Reclaiming Nikki HO

Back in the hotel room, Martha unbuttoned her expensive cape of softest black leather and shrugged it from her shoulders. Nicola, glanced wide-eyed at Horace Mott but his face was expressionless as he stood there dangling shiny steel cuffs. Martha tossed the cape onto a chair and stepped forward, stark naked but for high-heeled sling-backs. Nicola couldn’t begin to comprehend what this pair, the New York pimp and his madam, were doing in that foreign city, dressed for business, but she vaguely sensed that there might be a big story in there somewhere. A gunshot sounded in the street outside and Martha paused, alert. Four more staccato shots echoed but they were not nearby, maybe across the city somewhere. It was a reminder that they were in a dangerous, foreign land that had recently been a ferocious war zone. Then all was quiet again. Martha relaxed and smiled; her teeth were very white and her ebony skin seemed to be burnished; her nose and breasts seemed slightly different, Nicola thought, and maybe they had been reshaped in the two years since she had seen her.

Martha paused by a small table and picked up two small objects, and dangled them from between forefingers and thumbs as she approached Nicola. Nicola gulped as she recognised the spiteful little nipple clamps with their slender little chains and weights. She stepped back a single pace.

`Strip, Nikki.’

“Look, I –” Nicola began to protest, but she choked on her words and reeled back when Martha slapped her viciously across the cheek, and the small weight of the nipple clamp caught her under the ear.

“I gave you an order, white whore. You want Ho to be angry?”

“No,” Nicola said hastily. The thought of being handed over to Ho Mott for punishment again was more than she could bear.

`You are ours, Nikki. Believe it!’ Martha, although completely naked, exuded confidence and dominance. `You delivered yourself to the Mott Brothers as a whore, of your own free will. We invested time and energy in you, girl. You hardly began to repay our investment before you ran away’.

Nicola’s gut wrenched as she listened to the madam’s words. She knew from bitter experience that this woman was ruthless. `I kept my word,’ she stammered. `The story never appeared. It was all a big mistake. You know that. I’m a reporter.’

Martha’s chuckle was throaty, and Ho laughed too.

`You are a whore, Nikki,’ Martha said. `Remember?’

Nicola swallowed. Remember? It was imprinted on her memory. She couldn’t deny that she had voluntarily entered the vice-racketeers world. Nicola had sought to expose them and their rackets in a harsh glare of publicity but, instead, had found herself helplessly enmeshed in their tawdry web. Nicola, the educated graduate and determined young journalist ceased to exist. They had given her a different name, crude and more in keeping with their world of naked dancers and painted whores. Nikki, they had called her. Nikki had slaved for them as a whore, submissively and without resistance, for six debased and dire months. She owed Joe Wisniewska, her editor, an awful lot for ultimately rescuing her, even if it was his fault that she landed in the mess in the first place. That had been two years ago, though. Since then, Nicola Summers had returned to her career as a reporter. Neither she nor Joe ever gave a hint of what had happened, and her story never saw the light of day. That was part of the deal.

`There is no escape. I said strip, Nikki!’ Martha glared at Nicola and dangled the nipple clamps with their small chains and lead weights. She then glanced towards Horace Mott. `I gave you an order, girl. You want Ho to be angry?’

`No, of course not,’ Nicola said. Perhaps she had really known all along that it was inevitable that they would come for her. Perhaps there really was no escape. Her mind still raced over the events that had brought her to this point of danger. She had to get away. `You know that I’m just a reporter…’

`You’re one of my whores, girl.’ Martha’s laugh was unpleasant as she dangled the nipple clamps in front of Nicola’s eyes. `You volunteered for this army, remember?’

Nicola mind was a blur as she desperately weighed the limited options available to her. Had she really volunteered? Certainly, she had not fought them. Perhaps her silent, doe-like compliance could have been taken as consent? Now, years later in a strange and foreign land, it seemed that they had somehow arrived to reclaim her.

`I told you to strip, Nikki.’ Martha was insistent now and her voice threatening. `Are you going to defy me, girl? You want me to get Ho to strip you down?’

Nicola sighed and shook her head in defeat. Watched intently by the madam, Nicola numbly removed her clothes and piled them onto a nearby chair. When Nicola was completely naked, Martha smiled slowly. She reached forward and took Nicola’s right nipple, pulled at the flesh, plumped the dimpled halo, and deftly attached one of the spiteful little clamps onto the nipple. Nicola gasped as the tiny teeth bit home but she stood compliantly as the madam affixed the clamp onto her other nipple. Within seconds, a familiar throbbing pain pulsed at the tips of Nicola’s breasts. Martha licked her smiling lips and casually hefted each of the Nicola’s breasts, kneading the white flesh in her tawny fingers. Nicola closed her eyes against the humiliation, but she shivered as the finger tips trailed downwards over her belly.

Two women, both stark naked, but one was immeasurably dominant… The other, shamed and subservient, was transfixed, like a rabbit hypnotised by a snake. Nicola suppressed a shudder but otherwise remained immobile, like a statue, as she felt the madam’s fingers trace over her smooth sex lips, even when the madam inserted two of her fingers into her dry cunt. At the edge of her vision she saw that Horrace Mott watched impassively and, although he hadn’t spoken, she was frightened and threatened by his ominous presence.

“You really thought you’d finished with us, Nikki?” Martha asked, suddenly thrusting her fingers viciously upward.

Nicola squirmed and winced, twisting against the invading fingers. She realised miserably that she had fallen into the clutches of the whoremongers again. Moreover, her own lack of resistance disturbed her. Looking back, she realised that she had never been able to resist them.

Martha’s slender hand, the lurid red nails long and sharp as talons, pushed between Nicola’s breasts where the weights of the clamps bounced with each movement. The fingers of Matha’s other hand were hooked into Nicola’s vagina, the thumb hard on her pubic bone. Martha was an expert in dealing with reluctant whores. Nicola found herself manoeuvred backwards until she fell onto a wide, deeply upholstered leather chair. The surface was cold and slick against her naked skin as she sprawled on the seat, legs splayed.

“There is something about leather on woman’s naked flesh.” Nicola shuddered as she remembered those words from the past. Martha, as if reading her mind, chuckled throatily and cruelly shook Nicola by her cunt. She was dimly aware that Horace Mott stepped forward, grasped her hands and deftly clipped the cuffs onto her wrists. Nicola whimpered in fear but meekly allowed Ho to raise her arms high over her head and fasten the shackles to something on the high back rest of the chair. She found herself wondering where her journalist colleague, Sara Montague, was at that moment – maybe stripped and strapped too. It seemed that they were both destined to fall into the hands of traffickers. Where was Joe Wisniewska, her editor? It seemed to Nicola that Joe was her main hope, just like before, but she couldn’t help reflecting that her previous rescue came only after she had suffered the most appalling degradation.

This time, just like before, Nicola acquiesced quietly, still and resigned, as Ho Mott buckled a stout leather strap about each of her ankles. Rather than protesting, she glanced mutely at Martha as she lay naked and supine in some strange room in Serbia, she knew not where, exactly. She had allowed them to shackle her wrist above head but, even so, she knew that she ought to rebel, to try to defy them. The hand pressing on her chest had not really prevented her from moving, but she seemed incapable of resistance. She remained pliant when Ho buckled straps on her ankles, uncomfortably aware that Martha was working her fingers into her wet cunt. Horace Mott worked quickly and methodically, seemingly without passion. He grasped and raised her left leg and then pushed forward to contort her body until the ankle was high beside her head. She grunted in discomfort, flexing her leg but the ankle cuff was clipped securely. When he similarly fastened her other foot, Nicola lay trussed on the chair, doubled over, her ankles fastened on opposite sides of the wide chair back. Her spine was bent and her buttocks raised. She looked down, chin on her chest, and saw that her naked cunt, habitually devoid of hair, was helplessly exposed. She saw the dark birthmark, deep chestnut, just to the right above her spread, shaven sex lips. For some reason, Nicola still kept her pussy smooth of hair, just as they had always demanded. She had told herself that she preferred it that way but perhaps there was more to it than that. Maybe she had always known that she had never truly escaped their clutches. And they took to themselves the right to assess and access every inch of their women. Stocktaking, they called it. The whores’ cunts were their stock in trade To be continued…