Comfort Girl No. 4 – ebook

Excerpt

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.