But there was an end to the exhibition.
The two men were spent, pulling out of her and breathing hard, finally letting her lay wasted on the bench while they slinked off.
In that brief moment, Laney’s weary body looked ravishingly beautiful, with a layer of perspiration glistening in the low lights, and her hair falling sexily over her face. And there on the wrist that dangled from the bench, exposed to the crowd, was evidence of her ownership: the Marquis’ shiny platinum bracelet.
Not until the fucking was over did Laney understand that the scene was being photographed, that the lights that flashed around her were cameras, and that the resulting pictures would later that night, or in the wee hours of the morning, be sent via email to the Marquis’ private email address. Only a traitor, with some firsthand knowledge of the man, would know that address.
Kafka told her this as he led her away through the same door she arrived at hours before. When they stepped into the alley behind the club, she was completely naked, except for the high heels, the collar and her bracelet. She shivered slightly in the cool evening air, but felt safe with Kafka, and not as self-conscious as she expected she might feel. She sensed that she had accomplished something in the nightclub, although she wasn’t yet certain what that was.
“Then the Marquis will see me…?” she ventured.
“Oh, in living color…or grainy black and white,” he replied with a pleased sneer. You can never tell how pictures like this will turn out but there were enough of them taken of you getting screwed to deliver a strong message to the man who owns you.”
Laney didn’t know what to think of this information. She had no idea how her missing master would respond to what she suspected was a flagrant act of war between sworn enemies. Why else would Kafka feel such triumph tonight—was that what she’d been primed for when he had her snatched from Prague Castle?
She knew that their war was not her war and she could be no more than a pawn in whatever complaint they had against the other. Her one hope was to be delivered to the man who owned her, and finish the journey she had begun.
The alley was strangely quiet now with the din from inside fading as the nightclub closed its back door. She heard a few cars swishing by in the streets beyond, but otherwise, she and her captor were very much by themselves. She could feel her feral desires surround her pleasingly. And then like an extension of this strangely romantic moment, Kafka’s lips met hers, his passion wet and palpable—but all too brief. “Well, Laney,” he said, as he stepped back, “some men would thank a slut like you for giving them so much pleasure in so short a time, but sluts don’t need to be thanked. It’s what they do.”
He had such a sexy, charming sneer that Laney couldn’t help but feel it all the way to her worn-out crotch, nor could she help but forgive him for his deliberate cruelty—she sensed it was an act put on for a submissive’s pleasure. She imagined them returning to the cottage in the country where she could sleep off her drunken sexual stupor in the falling down shed. Her body ached enough now to enjoy diving into the luxury of that lumpy mattress.
She smiled in reply to his comment, knowing that she didn’t need to be thanked or respected. She just wanted to know that she was safe, and hoped that assurance would be forthcoming.
“So, I guess it’s time we split, huh?”
“Now?” she looked aghast.
“Yeah, now. I got what I wanted; my need for revenge has been satisfied. Your photographs will be all over that bastard’s email by morning. They’ll be on the Internet by nightfall tomorrow if he doesn’t pay my price. Either way, I’ve won.”
Won what? she wondered silently.
“So, slut, that means I’m not gonna be needing you for anything else.”
She looked at him bewildered. Any ease she’d felt in the last few minutes instantly vanished as she realized what he meant.
“But, I did make a deal for you with one of the guys in tonight’s crowd,” he went on. “He’ll be taking you off my hands.” The chain leash attached to her iron collar was fastened at the end to an eyebolt in the brick wall about six feet from the nightclub’s back door. He smiled again as he walked off, “It’s been a thrill, slut. You wait here, they’ll be coming for you soon, I suspect…or not.” He shrugged, then turned toward his car, which had been parked just a few feet away. He climbed in and drove off, leaving her choking on exhaust fumes.
“Kafka!” she screamed.
But her cry came too late, long after he was out of earshot. Almost an afterthought.
Naked and crying, panic gripping her body once again, Laney waited alone and terrified for someone to rescue her.
Chapter Thirteen
The three men were drunk and stoned, falling all over her and each other as they walked Laney through the Prague neighborhood toward a small hotel. At least one of them had loaned her his jacket to wear, although it was too short to cover anything but her breasts. Her naked ass and cleanly shaved pussy were bare for the curious eye to see. Thankfully, it was the dead of night when they came for her, so there were few people who would see the pretty, wasted brunette stumbling along half naked with her drunken friends.
After climbing three flights of stairs, with Laney faltering in the red stilettos, the four finally landed in a tiny hotel room and fell onto the bed in one great heap, laughing—at least the three men were laughing, but not Laney, whose ever-present fear had almost made her numb.
They were eighteen, nineteen, maybe twenty years old, barely legal, but full of themselves, and with enough vigor in their youth to sprout healthy erections, even at this hour, even with the liquor and drugs pumping through their veins. They laid her out on the bed, cuffed her wrists to the headboard, and took turns with her, using her sore cunt, until they exhausted themselves. They thankfully ignored her ass, which she thought would be far too sore for another round of abuse. The three young men collapsed for several hours, passed out on the bed beside her, while Laney let her head fall back against the pillow and tried to sleep. The odd quartet created a tableau of satiated bodies that might be perfect inspiration for a latter-day Botticelli painting.
The gangbang began again when the sun finally came shining through the window curtains and continued long enough to satisfy the three morning hard-ons rising stiffly from the horny youths. Their naked bodies groveled over Laney’s languidly sleeping one, finally waking her from a dead sleep. Their breath stunk and their body sweat almost made her choke. Then, suddenly, something in the air sounded an alarm that all three men heard clearly, and before Laney could react fast enough, the three were out the door, zipping up their pants and grabbing for their jackets.
“Wait! Please! You have to let me go!” she cried.
But they paid no attention to her cries and were in the street, dancing for the fun of it, leaving the whore to fend for herself as whores are known to do.
Abandoned in the hotel room, Laney called out from time to time, knowing that she had no other choice if she expected to ever be free from this journey to hell. Finally, someone heard her and peeked in the door.
