Mob Movies

Chapter 19 Monthly Party

     I looked around in the gloom of the basement of the Murtaugh Estate.  I’d been there once years before, not the basement but the estate.  It was an eighth-grade field trip.  My teacher’s name was Ms. Cameron and her tits were huge.  She favored tight knit sweaters and on cold days, her headlights were on high beam.  My mother didn’t approve and suggested my father contact the school board and complain.  Dad, a tit man himself, told Mom to mind her own business.

     Ernest Murtaugh was what one could call a Horatio Alger story except he was black.  I couldn’t recall all the facts.  He was the son or grandson of freed slaves who had migrated to Indianapolis after the Civil War.   Ernest was something of a mechanical genius and he invented things for automobiles and washing machines that made them work better.  I can’t remember what.  Only that he was smart enough to patent his inventions and make a fortune. 

     Ernest became very wealthy.  He left half his wealth to his children and the other half to a charitable trust.  The Murtaugh Foundation annually handed out several million dollars to worthy causes associated with Afro-Americans.

      The Murtaugh Estate consisted of an enormous sandstone mansion, several smaller buildings, and over two hundred acres of nature reserve.   The foundation’s charter mandated the estate be properly maintained and used for the good of the Afro-American community.

     During the week, school picnics and other public functions were held on the grounds.  If you were a black couple, you could be married in the formal garden and hold your reception in the great hall.  That was free except for a nominal charge to clean the place after the wedding.

     I remember being totally wide eyed at the magnificence of the mansion when we eight graders were taken on a brief tour.  You could put my parent’s three bedroom house is a corner of the great hall. 

     I can also recall being even more wide eyed when Mary Joe Wiley let me and my best friend Toby Frazer both see and feel her boobs behind the six car garage.  That was the very first time my hands felt a girl’s tit and I can still get a hardon remembering how soft and warm Mary Joe’s felt.  Childhood memories are wonderful things.

     So, I had been somewhat surprised when Corrine informed me the Club’s monthly party was normally held on the Murtaugh Estate.  What I didn’t know was that Hazel Tomlinson, a descendant of Ernest, and the President of the Murtaugh Foundation was a member of the club.

      Two uniformed Afro-American security guards stationed at the entrance carefully checked our identification.  There was a sign posted over the gate saying the estate was closed for the day.

      “Look toward me,” said the guard after he keyed our names into his laptop. 

      “What are you doing,” asked my too curious wife?

      “Making sure you’re the Meade’s,” said the guard turning the screen to where we could see our photos that appeared on the Club’s Web site.  The guard had a big grin on his face as he held the screen close to the car window for Corrine to view.

      “Oh,” was all Corrine could respond.  I suppose she felt a little odd he was looking at full frontal nude pictures of her.

      When our car approached the main building, another guard took one look at our white faces and directed us toward a side parking lot near what I took to be the servant’s entrances.   Other slave couples had already arrived and were standing by their cars undressing.

     From somewhere I’d gotten the idea you could judge a group by the cars they drove.  The slaves parking lot contained mainly up market vehicles, high end German and Japanese models.  The odd thing was the Masters lot was similar. I concluded a slice of Indianapolis’s upper middle class was getting together to engage in some rather outlandish sexual behavior.

     As it turned out, I learned over time I was correct.  Both Masters and Slaves were mainly professionals and small business owners.  The club contained more than its share of lawyers and doctors.

     I thanked God the weather was mild for April in Indianapolis as I got out of the car and pulled my sweater over my head.  Seconds before, I had taken a pill guaranteeing my capability to acquire repeated erections over the next twelve hours. 

     According to the ever-present rules, we had to undress in the parking lot except for our shoes and leave our clothes in the car.  We were allowed to bring one small bag inside containing our car keys and valuables.

     It was a good-looking group.  No one seemed too bothered by nudity.  Once inside, we waited in line as once more our identification and images were checked.  “Quiet,” was printed in large letters on a sign behind the security desk.  I assumed it applied to us slaves because the black staff was chattering among themselves.

     When it came our turn, the identification check was repeated.  Then our bag and shoes were taken away and stored in a locker.   We weren’t allowed watches or jewelry.  My wedding ring was at home on my dresser.   I was naked as the day I arrived in this world.

     Check in completed, I was ordered to stand with my hands on top my head while one of the female staff used a small brush and a can of white paint to emblazon the number twenty-two on my belly and back.  Corrine was number twenty-three.  I made a mental note it was almost noon and for the next twelve hours I was a sex slave who would be tasked to perform any number of sex acts with handsome black couples.   I can’t deny it was a cock hardening thought.

      You had to be there by noon or you didn’t get in.   We milled quietly about as we waited for the last minute arrivals to be processed.  Thirty was painted on the final person in line.   I noticed a pair of Afro-Americans dressed in black slacks and turtlenecks standing nearby watching us. I gathered that was the uniform of our minders.  More ominously, there was a coiled whip and stun guns hanging from their belts.

     One of the late arrivals whispered something to his wife.  I didn’t hear what it was but the guards were on them in a minute. 

      “Can’t you read, you stupid ass white motherfuckers,” demanded the guards throwing the pair to the floor.  I noted they were numbered twenty-five and twenty-six.

      “I just asked if she turned off the cell phone,” said the man who looked scared shitless. 

      “Assume the position,” said the guard.

      I hadn’t read anything about the position in the club’s online rulebook.  Corrine later identified the position as child pose in yoga.  To me it looked like what the Chinese call kowtow.  You start out by kneeling then bend forward until your forehead rests on the floor.  You reach back and grab your ankles.  In China, it signifies subservience.  It also exposes your back and ass to seriously nasty punishment.

     “Please no, we’re sorry,” said the woman who had to be in her early twenties.  Her husband looked older, late thirties to early forties.  He must have spent his time at the gym because he was in good shape.  She was definitely a looker.  They made a handsome couple.  I guess correctly as it turned out she was a second wife.  Later, Corrine referred to her with a slight tone of disdain as a trophy wife.

    Still, it was a good thing I learned what was expected when a guard ordered you to assume the position.  It wouldn’t be long before I had to apply my knowledge.    

     “If you’re not in position in five seconds, we’ll put you on the rail,” said the guard.

     “Please, not that,” said the man hurriedly dropping to his knees.  His wife followed him.

     “How many,” asked the guard looking toward the person who had been checking identification?

     “Five for disobeying and two more for arguing,” said Mr. ID Checker.  “One hour on the rail if they give us any more trouble.”

      The whips came down simultaneously and hard leaving a red whelp.  Both man and wife proved they could scream.  Somehow they managed to hold their position for the next blow.  Whatever the rail was, it must be pure hell for them to struggle so hard to avoid it.  I’d have been flopping all over the floor begging them to stop.

     As for we onlookers, our reaction was not what you would expect.  Normally, a crowd of middle class white people watching a couple being whipped would be aghast and looking for the nearest exit.  But this particular group had gone to great effort and was paying good money to witness and participate in just that kind of treatment. 

     Before the count reached seven, nipples had hardened and cocks had grown erect and a few hands had strayed to their owner’s crotch.  Corrine was squeezing my hand so hard it hurt.  I noticed that when the poor bastard who’d been whipped got to his feet, he had a hard on.

     Punishment over, we were admonished to remain quiet unless we wanted the same. 

     When everyone’s identification had been checked and body painted, they ushered us through a hallway and down a flight of dimly lit stairs into a place that based on the dank odor was a basement with a cold concrete floor.  There were a number of wooden benches along the walls.

     It was a small space and we were crowded together.  Corrine and I took a seat along with everyone else.  The guards turned out the light leaving us in the almost pitch black.   The clang of the heavy metal door at the top of the stairs being shut and locked had an ominous sound. 

     “What happens next,” I whispered to Corrine?

     “You wait until your number is called.  They usually make us wait at least an hour,” said a female voice at my side.  Our hips were touching.   “Everyone’s number gets called at least once.  That a rule.”

      “So what happens then,” I asked?

      “You rush upstairs to one of Overseers and they take you to the Masters who selected your number.  Once you get to the Master you work your ass off to make them happy or they tell the Overseer you displeased them.”

     “And if you don’t please them,” asked Corrine?

     “They got a dozen ways to make you wish you had,” said a nearby male voice.

     “I’ve experienced most of them and believe me, they make you try harder the next time,” said the female who was pressing her leg against mine.

     “We’re newbies,” said Corrine by way of explanation. “I hope the couple who were punished are all right.”

     The husband and wife AKA twenty-five and twenty-six were seated across from us.  We could hear the wife sobbing and the husband trying to comfort her.

     “Althea and Ron, those two love that kind of shit,” said a man’s voice from past the woman.  I assumed it was her husband.  “They always give the guards a reason to whip their butts raw.”

      “Little too rough for me but exciting to watch,” said the woman placing her hand on my thigh.

      I’d never thought much about what we slaves would do when left to our own devices but sex seemed the obvious choice.  There seemed to be shadowy movement all around us.

      “Althea’s a real pain slut although you’d never know it from the way she acts. Ron goes along to please her.  He’s pussy whipped like the rest of us,” said the man good-naturedly.

      “Couples should be supportive of one another,” said Corrine.

      “Why were we put down here in the basement,” I asked the couple.  My eyes had adjusted to the gloom.  My interest in them was piqued by the fact her hand was less than an inch from my penis.  I could see she was an attractive brunette with a good body.  At least it appeared that way in the semi-darkness. Her husband was still in the shadows.

      “I suppose it has something to do with the way Negroes were brought to the country in slave ships.  They were kept in a dark hold throughout the voyage except for an occasional walk on the main deck.  Periodically, the women were summoned to sexually serve the crew.  That’s only a guess by the way. We’re not allowed to ask questions.  My name’s Steve and the little minx whose about to feel your cock is my true and faithful wife, Anita,” said the man.

      “I’m Tom and this is Corrine,” I said.  Anita took that as an invitation to put her hand on my cock and begin to slowly stroke it.

      “Cory, call me Cory,” said Corrine who for some reason was rather intent on going by her slave name.  I’d even noticed the other day at work; she’d signed a note as Cory.

      “But this is a basement not the hold of a slave ship,” I said arguing the obvious.

      “True, like I said.  It’s just a guess on my part.  But if you have to take a piss, there’s a bucket in the corner and this place can get pretty rank by dinner time,” said Steve.

      “There’s no restroom,” asked Corrine?

      “Just a bucket,” said Steve.

      “Do we stay down here the entire time,” asked Corrine?

      “No, they should start calling our numbers soon.  Then you go upstairs and serve the Masters who selected your number.  When the Masters are done, they send you back.  But at dinner time, we all go upstairs, take a shower, eat, and participate in whatever activities, the Master’s devise,” said Steve.

      “Don’t worry, Cory, you’ll get enough black cock to last you until next month,” said Anita who had begun to jerk me off.

      “We just wait until we’re selected,” said Corrine sounding a little disappointed.

      “Why don’t you come over here and sit by me, Cory.  We’ll find a way to pass the time,” said Steve.

      “Sure, why not,” said Corrine starting to rise. 

      I’d noticed a growing level of activity in our basement prison. From somewhere in the darkness, a female voice whispered, “Eat me, Billy.  Eat my cunt.”

     I decided it was only logical we slaves would warm up for sexual servitude by engaging in mutual foreplay.  I relaxed back against the wall while reaching out to feel Anita’s breast.

     Corrine proved willing to get it on with Steve and I had developed a liking for the way Anita’s hot hand was stroking my cock.  But before Corrine could take the few steps to Steve, someone intervened.

      “You’re new,” said an enormous male body blocking Corrine’s path.  His powerful arm wrapped around her waist pulling her against him.

      “Yes, we’re new.  I’m Cory and this is my husband Tom,” said Corrine in her make new friends voice.

      “My friends and I get to go first with the new girls,” said the man.  “I’m called Danny Boy and these dudes are Ken and Irish Mike.”

      Everyone we’d met had seemed so nice at Club BM&WS until now.  I’d noticed Danny Boy when we were waiting in line.  He was hard not to notice.  He had to be six feet six and weigh over three hundred pounds.  And they weren’t three hundred fat pounds either.  The bastard was ripped.  The two men at his side were I assumed Ken and Irish Mike.  They weren’t exactly small either.

      I’m average height and weight on a good day.  That means Danny Boy is almost a foot taller and over a hundred pounds heavier.  Still I felt the need to speak up.

      “Cory is with me,” I said.  Actually, she was in the process of going to have sex with Steve while I messed around with his wife.

      “Don’t worry.  You’ll get her back when we’re done with her,” said Danny Boy placing his enormous paw on my chest and giving me a slight push that caused me to sit down.

      “Don’t you push me,” I said starting to pop back up and commit suicide by attacking Danny Boy.  Luckily, Steve and Anita grabbed me keeping me seated.

      Keep in mind, I could see my hand in front of my face but that was about all I could see.  I could tell Corrine was struggling with Danny Boy’s companions.   Ken had her arms twisted behind her back and Irish Mike whose hair turned out to be red had some kind of death grip on her nipples.  Corrine was sobbing, begging them to stop hurting her.  But there was something in her voice that made me think she didn’t quite mean it.

      That was when I noticed Corrine between tearful pleas for surcease from pain was passionately kissing the two of them.  When I asked her about it later, she responded it was half real and half role-play.  “Yes, they were hurting me but it was making my pussy wet.  And my begging them to stop made them want to keep hurting me while they screwed me.”

     It didn’t exactly make sense to me but it did to her.  And it was her nipples being twisted like a corkscrew.

      “All right, Danny, take it easy, no need to get physical,” said Steve holding on to me.

      “Give it up, Tom,” whispered Anita in my ear as she held me tight.  One arm was around my waist and the other had a firm grip on my dick.  “They won’t really hurt Cory.  They’ll just fuck her mean-like.”

      I must have decided to give it up because I stayed seated as they took my struggling wife to the bench on the opposite wall.  It couldn’t have been more than eight or ten feet away.  I heard them telling the occupants to move aside. 

      “I should have stopped them,” I said dejectedly.  Now, I found myself playing a role.  The idea of the three of them sexually abusing my wife increased my lust but I kept acting the concerned husband.  In reality, I hoped they fucked the shit out of Corrine and from the sounds coming from across the basement, they were.

      “Not going to happen unless you got a gun up your ass.  Danny Boy is a man mountain.  The last guy who stood up to him had his nuts permanently flattened.  So unless you aspire to be a eunuch, let the bastard do what he wants,” said Steve.  “Cory’s a slave so she should expect that kind of treatment and be able to get off on it.  She’ll get worse upstairs.”

      I couldn’t fully make out what was happening to Corrine even though she was maybe six feet away.  They’d put her down on the floor on a thin mattress.  I heard her choke and gag a few times.  She was being forced to deep throat Danny Boy’s super sized cock.

        “Danny Boy and his buddies do that to all the new female members,” said Anita resignedly.  “They did me my first time.  They’re pretty brutal but a slave should expect harsh treatment even from her fellow slaves.”

     “I’m surprised the club lets him get away with it,” I said maintaining my role.   “Hasn’t anyone complained?”

      “Slaves aren’t allowed to complain.  Down here in the slave hold, he can do what he pleases.  You might as well relax and enjoy yourself,” said Steve placing his hand under my balls and giving them a gentle squeeze.

      “Steve got turned on listening to Danny Boy and his buddies fucking me.  The more pain they caused me the harder his cock grew,” said Anita while kneeling down between my legs to lick my penis in her mouth.  “I bet you can get off listening.  Steve did.  Just close your eyes.  We’ll both take care of you.”

      The fact I couldn’t see exactly what they were doing to Corrine made my imagination run wild.  Steve and Anita were on the floor between my legs sharing cock-sucking duties.  One of them slipped a wet finger up my ass and located my prostate.

     I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds surrounding me.  Everyone seemed to be engaged in some form of sexual activity.  I recognized Corrine’s characteristic grunt as they hammered their cocks in her.  Ever so often she whimpered in pain.  The crack of an open palm landing hard on soft flesh emerged periodically from her side of the room. 

    I noticed Corrine wasn’t the only woman or man being abused.  Whimpers, sobs, and pleas for mercy sounded from every corner of the slave hold.   The thought slaves should expect no better from one another than they receive from their master struck me as true.  Perhaps, we would treat each other worse.

     The cliché about everything that comes around goes around also came to mind as I grabbed Anita’s head and forced it down on my erect penis.  I took a firm grip on her hair to insure my control.  I found the eroticism in pushing my cockhead into the narrow opening of her throat.  Her struggle to control her gag reflex and continue breathing increased my lust. 

      When her entire body began to tremble, I relented.  The sounds of her gagging and coughing as she refilled her lungs encouraged me to replace her with Steve who’d dedicated his efforts to sucking my nipples while I abused his wife.  I sensed he was eager to be manhandled.

     I held his head forcing my penis in his throat until he couldn’t take it anymore before I pulled out.  Anita was sucking my nipples and rubbing my balls.  Every so often I showed my appreciation for her efforts by flattening her puffy nipple between my thumb and forefinger.  She hissed in pain when it was the same thickness as a sheet of paper but she didn’t ask me to stop.

     Later, I had to acknowledge I’d discovered a new facet of my sexual persona.  Causing other’s pain while having sex with them turned me on.  I held off as long as I could; but a couple who were masters of fellatio was servicing me.  The surge of semen proved irresistible as it made the short trip from testicles to piss hole.      

     Just as I finished pumping a full load of come in Steve’s eager mouth, I heard the iron door at the top of the steps open and someone shout, “Twenty two.”

      “Better hurry, Tom, or they’ll whip your ass bloody,” said Steve before turning to share his reward with Anita. 

      I ran toward the stairwell passing by the three men who were making sure my wife’s first sex act at the club’s monthly meeting was an exceedingly painful one.  

     “Please don’t,” she pleaded with one of them in a voice seemingly filled with urgency.  My cock twitched as her plea was answered with a slap causing her to cry out.