Page 83 of Savage Protector
Fred’s arm is raised while he surveys his preparations.
“Right. Action!” He drops his arm, and it all kicks off.
The models writhe and squirm, delivering sultry looks direct to camera and with much exaggerated licking of lips and flashing of oiled breasts and genitalia.
“Hmm, it’s certainly explicit,” Beck murmurs.
One of the women has her face buried between her co-performer’s thighs, her head bobbing enthusiastically.
“Our Freddie obviously believes in giving value for money,” I agree. “What are they up to now?”
“Scissoring,” Tony tells us, his head tilted to one side to follow the complicated choreography.
A tangle of inter-twined limbs rolls across the hay bales to a soundtrack of gasps, moans, and simulated orgasmic passion.
Our phones are all on silent, but Rome’s screen flashes with a text from Frankie. He glances at it. “The stream has gone live,” he informs us. “Punters are logging on by the dozen, apparently.”
I can’t say I’m surprised. This is hot stuff, if you like that sort of thing. Personally, I’m a doer rather than a watcher, but it takes all sorts.
We observe for perhaps ten minutes while the girls gyrate and cavort for the vicarious entertainment of their remote audience. The punters watching the show increase to a hundred, then two hundred, and still rising. There’s clearly a lot of money to be made here, and Fred is milking it to the full.
Frankie sends another text.They’re inviting bids on the next show. Starting price is a grand.
Freddie’s arm flashes up, his wrist swirling, indicating that perhaps this instalment is coming to a close.
Sure enough, Fred’s hand goes up again, and with a cry of ‘Cut’, the girls cease their contrived sensual dance and hop back onto their feet. They plod back to where the young man is still waiting his turn, pull on their robes, and sit down.
Fred marches over to them, produces a wad of notes from his back pocket, and peels off a couple of fifties for each woman. “You’re done. Get dressed and fuck off now. Back here next week, right?” He tosses the notes in front of them and glares at the young man. “You’re next. Get over there.”
The next ‘artist’ exchanges a bored eyeroll with the girls, gets to his feet, drops the robe, and ambles onto the set.
The technicians make themselves busy dragging the hay bales out of the way, to replace these with a timber framework resembling something out of one of our kill rooms.
“Looks like a BDSM scene coming up,” Beck mutters. “And hey, Freddie’s in on this one.”
Our man is dragging a black leather mask over his pudgy features and buckling it in place. Then he picks up a coiled whip and cracks it with relish.
“It’d be more convincing if he bothered to take off his shirt,” is Tony’s informed opinion.
He’s a regular patron of our sex clubs. But Fred does appear to be relishing his role. He struts back and forth, gesturing to the cameras, flexing imagined muscles and generally egging on his invisible audience.
The young man, presumably his ‘submissive’, allows the technicians to strap him to the wooden structure. He’s on his feet, facing the beams, his back, buttocks, and thighs exposed and ready for the attentions of his ‘Dom’.
I can’t help wincing but find my eyes riveted to the scene unfolding before us.
The action is accompanied by piped heavy rock music, a compelling, menacing thud, thud, thud to lend the required atmosphere to the proceedings. Fred prances back and forth for a minute or two, brandishing his whip and occasionally flicking the tip across the pale, naked arse at his mercy.
“What do we want?” he roars. “Tell me what we want?”
He pretends to cup his ear. “Louder! Louder…”
Frankie is texting again.It’s an auction.
We exchange puzzled glances. What are they selling?
Fred gets into his task in earnest. The whip whistles through the air to land across the youth’s quivering shoulders. The lad lets out a scream and jerks violently against his bonds. A ribbon of blood appears, vivid crimson against the whiteness of his flesh.
“Jesus, that must sting,” Beck mutters.
