House of Singing Wind

The House of Singing Wind

By

Sir Marc

       

Chapter One

Now Comes a Wanderer

       It goes against my better judgment to talk to her, much less have her in this house.  The decision is not mine, however.  This is the work of Maelstrom.   And as long as he is writing the checks that make my life possible here at Singing Wind, who am I to argue?

It is a very good life. 

       She is, young, perhaps late twenties, early thirties, blonde with perfect legs; feet on one end and ass on the other.  The fact that her ass can only be considered a 9 ½  is only because I have never seen a true 10.    Meeting her at the door to my study, I offer my arm to escort her in, the perfect gentleman.   I purposely situate her body out of my line of sight.  I want only to concentrate on her face.  It is not a beautiful face.  No, not beautiful, Beautiful is too bland an adjective. She is interesting, intelligent, and smooth.   These adjectives work. .   She is magnificent, utterly magnificent.  Perhaps you think I exaggerate, but this is not the case.  I have made a life study of women and fancy myself a connoisseur of feminine flesh and character.  To put it in the vernacular of my trade, this is a five million dollar cunt.  And this was the strangest recruitment interview I have ever conducted. 

       “…and he told me I could count on you to fully acclimate me to the facility.”  She told me in a flat tone, delivered with even a flatter look on her face.  She was sizing me up and at the same time, trying to maintain her dignity.  Dignity is a strange thing to women.  This one views me as powerful and I am.  But she also thinks I’m the lowest form of life on the planet.  Be nice to the lowlife, the pervert.  How genteel.  I may be, too, all that and more.  I trade in flesh.  I am the first link in the White Slave chain store.  Now I find myself interviewing a genuine, card carrying member of the fourth estate, the press, the New York Times. She is sitting across my from me, in my study, wearing a short skit and no panties hoping to entice me.  To be honest, I had no idea whether to laugh or laugh uncontrollably.  

       “My facility,” I intoned just as flatly.  “This entire facility, as you put it, is mine. Its conception, construction, and implementation are the produce of my thoughts, dreams and desires.  It exists because one man dared to dream a dream and is willing to pay the price of seeing his ideas bear fruit.   And yes, you can count on me to fully acclimate you to Singing Winds.”  I let these words, the latter delivered with sarcastic mirth and trail off to the proverbial pregnant pause, as I’d heard my aunt say, if not a million times, then close.  Her flat look was still plastered to her face but it didn’t go all the way to her eyes, though.  Her eyes were flinty.  I would not swear to it, but it seemed her breathing had hiccupped, just a small catch.  She glanced at her notebook as if she needed to refresh her memory, and I think that is true, in so far as the thread of her memory is unraveling. 

“Exactly, where am I?”  She asked.

“You are in The House of Singing Wind.”  I replied, hinting in my voice that this was an illogical question. 

“I mean, exactly where is the House of Singing Wind?  Generally speaking, I don’t want to know the GPS coordinates or anything, just where I am.”  Her confidence was returning, though not to full force.

“Generally speaking, on Earth.  Great pains have been taken to assure my privacy, my client’s privacy and the privacy of my novitiates.   You are an investigative reporter.  Investigate.  The precautions we have taken with you are the same that any client, the hired help, or the newly chosen experience.  Blindfold, hood and blacked out windows on my jet.  No contact with the crew.  Timing the flight won’t help, either.  The flight lasts between nine and eleven and three quarter hours. 

       “Singing Winds has been in operation for fourteen years.  I do the recruiting, the scheduling, the transportation, and have personally directed the curriculum.”    Curriculum, what a concept!  I think the word “program” would be a more likely term, so I correct my self.  “I like to think of it as the program.”  At this, I see her visibly swallow hard.  Her confidence is waning. 

       “The program,” she repeated, “exactly what does that involve?”  I cannot stop the small smile that is tugging at the corner of my mouth.  She is trying to be the reporter, always analytical.  I wondered how long that was going to last.  Perhaps forever, perhaps not past tomorrow. 

       “It’s a training program, pure and simple.”  At this, I stood and clasped my hands behind my back and knew I was about to lecture.  And she was completely in my view again.  “We train concubines, servants, slaves, fuck toys, whores, sluts, or whatever you want to call uncompensated human beings that are owned, controlled, used, abused and held in servitude.  We train them to understand the importance of serving another, completely, in any manner prescribed by the client.  What the client desires, we provide.  The actual crux of the matter is that each novice is here of their own volition.”  I chuckled, “An all volunteer force, if you will, striving to be the best they can.  They have the desire to serve, to be of service and to be compliant.  We foster that desire, we mold that desire, and we hone it to a fine edge.  That is the Program.  What is it you desire?  You’ve got your full story now, you can write your article and enlighten the world about Singing Wind.  You have seen all you will see and told all you will be told.”   I turned and started toward the door.

       “No, wait!”  She implored to me.  “I want to have the full picture I want to know what it’s like to be in the House of Singing Wind, the experience, talk to the others.  I want my story to be fact based on my own experience not perceptions.  I’ve flown here, to God knows where and you’re ready to send me off?  Maelstrom promised me a story and I’m here to get it and I mean to get it.”  There was fire in her eyes now and the small smile was again licking at the corners of my mouth.  She was close to saying what she needed to say, but not quite there.  “I want to see what the novices go through, I want that.”

       “No!” I almost barked, “That is not going to happen.  Maelstrom does not own this place and I’m not his servant.  I’m under no obligation to show you anything.  I’ve told you what you wanted to know about this place.  Go back to New York and make up what you’d like about Singing Wind.  It exists, you’ve seen it.”

       In almost a girlish tone she said what I’d known she’d say, eventually, I was taken completely by surprise by how quickly and timidly it came.

         

“I want to be trained.”

And that was that and I knew an article would never be written.

       

             I walk over and stand before her.  I know what my eyes look like boring into her and I am looking quite through her.  I can taste the fear stirring in her soul.  I can feel the intensity building in the muscles of my face.  I can smell her very well now, her perfume, her perspiration, her cunt.  I can feel my voice box tighten, ready to take on the raspy quality that comes with “The Voice”.  I watch as her hands tighten their grips on the arms of  her chair, her knuckles going white.  I stop 3 paces from her chair.

“Kneel.”  My voice is deep, the word perfectly annunciated.

She does not move, so I repeat:  “Kneel.”  My voice is even, almost slow.  It is not a whisper, it is very conversational with enough conviction to let her know I am in no mood for games.  Still, she does not move.  As slowly as I can, I close the distance between us and as my right foot comes to rest next to my left, my right hand flashes from my side, a flick, fast as a fighter’s jab,  I slap her.    The sound reverberates in the stillness of my office.  I think to myself that I will never forget this look in her eye.  She is stunned, but she does not become hysterical.  This time when I say “Kneel.” in the same, even tone of the last two commands, she slides smoothly to the floor into a kneeling position. 

“Pleasure me.”  Same slow, quiet, melodious tone.  Again, she looks at me with an uncomprehending look.  “Suck me, blow me, slurp the schlong, smooch the root, give Mr. Johnson a kiss, eat me, do the deep throat, puff the penis,  bob the knob, you give me long time sucky-sucky, give me head. Do what your told, when you’re told.  Are there any questions?”  I slap her smartly again.  “No?  Well, that’s just fine.”

And deftly, her hands go to my fly to release my cock from confinement, her lips part and she envelopes the shaft into her warm, moist mouth.  Her eyes close and, I’m sure her motivation is to get this over as quickly as possible.  I make suggestions as to speed, tongue usage, teeth positioning, and she quickly learns to gently and devotedly bring me to climax.  Dutifully, she swallows every drop of cum I pump into her mouth.

       My orgasm does not stop her ministrations until I gently pushed her mouth from me, the sensation is too intense to deal with for long.  I could swear that I see disappointment furrow her brow as I pull my manhood from her lips.  Then, she looks up at me.  I say nothing for a long moment.  “When you are done with something, put it away,” I say.  And dutifully, she does.  I walk back to my desk and discreetly push a small button.  Almost immediately, the door opens and an Asian woman with a dour look on her face walks in.  “This is Soledad.  You will call her Mistress Sollie.   She is going to play show and tell with you.  Show you what you need to see and tell you what you need to know.  Sollie, this bitches name is Slut.  Take very good care of her or we just might need a session with the barbed wire flogger.”  Oh, the look on Slut’s face upon hearing this reminded me of the credit card commercial.  Priceless.  As fast as cat, Sollie places an iron collar on Slut’s neck and slips a leash in place and leads her away.  Slut, too shocked and stunned to protest, crawls away on her hands and knees like a dutiful puppy.