A DARK STAR STORY
THE COLLECTIVE -- CHAPTER 8 (Can be read in isolation)
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Looking down across her as she lays beneath me I watch her back rising and falling on the heavy breaths she takes, heavy breaths to sate the performance she has not so much given but received during the last hour.
Pressing myself up from over her on my own outstretched weary arms I let go of a tired groan as I slip my still erect dick from the confines of her tight anus.
She does not react, spare for the movement of her chest on those heavy breaths, she remains almost perfectly still, she holds her silence now whereas minutes earlier she had panted and gasped before crying out during my final brutal punishment. The cry further proof that I have not yet fully broken her.
Kneeling my eyes casting up over her PVC clad buttocks and the pale skin exposed between the slit through the middle of her legs. The same black PVC that clads her whole-body spare for a mouth hole on the mask I had designated for her latest submission.
"Good little Pet" I offer on a hushed tone that she may not even hear given the nature of the mask. A variation of one of four masks she always now wears in my presence.
She, Rose Redmond her name had been, had become a welcome addition to the assortment of entertainment that lay between the walls of Warehouse 43. Very few were even aware of her existence, and it seemed very few in the world that operated beyond the walls of the Warehouse truly cared for the former flame haired beautiful girl who had come to the Warehouse looking for work and found herself indoctrinated into a new existence. Rose's disappearance from society seemed to have gone hideously unnoticed.
As I look to the hidden door, left slightly ajar, that leads to the small well-furnished room come cell in which she now permanently resides I cannot help but consider who will eventually reside in the identical hidden room that sits on the right-hand side of the four-poster bed to which my Pet is currently restrained face down to.
I knew who I desired, had known since the inception and construction of the two hidden sub chambers built into the suite of my private quarters, along with the two parallel corridors which led to the various private chambers and their plethora of simple or intricate methods of restraint at my disposal.
The first two floors of the Warehouse 43 very much served a practical purpose. Despite two floors' still lying abandoned in a desperate state, level three was the domain for the select members of 'The Collective' and the top two floors were very much my home these days. Increasingly I spent my time here in my chamber, keeping my Pet company when she was the only available pleasure with which to avail myself.
There was some consideration to converting level seven to an exclusive VIP rooftop bar. Whatever transpired I was proud of the sophisticated nature of the premises as it had morphed and grown to become and the success I had made of the venue on the floors below. Only one thorn buried itself deep in my side, the increasing emergence and subsequent threat of Logan Hughes cheaper, brasher establishment, The Dark Star.
Despite the stark differences between the two venues, I had noticed a drop in clientele over the months since Hughes had re-emerged. A ghost of a man who refused to stick to the shadows in which a presumed dead man should live. The reports of an arrest and charges made against Hughes own Son had shocked and intrigued me on many levels. Not least as I was unaware he even had an heir, an heir who the popular underground rumour was Hughes had betrayed.
My network of spies failed me on so many levels that at times I questioned their purpose, their combined failures causing me increasing agitation. I had not seen or heard from Chloe Macready since she had last appeared at the Warehouse in a noticeably agitated state claiming she was walking away from the vile trappings of the lifestyle that consumed her. Young Chloe seemingly yet another victim of Logan Hughes.
Beyond Macready certain individuals needed to be held accountable, a strangle hold needed to be implemented. Hughes time in the shadows or anywhere else he chose to lurk needed to come to an end.
A gentle knock against the main doors of the suite snap my attention from my thoughts. A knock so feint I question its existence until I hear it again.
Grabbing a robe which I wrap around my naked body I leave my Pet sprawled across the bed as I stride towards the doors to discover who dares interrupt me in the small hours of the morning.
Easing back the right-hand door of the two high solid oak doors I meet his clearly nervous expression.
"I'm... I'm sorry to disturb you Sir" Felix Alba offers stuttering away.
"What is it?" I growl, hoping for his sake his intrusion into my time is valid.
"I can't... I can't reach Artero and..." Felix continues to nervously offer.
"I'm not surprised at nearly 5 in the morning," I offer cutting across him, remembering now that Felix operates in a lowly capacity that offers Artero Vidal full insight into the Warehouse and the wider influence around our operations. Felix Alba was a night dweller who probably held little respect or consideration for time.
"It's Logan Hughes, Mister Salazar..." Felix offers on a tone that suggests he has developed an instant backbone. "...He's selling a girl... a blonde... I believe from the circulated image it's the one that Artero is looking for."
Was looking for is my immediate thought, knowing full well that the platinum blonde on whom I had fixated for so long, who had frustratingly disappeared almost from existence had since been located. Somewhere along that missing timeline the delightful Arabella Walker-Smith had fallen into the company of Marco Mancini. Mancini increasingly becoming as irksome to me as Hughes was as he rose in prominence, or at least increasing exposure.
If somehow Arabella has fallen foul of the vile Logan Hughes I have no concerns for Marco Mancini's loss. I have only concerns in respect to ensuring I benefit from the young blonde being trafficked by the disgusting method of disposal. An act that likely leads to an ultimately diabolical fate that can never truly be justified. I try not to think of the missing Laura Mancini, Marco's sister, whose own dark path to demise it would appear likely to have been started by much the same cold cruel transactional process as Logan Hughes now instigates once more.
"Pay whatever price is required... use a third party...I want no traceable connection to this," I offer, appreciating bleakly the irony of funding and rewarding such brutality.
I think only of the benefits which outweigh any ambiguity.
"Have Yvette make up a room... there's no need to wake her though."
Closing the door on Felix, I cross the room back towards the four-poster bed that dominates the room. My heart racing my mind overthinking.
As I cast my eyes over my Pet as she is tethered face first across the bed by thick chains that grip her limbs I feel my arousal grow.
I fuck my pet harshly as I imagine Arabella Walker-Smith.
I eventually cum deep in my Pet as her featureless slender body substitutes for the exquisite platinum blonde who will soon be mine.
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"It's not her" I snarl barely able to contain the contempt within my voice.
A little after nine thirty in the morning as a cold wind whips around the underground car park the sense of anticipation drains from me. I sense Artero Vidal look across his left shoulder at me as the curvy little blonde whimpers and snivels into a black ball gag that sits wedged between her jaw.
The young blonde lays in the cramped confines of the boot of the dark grey BMW saloon dressed in a hideously dishevelled short black dress over torn and laddered patterned hosiery, knee high black boots adorn her lower legs. A pair of steel handcuffs hold her ankles securely together, as do a second pair that trap her wrists behind her back.
Despite puffy red eyes, raw from tears, she reminds me of someone, she looks almost familiar, but she certainly looks nothing like Arabella Walker-Smith.
How so ever she has wronged Logan Hughes is not a concern of mine, there are certain qualities she possesses that I am sure can be utilised. She will not go to waste, my mind already sets on a purpose for her.
"Get her out," I coldly state, watching as Artero and Felix between them reach into boot.
The young blonde screams and protests at the indignant treatment she receives as she is hoisted out of the rear of the vehicle, struggling in her restraint like a salmon plucked from a river.
"Take her to the Curator.... Tell him she's his Venus."
A little over half an hour later, having taken on board two strong black coffees and a delightful raspberry pastry I walk into the Curators domain on the second floor of Warehouse 43. The room in which operates is dissected in two. A messy workshop area where he manufactures his own macabre creations and a far more clinically organised area that lends Christoph Schmidt the moniker I bestow him. Although I might just have suitably named him 'The Creator.'
The young blonde hangs in the corner of the room, dressed in nothing more than a patterned body stocking that is menacingly ripped open through her crotch. Her wrists now set in wide leather cuffs that suspender her on extended arms from the ceiling as her head hangs to her ample chest. I ignore Schmidt who busily scribbles notes on a large sheet of paper stretched over a cluttered desk he stands behind. I approach the blonde tilting her head back and noticing the perfect line of deep navy bruise that wraps around her throat.
"What did you to annoy him?" I enquire, only now appreciating what an asset she may well be if she knows anything about Logan Hughes.
"You'll get no response from her..." Schmidt interjects, "...I had to heavily sedate our subject matter."
As I look upon her face I can only see the whites of her eyes from slightly ajar eyelids, her breath heavy and nasal.
"Does she still need the ball gag then?" I enquire.
"She'll come to eventually...." Schmidt menacingly offers, "...and she won't be appreciative of her circumstances."
