If you’ve never been awakened by a hot mouth around your cock, those of you who have
one that is, then you’ve never truly lived. It takes a few seconds to bring you to
consciousness. Your body has already entered a relaxed yet energized state. Your mind
tries to focus on what is being done to you. It doesn’t take long to figure it out.
If you are lucky, like I have been, you might wonder whose mouth it is that has
established a circumference around your tool. Your hand wanders down to your loins to
communicate your delight and you stroke the still unknown head that keeps bobbing up and
down slowly over your loins.
Your alertness is only momentary. Almost as soon as you become aware of what is
happening, a pleasurable warmth suffuses you and you surrender to the mesmerizing
sensations. It is like melting back into the dream state, only you are awake. As you
approach your climax, you might spread your legs wider or raise your knees. Your free
hand, the one that is not stroking and encouraging the head in your lap, might drift
aimlessly over your chest and belly as you ready yourself for what is coming.
If your fellator is skilled, you might linger a while near the edge of
consummation, teetering back and forth until you give out a pleasurable, anguished groan.
You might re-solve to hold off as long as possible, a resolution that will surely
dissipate as the tongue and lips that are tormenting you transfer their moist heat to your
needy prick. Suddenly, you either cannot, or will not, hold on any longer. The first
pulsating throb of your cock pushes everything from your brain except for joy at the
exquisite delight. Your body tenses as it is overwhelmed with sensation. You groan again
and your hips thrust upwards to meet the mouth, lips and tongue that encompass you. Again
and again, your cock jerks and spasms, releasing your essence. It feels like it is flowing
from deep inside of you. Your orgasm is a force that cannot be stopped and no power on
earth can slow it down. Your spewm is jetted down the length of your manhood, finding a
warm, welcoming receptor.
This is how I awoke on the morning of my second full day in the Hindu Kush.
What I was doing there, well that’s the whole story, isn’t it? Klitzman, he whose
name is etched with blood in the book of the damned and accursed, had sent me on a mission
to obtain and return with some precious thing or other. He hadn’t told me what. I was just
loaded up with 800 heavy, glittery krugerrands, a .45 caliber automatic and a sharp, ruby
handled pig sticker and sent on my way.
I was not alone in my quest. My ‘partner’ in this enterprise, was a svelte,
sinister, spider woman with long, straight hair as black as her heart. Her name was
Natanya. She was the one who knew exactly where we were going and what we were going to
get. She was accompanied by a youthful, comely and ever silent ingénue named
Celine. Her relationship with Celine, and what she was doing with us, was not exactly
clear. The doll like, blond haired 18 year old had been purchased by Natanya from an
orphanage in Budapest and, according to Natanya, had served as a whore to wealthy, callous
and lustful women back in Paris where Natanya ran a specialized house of delight.
When I met the young lass, back at Klitzman’s Isle, she had yet to be introduced to
the joys of being pierced by a cock. Natanya broke her in to cocksucking with my
cooperation, but she was keeping her otherwise pure for some undisclosed reason. Her
relationship with Natanya seemed to be one of mistress and slave, yet the comely young
girl wore no brand or other indicia of embondedness. Natanya had forbidden her all speech
and her continual, obsequious silence stoked my desire to ram my cock between her thighs.
She remained, however, enticingly out of reach.
The mouth that had awoken me belonged to Kien’s second wife. Kien, a hard bitten,
bulky ethnic Chinese of old, but indeterminate, age, was our host. We had driven up from
Gilgit, a remote, almost lawless city in north-western Pakistan, after flying there Air
Klitzman directly from his island. No customs officer asked to see our pass-port and so I
didn’t need to explain the presence of the heavy metal hanging under my arm in a shoulder
holster or in the shiny black valise I carried.
We stayed overnight in a second class tourist hotel. I spent much of the night
watching ‘B’ grade gangster films of Hong Kong vintage, dubbed in Farsi or Urdu, or
whatever it was they spoke up here, and a soccer match between Abu Dubai and Sri Lanka. It
was as exciting as watching paint dry. If Natanya hadn’t brought a native whore around, I
don’t know what I might have done.
One thing though that was good, at least I thought it was good, was that I was able
to make contact with my ‘handler’ back in the States known to me only as Bederson.
Oh, yeah, I need to tell you about that too. I was minding my own business, doing a
life stretch for squeezing out a punk named Jimmy Tiger back in Atlantic City, when along
comes Bederson and his sidekick Mulitierri. They tell me that they represent a government
security agency, which they never named, and wanted me to do a little job for them. I
wasn’t doing anything really important at the time except maybe cleaning the shit stained
underwear of 6500 hardnosed, crapulent, Federal inmates in the prison laundry of the
Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, so I agreed.
It seems that they wanted me to infiltrate an organization known only as ‘k’.
Bederson told me all I would have to do was keep my ears and eyes open and someone would
get in touch with me. He assured me that any crimes I had to commit as an associate of
this nefarious organization would be forgiven by my Uncle Sam. To me, it seemed like they
were giving me the key to the henhouse.
What I didn’t know was that the k in ‘k’ stood for Klitzman, a 350 lb. brute whose
main hobby was collecting beautiful, innocent, young women from around the globe and
teaching them, at the end of a whip, how to suck and fuck every swinging dick who wanted a
piece of them. Female slavery was only the tip of the iceberg. Klitzman had his hand in
every type of racket all over the world. The sweetener for any deal was the right to fork
over hug wads of cash to be a member of his club on his tiny island off of the West
African coast.
Now, I have to admit I was never any kind of saint. The guy I worked for in A.C.,
Tony Bianco, often had me lean on young lovelies who were into him for gambling money or
dope, or both. They all went to work for him eventually. It’s amazing what persuasive
power one little, itty bitty, broken finger can have on a good looking doll, and how
easily they snap. But that was about it. Klitzman’s gig was a whole ‘nother thing. These
women were not working off a debt. Even though Tony B charged the dollies enough vig to
keep them working on their backs or dancing in his clubs, usually both, a long time, there
would eventually come a time when the girls would be all clear and go on to great careers
as $100 an hour bar girls or maybe counter girls at Dunkin Donuts. But the women who fell
into Klitzman’s clutches were in it for the long haul. They had no rights, were literally
slaves. You could do anything you wanted to them as long as you were willing to pay for
it.
So, realizing that I was in way over my fucking head, and not having heard from
Bederson as to what I was supposed to do, I did what any other red blooded American lad
would do. I joined in. It was that or politely inform Mr. Klitzman that I really thought
his treatment of women was a bit off and could I please have a ticket home so I could go
back to my knitting. There’s no doubt in my mind that Klitzman would have fed me into a
meat grinder a piece at a time if he had ever found me out or if I had shown any reticence
to obey his every command.
I had tested my theory once. It seems that I was a rising star in Klitzman’s
firmament and I was given my own cottage on the island and the ownership of my very own
slave girl, Carol. As a supervisor on the island, I had the right to keep another slave as
my steady companion as long as I wanted to and they had sent me a dark haired, sullen
beauty named Mary. Since my treatment of them was a notch or two above the usual island
fare of whippings and other cruelties, we formed a merry little trio, an island within the
island. I think the girls actually felt some affection for me, as I certainly did for
them.
All was hunky dory for a few months until one day I get a call from Anthony, he’s
one of Klitzman’s top lieutenants on the island, and he told me that I needed to see
Klitzman right away and that I was to bring Mary. Well, it seems that I thought that Mary
was mine because I wanted her. The reality was that I was just babysitting her until her
true owner came round to collect her, an evil eyed, heroin dealing, Cambodian colonel.
When I brought the naked and crying Mary to Klitzman’s mansion, full of foreboding, I was
told to turn her over to this Colonel Huong. Huong had tormented Mary almost beyond her
ability to endure it during her early days of slavery on the island and had vowed to come
back and purchase her. Now he was there to pick up his goods.
Mary went into a fit of hysterical crying from well justified fear as to her future
and I saw red. What I didn’t know was that Huong was a black belt in hitzu mitzu, or some
such Asian fighting technique and the guy just flattened me. When I tried to hit him with
a lamp, one of Klitzman’s tall, black robed security guards zapped me with his cattle prod
and knocked me out.
I awoke sometime later in a 10’ by 8’ cell in the basement of Klitzman’s mansion. I
had lost Mary and, because of my outburst and attack on Klitzman’s guest, even though I
clearly got the worst of it, had lost Carol too. I was resigned to a painful death and
despondent at my failure to protect the two women whom I had come to cherish. The only
option I thought I had left was to die with a little dignity.
Then, out of the blue, Klitzman has me dragged up to his ‘throne room’ and tells me
he’s giving me a second chance. I’m to go with this spider woman, Natanya, and get the
dingus and brick it back. If I am successful, maybe I can have Carol back. If I’m not,
well, I better keep running.
So here I was, way up in the mountains of northern Pakistan, in a little hut right
out of National Geographic with Kien, his three wives, Natanya and Celine. The night we
arrived I was treated to an evening of sport with Kien’s number three wife, with the name
Fio, a still delicious looking, young, sturdy, peasant girl. Last night, it was the second
wife’s turn to play hostess to my cock. She was older than the number three wife by maybe
20 years, but still had a decent figure and right righteous tits. I was glad that we were
not staying a third night because Kien’s number one wife looked like she was in her
seventies, was missing most of her front teeth and was hefty enough to have played left
guard for the Chicago Bears.
When I had finished spouting my essence into Kien’s number two wife’s mouth that
morning, I was certainly in no mood for up and at ‘em. I lay back enjoying the warmth of
her body as she scooted up next to me under the rough, woolen blanket. She smiled and said
something to me in Chinese, her hand circled around my now limp cock. She was fortyish,
broad faced, heavy boned, but she had been a tiger the night before. There’s something
about the unabashed randyness that older women can have that makes fucking them more of a
meal than a dessert, a filet mignon rather than hot fudge sundae, not that there’s
anything wrong with hot fudge sundaes.
I looked around and saw that the circular, mud brick hut was empty except for us.
It seemed that Wife No. 2 had been forgiven her chores that morning. Natanya and Celine
were up as well as Kien and his other wives. Just as I was giving Wife No. 2 another kiss
and my cock was starting to harden again in her grasp, the door to the hut flew open and
Natanya poked her head in.
“Good morning, Harry,” she said. That’s my name, Harry Wiggins. “Are you coming
with us or have you decided to stay and fuck Kien’s wives for the next two weeks or so.
Maybe you can help tend the goats or something. I’ll be outside. We’re leaving in about
ten minutes,” she said as she pushed the door shut again.
Natanya was as beautiful as she was sinister. Anthony had warned me not to take my
eyes off of her, advice that had come in handy the morning that we got ready to leave
Gilgit. As we were entering the parking garage under the hotel, two native guys jumped us.
Somehow they knew I was carrying the krugerrands. For a moment, I thought it was, as they
say, curtains, but they were amateurs and they paid for their inexperience with their
lives. The pig sticker I had taken with me had proven handy.
Natanya swore that she had nothing to do with it, but I had my doubts. She was the
one with the connections up here and she seemed to speak all the babble, so I didn’t have
the option of dumping her. She and Kien were pals and the old man would probably have slit
my throat or worse if I had done Natanya. There was no way I could get anywhere without
Kien and Natanya. They knew where we were going, I didn’t. So what choice did I have but
to accept her protestations of innocence.
Like I said, one good thing about our overnight in Gilgit was that I was finally
able to get in contact with Bederson. I borrowed a cell phone off of some hippy American
dope runner and called the special 800 number I had been given. There was no way I could
call the number from Klitzman’s domain. First of all, I had no access to outside phones.
Second, I would have to believe that all calls were monitored and I didn’t want to have to
explain the call to Klitzman while my scrotum was being worked over by a blow torch.
So what did Bederson have to say to me? Well, not much. “Keep up the good work,
Harry,” he said. “We’ll keep in touch.” I tried to get him to let me come home, but he
threatened to put me in the loneliest cell in the deepest cave in America if I didn’t keep
going. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate living the life of a sybarite, fucking
beautiful, if enslaved, young women several times a day, eating top notch food, lounging
around Klitzman’s tropical paradise. It was just that I could only take so much pressure
of living on a razor’s edge. Every day I awoke, I wondered if it would be my last. It was
nerve wracking.
A part of me, though, wanted to stay. What Klitzman had done to Mary, sold her to
that fucking slime ball colonel, had sparked in me a firm determination to see this thing
through. Klitzman had to be taken off of the board. I would do all that I could to make
that day come sooner rather than later. It would be a pleasure to squeeze a bullet into
his brainpan. All I wanted Bederson to do was to have the Marines, the Navy, Interpol, the
Seventh Cavalry, anyone, come and put an end to Klitzman and his island hell. Bederson
said it wasn’t time yet. I had to soldier on. And so I was.
My companion quickly exited our little bedroll and I followed suit. I dressed in
the heavy clothes that had been supplied to me for our journey, a thick corduroy shirt
over a white, cotton t-shirt, heavy, canvas pants, thick woolen socks and a durable pair
of hiking boots. My assemblage was complete with a heavy, woolen, knit sweater.
Wife No. 2, I think they called her Ming Su, or something like that, got me a bowl
of porridge from the cast iron pot that hung over the fire in the middle of the hut. She
had thrown on a light shift and her boots. I quickly gobbled it down. I knew that we had a
long trek ahead of us, three days by foot to the monastery where the thing-a-ma-bob was. I
would need all of my energy. The air up here was thinner than I was used to and it was
going to get thinner as we ascended the mountain range. I had spent some time yesterday
trying to acclimate, but I knew that I had a long way to go. I was hoping that I would not
embarrass myself.
Ming Su, when I had finished the bowl of porridge, handed me a cup of thick, creamy
milk. I had had some yesterday and enjoyed its sweet flavor. I hadn’t known its source
then. I did now, but I took the cup and downed it anyway. It was too good to waste.
I had loaded up my pack the night before with my extra socks and underwear, a
lightweight down jacket, gloves, a woolen cap and some other sundries. I took my .45,
which I had slept with under my pillow and stuck it in the pack. I didn’t want to carry it
under my shoulder all day long. I kept the shiv in my pants.
All outfitted and ready to go, I took hold of the one last thing that I needed to
bring with me, a black valise containing the over $300,000 worth of krugerrands. During
the night, I had kept it by my bedside, although if Kien had really wanted to, he could
have taken it from me at any time.
When I stepped outside, the brightness of the early morning sun blinded me for a
moment. It was still very chilly from the evening, sunless hours and I saw a little
condensation from my exhaled breath. The forbidding looking, craggy, snow topped mountains
of the Hindu Kush loomed over the native compound. Part of me found it hard to believe
that I was really going up there. The other part thrilled to the majesty of the view. I
had seen pictures of mountains like these before and maybe got a glimpse or two of similar
ones from the comfortable seat of a passing jet. This close, I had never been.
The air felt fresh and yet somewhat deficient in my lungs, kind of like I had spent
the night in a smoked filled room playing poker and drinking whiskey. I looked around for
my companions. Outside, in the area which served as a kind of grassy courtyard for the
small assemblage of primitive structures, Kien and his first and third wives were busy
loading up the beasts of burden. There were three sturdy ponies with stout legs, perfect
for climbing up steep grades and six, er, well, there’s no other way to say it, pony
women. Natanya had said that we would have beasts of burden on our trip, but I hadn’t
appreciated what she meant until yesterday.
One of Kien’s ‘associates’, I guess is the best way to put it, a fellow who
conspires with Kien in his smuggling operations, arrived in the early afternoon with some
product for Kien to take with him on our trip. He arrived with three ponies, one that he
was riding and one that contained packs of some undisclosed contents which Kien was
loading onto his beasts today. The third was dragging a travois on which sat a tarp
covered burden. When the tarp was removed, I saw that the burden was a bamboo cage and
that in the cage was a naked, lovely, bound, young woman. She looked about as frightened
as she could be.
Natanya explained to me that Kien was what would be considered ‘ethnic’ Chinese.
The young girl was Han. The Hans, the majority ethnic group in China, and the ones at the
helms of power, were pushing out the ethnic Chinese from their traditional villages, all
in the name of progress. Kien and his fellows, when they were not smuggling, conducted a
low level guerrilla war against the Han. The girl had been apparently taken on a raid.
Kien’s little hideaway here sat in an area that was bordered by Pakistan, China and India.
Natanya had said that the border was kind of fluid way up here and she was not sure in
which of these three nations Kien’s abode actually sat. It was clearly beyond the reach of
any regularly organized, lawful authority.
Kien looked the terrified girl over once she had been removed from the cage and
agreed to buy her. I had thought that he was buying “Wife No. 4”, but I was dead wrong.
After Kien’s compatriot had left, the girl was dragged to the ramshackle barn where, once
inside, she was reduced to a beast of burden as I watched. Her hair was shaved from her
head except for an inch high, two inch wide strip down the center. The ends had been left
long at the back of her head completing the mane-like appearance of her hairdo. Her arms
had been permanently bound behind her with a clear, sticky paste that dried hard as a rock
within minutes, her palms affixed to her elbows.
A thick, leather ring was sewn into her mouth, forcing her lips into an immovable
‘O’, and her lower lips had been sewn up with heavy leather laces, leaving her love button
exposed and a small gap at the top. A heavy, golden, brass ring was run through her nose
and bells affixed to her ears so that she would give out a little tingling noise wherever
she went. Last, but not least, she was affixed to a stanchion in the barn and, to her
woeful dismay, branded with a red hot iron. At the end of the iron was a 4” square plate
containing two Chinese ideograms. Natanya translated them for me. They read, “Beast of
Kien”.
While in the barn, Kien proudly displayed to me the rest of his ‘herd’. There were
eight other pony women in the barn all reduced to beasts like the new one. Two of them
were very pregnant, having been covered by a Han soldier that had been captured and then
blinded and silenced by having his tongue removed. He was kept alive in a cage for the
purposes of servicing the beast women and, apparently, rotated around the mountain
villages to service the various ‘herds’.
You remember the cup of sweet milk that Wife No. 2 gave me after I ate my porridge?
Well, it was the product of the breasts of the two very pregnant pony women in Kien’s
barn. The two were kept bound to the walls of a stall in the barn. Their stomachs were
grossly distended, both apparently having been impregnated around the same time. One of
them was about to drop her foal, and when we left the barn she was first made to crouch
down with her knees spread, her neck reaffixed to the wall, and a large basket with a
coarse blanket was placed between her thighs to receive the child if it was born during
the night.
When I emerged from the hut this morning, six of the pony women were outside. Each
had been outfitted with a leather harness that crossed her chest and belly and had straps
that went over her shoulders. They were like primitive backpacks and Kien and his wives
had loaded canvas wrapped bundles into them. The burdens looked heavy and the unfortunate
women seemed to be stooping under them. Their eyes flitted back and forth as if in
anticipation of the travails of our impending journey. Despite the cold, they were naked.
The only accommodation to the elements that had been provided to them were leather boots
that had been affixed to their feet. The women were roped together in three coffles, two
pony women each. The 7 foot long ropes led from behind a belt around the waist of the lead
woman to a ring in the waist belt in front of the woman behind her.
Kien gave me a cursory glance as he tested the security of the bundles tied into
the back packs of the women and grunted an instruction to Wife No. 1. She came to me and
pointed to my valise and then to the pony woman nearest me. I saw that a gap had been left
in the pack harnessed to her back and assumed that it was intended that she should carry
my valuables. I had no objection. The valise contained 800 ounces of gold, a 50 pound
burden. I was damned if I was going to carry it for three days while we galumphed over the
hills and dales of the Hindu Kush.
I gave it to Wife No. 1, and she dropped it into the pack of the pony woman. She
strapped it in securely, giving out little grunts as she tied the leather strips that she
wrapped around it into tight knots. The bells in the ears of the pony woman gave out
sweet, little tingles as her body shifted as a result of the old woman’s efforts. When the
valise was secure, the old woman closed the pack on the back of the pony woman so that its
contents would be protected from the elements.
As Kien and his oldest and youngest wives were rechecking all of the cinches on the
pony women, I saw Ming Su, his middle wife, emerge from the barn. She had in tow the girl
who had been so brutally dehumanized the day before. A leash went from Ming Su’s hand to
the ring in the girl’s nose. I realized that the poor girl had probably spent the most
terrible night in her life. The blood that had flowed from the stitching of her lips and
the insertion of her nose ring was still evident on her chin, neck and chest where it had
trickled down. It had dried into a rust like color. Ming Su, who was carrying a long, thin
whip in her other hand, led the newest addition to Kien’s herd across the grassy area in
the center of the huts to a stake which had a long arm protruding off of it. A hook
dangled down from the end of the pole. Ming Su brought the poor girl over to it and then,
after removing the leash, hooked the girl’s nose ring to the hook on the pole.
When the girl was hooked up, Ming Su stood patiently next to her, tapping the palm
of her hand with the whip. I knew for certain that the whip was not for show.
Once Kien was satisfied that all the beasts were properly loaded, he went over to
the pole where Ming Su and the new pony woman were standing. The poor girl was staring at
the other dehumanized women, appreciating, probably for the first time, what would be her
new role in life. Her eyes were spread widely as if in disbelief. Her body seemed to sag.
She was crying.
Looking at her shaved head, with its lone streak of hair descending down the
middle, I tried to envision the girl as she had been yesterday. There was no comparison.
Before she had been worked on, she was a delectable, young woman, fair of face and body.
This creature only resembled a human woman from the neck down. Her mouth formed an almost
perfect circle. The circle was stuffed with a thick ball of leather that was wedged inside
her mouth. It was large enough to make her cheeks bulge and to make it virtually
impossible for her to push it out the small opening made by her rounded lips. The fact
that her eyebrows had been shaved off added to the discrepancy between her appearance and
that of a normal woman. Add the Mohican-like strip of hair down the middle of her head and
you had a beast that resembled not a real woman, but, rather, an animal from some related
genetic family. She looked closer to a small, hairless ape that she did to a woman.
And then there was her stitched up vulva.
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