hot
tissues, and the hard, tubular flesh fills it easily.
Five times the ritualistic fucking of the girl’s throat continues. Each time, the man
holds her head still a little longer, forcing her to exhaust her reserves of breath. Each
time, she breathes deeper when finally released, sucking in air noisily.
The man feels his juices rising and relaxes his grip on the girl’s head. This is her
signal to begin sucking his cock in earnest, pushing her broad lips along the cock’s
shaft, circling it with her energetic tongue. Keeping her hands interlocked behind her
head, elbows up, she moves rapidly now, drawing a moan from the man each time she pushes
her mouth forward, dragging her lips across the hot shaft. He is rocking his hips back and
forth in time with the girl’s exertions. Suddenly, he gives a loud groan. He barks a
command to the woman and begins to pump his hot load of viscous white sperm into her
mouth. He has ordered her not to swallow and the girl whines as she feels her mouth
filling with his spunk. He probes her throat deeply one last time as he growls with
pleasure. She can feel it throbbing in her esophagus. When the throbbing slows, he slowly
withdraws it, pushing part of his expenditure out of the girl’s mouth and over her lips.
The girl kneels back, and points her dark green eyes at the man expectantly. She has a
mouthful of his jism and cannot swallow it or spit it out until she has been given
permission. The man looks down at the delightfully formed woman appreciatively. Smiling
slightly, as if humored by his own private joke, he gives her another order and she pulls
her hands from behind her head and places them together, palms up, in front of her.
Looking up at him as if confirming what he has told her to do, the woman’s body shudders
in humiliation. She looks down at her hands and squirts the remains of the man’s copious
discharge on to them. She then raises her hands to her face and covers it with the thick,
creamy goo. There is enough to fully cover her face and she has to rub it in so that it
does not lay as liquid on her skin. Her eyes and mouth are closed as she does so, giving
her face a peaceful, contented air that belies her misery and anguish.
When he has satisfied himself that the young girl has complied with his command, the man
orders her to resume her former stance. This, like all the previous commands, is given in
the harsh, staccato tones of an Asian land. The girl is familiar with them all, having
learned their import, if not their meaning, at the end of a whip.
Now, for the first time, the man addresses the woman in English. “Number 7, have you
completed the letter?” he demands in a cold, ominous tone. God help her if she hasn’t.
The girl takes a deep swallow and responds meekly, her voice barely audible, as if she
were out of practice at speaking and was doubtful that the right words would come out.
“Hai, Kanakasama,” she says, bowing her head.
“Bring it to me,” he orders her.
The woman scrambles to the platform in the corner of the room and retrieves the letter,
the envelope and the black, felt tip pen. She returns to the feet of her oppressor and
hold the materials up to him, her head bent, like an offering to a cruel god.
The man takes the letter and reads it carefully. He grunts his approval and folds it.
The girl has kept her arms poised up, the envelope and pen still in her hands. The man
places the letter in the envelope and puts it and the pen in his kimono pocket.
“The letter is satisfactory, Number 7. Today you will receive only five lashes,” he says
matter of factly. He pauses, as if contemplating what part of the girl’s already marred
body will feel the bite of his thin, leather covered reed. She awaits his verdict, shaking
in anticipation of the pain of this daily, routine abuse. He utters a command and the girl
rapidly turns around and bends over, pushing her hips and rear high behind her.
Considering his target, the fleshy hindquarters of this desirable young woman, the man
rears his right hand back and lets it fly. A loud ‘crack’ permeates the room, followed
quickly by the girl’s cry of pain. She had clamped her mouth shut, vowing to deprive the
man of the satisfaction of the sound of her unhappy suffering, but the pain is so sharp
and deep that she cannot withhold the single, anguished cry. A bright red stripe has
formed where the reed has met her flesh and she can feel it burning long after the pain of
the impact of the whip subsides. She cries out the word for ‘one’ in Japanese, “Ichi!”
The man takes his time before administering the next blow. Each stroke of the whip is to
be savored both by the torturer and the victim. He admires the contrast between the deep,
red mark and the girl’s pale, white flesh. The girl bemoans her cruel fate as she tries to
build up her forces before the next slash of the whip while the burning sting of the last
one slowly subsides. Another blow falls. It lands about half an inch above the first. The
man is an expert at wielding his instrument and he has carefully measured the blow.
“Ahhhhh!” the girl cries out in spite of herself, and then “Ni!” as if it was something
she had forgotten. “San!” she cries out at the third kiss of the cruel whip. “Shi!” and
then “Go!” Each number is preceded by a screech or yell of pain. Tears are flowing down
her face and she is sobbing lowly. She does not understand the cruelty of those who hold
her prisoner. She has never experienced anything like it. It holds no place in her
perception of the world. But here it is, right behind her, and she can feel the lingering
results of this man’s cruel bent. The world has changed for her. Silently, in her mind,
she begs and pleads to whatever god will listen to change it back.
Having administered the morning’s whipping, the man takes time to admire the graceful
curves of the posterior presented to him. For a moment he considers ravaging it, as he has
done many times before. But the morning is late and he has his rounds to make. “Maybe
later,” he thinks. Without saying another word to the still supine girl, he turns, unlocks
the door and steps out. The unhappy young woman does not move; no one has told her to. She
will remain as she is until someone does, bent over on her knees, her forehead to the
floor, her red striped, raised rear end proffered to her next visitor.
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