“Jazmeen,” ordered Dominick. “Take off your top. Kiss Miss Daisy.”
The beautiful, exotic creature made no hesitation as she reached behind her, unfastening the strings on her bikini. Her eyes on Daisy’s were hot and hungry, as brightly wild as a tiger’s.
The older woman gasped at the sight of the lovely young breasts, so firm and supple, so exquisitely set with those rings in the middle of her dark, pink-tipped nipples. It was the marks that she noticed most, however. Rows of parallel lines across the center of each breast, the skin darker and bearing the mark of abrasions.
She felt her blood pound as she realized what this was. Lovely Jazmeen, graceful and desirable, had been whipped—on her breasts, by some sort of device, wicked and biting. Was this the sort of things that was done to slaves? Why not, when a slave was in no position to object to this or any other treatment?
Daisy froze as Jazmeen sauntered up for the kiss. She was confident, exuding sexual experience well beyond her age. The kiss was as provocative as anything a man would offer. Whatever training she had had, it was extensive.
“I have had her permanently marked as club property,” quipped Domi as if the statement was incidental.
Daisy’s pussy flooded. Was he talking about a brand? It was all she could do to keep from grabbing this girl and pulling her close, ramming her tongue inside that barely eighteen year old mouth. What was coming over her? She’d never had lesbian tendencies before, especially not with herself playing the dominant role. Around here, in particular, nude, female flesh was the norm, just part of the work environment. Anything lost its appeal, even a strip club, when you had to do it for a living. The ho-hum nine-to-five. Or eight-to-four, or whatever shift you happened to pull.
“You want to see the mark, eh?”
Daisy swallowed hard. This was the last thing she needed right now. “Sir, I just want to make things right with you.”
“Then try keeping your mouth shut,” he snapped. “Don’t be a spoilsport.”
Snapping his fingers, he barked for Jazmeen to turn and bare her ass. Again, she moved with total class, total obedience. Turning around, she unzipped her low riding pants and shimmied them over her hips. The purple thong in no way interfered with Daisy seeing the mark on her right buttocks.
It was a tattoo of the silver angel from the sign out front, with the names of the Farazians underneath—the two brothers, who were her owners.
“Jazmeen’s family put her up for auction in Sao Paulo, to pay their debts. She was nearly a virgin when she came to us.”
Speaking to the girl in a language Daisy assumed was Portuguese, Domi gave her a fresh order. Methodically, the girl pushed the pants down to her booted ankles, spread her legs as much as the material would allow and thrust out her ass.
“One,” said Domi and the girl promptly smacked her own ass, the hand impacting hard and without mercy.
“Harder,” he chided. “Two.”
The girl moaned as she punished herself a second time. The sound was rich and enticing, a hard and delicious crack, flesh on flesh. She left a red mark this time, right across her property stamp.
“Three,” he continued.
Jazmeen obeyed the command, her hand oblivious to the pain written on her face. Again and again now he had her hit herself, till her face was bright red and she was panting visibly. He stopped her at ten then ordered her to put the fingers of her red-hot hand between her legs. The immediate moan indicated she was wet and eager for sex.
“Go to Virosh. Kneel for him,” Domi said.
The girl nearly fell on the floor in her eagerness to serve the sullen giant. He offered her no help as she pawed at the opening to his pants. With happy, eager little female moans, at long last, she flipped back her hair and took the gangster’s long, thin cock into her mouth. Daisy had little doubt this is where the slave felt most comfortable, most sure of herself. These men were not mere bosses they were her masters. As would be every single customer they gave her to.
Again, how could Daisy possibly compete? She loved men, loved pleasing them, but she was not dependant on them for her very life as this girl was. Never would she find that kind of incentive to make the customers happy. She was just a stripper, over the hill, cynical, tired of the bullshit, with a daughter to raise and more than ready to be done with this whole rat race anyway.
(c) Thomas Roche www.skidroche.com