Our Only Hope Ch. 06

This is Chapter Six of a book. The characters and situations will be more understandable if the previous chapters have been read. Because it is a book, some of the chapters are more exciting than others, and some situations do not complete until the next chapter. I could have run this through my regular publisher and made a couple hundred dollars, but I am posting it instead because many more people read my posts than buy my books.

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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

All characters involved in sexual activity in this story are over the age of 18. If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2019 by The Technician.

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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Chapter Six

Wyatt Monty

When I got back to the motel, I sat on the bed for several minutes slowly flipping the black entry chip over and over in my hand. This recycled chip, the poor condition of the building, and the unkept look of the staff all added up to a cheap, slipshod business. Wyatt had signed his email as "Little Brother," and that is probably how he was viewed by the others in his family. I was pretty sure that his older brothers would never trust him to hold any of the kidnapped Inner Circle Masters or Mistresses. The original plan had depended on me being able to convince or force Little Brother to get into the Jeep with me-- or at least to go out the back door with me. I hadn't been sure how I was going to manage that, but now I was pretty sure that I was dealing with a weak bully... a very weak bully.

If he had grown up under different circumstances, he might have ended up as a clerk in a government office somewhere-- like a driver's license bureau-- being an ass to the people who came in and using what little power he had to show everyone how important he was. Instead, he grew up under the tutelage of his psychotic brothers and had become a weak bully who ran a run-down strip club and did sadistic things to powerless people, not because he enjoyed them, but because he thought it showed that he was strong.

In some ways, I pitied him. If it had not been for the intense hatred I saw in Juanita's eyes as she asked me to kill him slowly, I might have passed on Little Brother and gone after the bigger brothers and their captives. But her unexpected plea made me more than pretty sure that, even with the mitigating circumstances of his position in the family, Wyatt Monty was still a sadistic son of a bitch who had been a part-- albeit a minor part-- of a plot to kidnap or kill over a dozen people just to capture or kill me. I was still taking him down.

I spent almost an hour getting Boris caught up with everything. They still had no information about the brother in LA, but we were now ready to go against the brother here in Davenport. Once again all I had to do was wait. I should have grabbed some sleep because after this was over I still had about 27 hours of driving just to get out to Los Angeles. And just because Wyatt Monty was a weak-assed punk bully, that didn't mean that something couldn't go horribly wrong. Hell, this could even still be an elaborate trap. There was no guarantee who was going to come out on top tonight.

I double checked... and triple checked... my weapons and equipment. Finally I said, "The hell with it," and lay back on the bed. The alarm in my phone told me that I had, in fact, fallen asleep and it was now one-thirty in the morning. Time to load up the Jeep and go over to Colonel Boogie's.

I got there a few minutes before two. What little lighting there had been in the parking lot had been turned off. Even the light that lit the sign on the side of the building was dark, but there were a dozen or so cars in the parking lot parked up close to the front door. I rolled slowly past them and went around the end of the building to the other side. The lot on that side, which only went about a third of the way down the building, was in even worse shape than the one on the front side of the building. I swung around and parked facing out almost at the end of the asphalt which lined me up with what had probably been an employee entrance when the building was a repair shop. Now it was-- or probably should be-- a fire escape door. I quickly made sure the equipment was positioned properly and then walked around the building.

As I reached the front door, a large, mean-looking gent standing guard put his hand in the center of my chest, stopping all forward motion. "Why'd you park 'round back?" he asked in a gravelly voice.

"That damn Jeep is too distinctive," I answered, handing him my entry chip. "I didn't want anyone to see it." I was hoping he didn't realize that my putting the Jeep on the back side of the building actually made it visible to anyone driving by on the Interstate.

"Oh," he said, nodding his head slowly. Then he jerked his thumb toward the door and said, "Go on in."

Just inside the door was a small table with a gallon jar on it. A hand-printed sign on the jar said, "Tip jar for the performers. Suggested tip $50.00." The look from the beefy gent standing behind the jar made it clear that the tip was not a suggestion. I had a feeling that the "performers" never saw a dime of these tips. I also wondered if Wyatt knew that his muscle was shaking down the customers on their way in. If he didn't he was an idiot and a terrible businessman. If he did and didn't-- or couldn't-- do anything about it, he was even weaker than I thought.

The interior of the club was mostly in darkness, but there were a series of small camping-style battery-powered lights sitting on some of the tables. "Just follow the lights," the second muscle said gruffly once I dropped a fifty into the jar. I must have been the last expected customer, because the two goons walked slowly behind me, picking up the lights and shutting them off as we went.

I'm not sure why they were doing this since there were no windows on the front of the building. Maybe it was to prevent unwanted visitors once the show began. Or perhaps it was to prevent anyone from easily leaving. In any case, the club was totally dark behind us as we went through a door that opened up into the back half of the building.

The back half of the building was very dimly lit, but even in the dim light it was obvious that this portion hadn't been changed much from when it was used to repair the big rigs. It was also possible to see that the club itself only occupied about one fourth of the building. I could just make out two semi trailers that had apparently been backed in through the doors on the end of the building. I didn't think they were in there for repair. Juanita was right. Someone was transporting people in those trucks and unloading them in the unused portion of this building.

Tonight one end of that unused portion was being used for Wyatt's Friday night show. A couple of spotlights had been bolted to the rafters and adjusted to shine down against the back wall of the building, forming a rudimentary stage area. A wave of relief washed through me as I saw the back door brightly illuminated by the spots. It was a standard commercial fire door with a flat, recessed breaker bar assembly that would open the door from the inside when you pushed on it. No additional locks had been bolted or welded to the door or to the assembly, which meant that if I hit it hard enough, it would pop open. If everything went according to plan, Wyatt and I would be going out that door before the night was through.

There were nine tables just outside the spots which had apparently been set up specifically for whoever was going to attend tonight. Five tables were in the front row, four in the second. Only one table was vacant when the muscle heads and I entered the room so it was pretty obvious where I was supposed to sit even before one of them pointed to it and shoved me in that direction.

I instinctively scanned the crowd looking for any sources of trouble. As expected, six of the other tables were occupied by solitary men who looked like they could be truck drivers. I didn't expect any trouble from them. Truckers tend to mind their own business in places like this and stay out of other people's problems. The two center-front tables, however, were shoved close together with eight college-aged young men crowded around them. There was a cooler of beer on the floor beside the tables and at least two empty cans apiece sitting on the table. I would have to be careful about them. When things went down, one of these alcohol-fortified young bucks might decide to be a hero.

A naked-- and barefoot-- waitress came up to my table and asked if she could get me anything or if perhaps I wanted her to sit with me. I held up a fifty and said, "I want to be left alone... completely alone."

She grabbed the bill, gave me a big smile and said, "The customer is always right."

As she left, I was enjoying the way her ass cheeks bobbed as she was walking away when I almost started laughing. There was nothing in her hands. Where in the hell did she put the fifty? My mind answered myself in Boris' voice, "You really don't want to know."

A different naked waitress was now sitting with one of the truck drivers. Two more were trying to get friendly with the college kids. One of the boys said loudly, "Later, honey, after the show. If it's good we'll need some relief." Both waitresses put on their best plastic smiles and walked back into the darkness.

That was evidently the cue for Wyatt to make his entrance. After the recycled entry chip from Rio, I half expected him to show up in black leather wearing a Lucha Libra mask. Instead, he walked out into the spotlights wearing a white, soft leather outfit that looked like he had stolen it from an Elvis impersonator. There were no spangles, but there was a dark blue stripe that zig- zagged around the top just above his waist and a lighter blue zig-zag that covered the top of his shoulders in the back. A quick look around the room told me that I was not the only one holding their lips tightly together to keep from laughing.

There was also something odd about the way he was walking as he made his way to the center of the stage. Something just didn't look right. When he held up a microphone to speak, it became clear to me that his proportions were off. His arms were several inches too short for his height and his knees were way too far up on his legs. He had to have at least seven-inch lifts in those Elvis boots. Once again, I sort of pitied him.

"Gentlemen," he said loudly, "welcome to Master Wyatt's Friday Night Special."

I again had to press my lips together at the word "Master." What was standing in the spotlights was hardly a true Master. There was no sense of personal strength in his appearance or in his actions. Someone like Master Rodriguez would eat him for lunch. Without the protection of his big brothers, he would most likely be someone's submissive slave. Maybe that's what he effectively already was. "Master" Wyatt was just "little brother" to his big brother Masters.

"Our first act," he said proudly, "is a contest that I invite you all to bet on. Winning bet splits the pot with the winner of the contest."

He then turned to the side and yelled, "Bring 'em out."

The two muscle-men rapidly pushed a large platform out into the lighted area from the darkness near the parked semi trailers. The platform was apparently very heavy both from the way the heavily-muscled men grunted and groaned as they pushed it and from the effort needed to steer it into place.

The platform was divided into four sections by a pipe framework that extended about eight feet above the four contestants, all of whom were strapped in place on Sybian female masturbation machines. Each of the four women had two rows of clothespins clipped to the skin of their abdomens starting just below their breasts and extending down onto the top of their legs. The clothespins were strung together with a small black rope that hung down and lay across the top of the machine. There was also a clothespin-like clamp on each nipple that was made out of some sort of shiny metal. Similar small ropes hung from those clips. In addition, three thin chains looped through pulleys above each girl, but they did not seem to be attached to anything.

"Let's give Bill and Ted a chance to get them primed," Wyatt said, pointing to the two muscle- men in turn, "and then we will be ready to take the bets." Neither of the bouncer-types looked like a Bill or a Ted and I had no idea what Wyatt meant by priming the girls, so I just waited for them to do their job.

The one Wyatt had called Ted walked down the line of girls clipping the thin chains to something while Bill walked back into the darkness. Bill returned shortly wheeling a cart which appeared to have four bowling balls on it and a number of smaller balls. There was a short chain and clip attached to each of the balls.

Ted stood in front of the first girl and gruffly ordered, "Up!" She raised her hands above her head and held them out slightly so that they were against the pipe that surrounded her. Ted handcuffed her left wrist to the upright pipe and then pressed a wooden handle into her hand that he had attached to a thin chain that went up to a pulley and then looped back down to end just above the girl's eye level. Bill connected one of the small balls to the end of that cable while Ted tied the rope from the left nipple clamp to the chain. The intent was pretty obvious. As long as the girl held on to the handle, all was fine, but as soon as she let go, the clip would be ripped painfully off her nipple. They repeated the procedure for her right side and then moved on to the next girl.

After they finished with the fourth girl, they returned to the first and Ted ordered, "Open!" The girl opened her mouth and Ted pushed a short piece of leather into her mouth. He then pulled down the center chain and clipped it to the piece of leather. Bill lifted up the bowling ball and held it in place while Ted clipped it to the other end of the chain. Once it was in place and the girl was desperately holding it in place with her teeth, Ted tied the ropes from the clothespins to the chain. Again, the purpose was obvious. As long as the girl bit down tightly on the piece of leather, all was good, but as soon as she opened her mouth, the bowling ball would fall and the clothespins would be ripped from her body.

"As you can see," Wyatt said triumphantly once the goons had stepped out of the spotlights, "we have given each of these girls a really good reason to hold on as long as possible." He paused and surveyed the room. "But which one will be able to hold back her orgasm for the longest? Will it be slave number one?.. or slave number two?... or slave number three?.. or slave number four?" As he spoke, he moved down the row gesturing proudly to each girl. "Bill and Ted will now take your bets," he gushed, "and as soon as we get at least $600 we will begin the contest."

One of the hulking assistants stood next to me with his hand out. I gave him a smile, even though I really wanted to punch him out, and placed a fifty in his palm. "Number?" he asked, and I said, "Number three." He replied, "Time?" and I reflexively sputtered, "What?"

"If there is a tie," he said slowly, "the one closest to the time is the winner."

"OK," I said. "Put me down for eight minutes."

He nodded, but didn't write anything down. Instead he just walked over to the next table and stuck out his hand. This whole operation was one shake down after another.

While I was busy with the assistant, I missed Wyatt bringing out a large clock and setting it in the front middle of the stage. It was already there by the time my attention turned back to the lit area. I did, however, get to watch Wyatt struggle with a heavy extension cord as he plugged the platform into a heavy duty outlet on the back wall. Those four Symbians must put a strain on a regular circuiti, but more importantly why would Wyatt be doing something minor like that? The answer was obvious. Except for the naked prostitute waitresses, and of course the women on the Sybians, this was a cheap-ass three-man show. I was liking my odds more and more.

The two goons finished collecting the bets. I noticed that they both had to go over and glare at the college students in order to get them to cough up more money. None of the drunk boys looked too happy about that and one started to mouth off, but a second student, who appeared to be the designated driver, stepped between them and got his friend to sit down before things got rough.

Bill... or maybe it was Ted... delivered the cash to Wyatt who quickly counted it out and announced, "We have seven hundred thirty dollars in the pool. That means the winning slave gets three-fifteen and the winning bet also gets three-fifteen." From the look of determination which suddenly appeared on the four contestants, maybe he was telling the truth and the girls were really in it for the money, even if they didn't get their full half.

The other muscle meanwhile walked off into the darkness and came back with a controller box with two knobs on it. Having seen Sybian controllers before, I recognized the knobs as the controls for the intensity of vibration and speed of the wobble for the front dildo. If I had been doing a show similar to this, I would have demonstrated an empty Sybian for the crowd before having the girls impale themselves on the twin dildos. The Sybian can be set up with just a bump on the saddle, but the twin dildo arrangement with the front dildo capable of wobble and rotation is much more intense. Of course, I-- when necessary-- am a much better showman that someone like Little Brother.

A mild hum began to fill the room and the four girls tensed up, trying to push the sensations down and away from themselves. The human mind is funny like that. If you are dealing with pain, sometimes the best way to handle it is to go into the pain and accept it. In that way, the body begins to disregard it as pain and just considers it one more sensation. Pain sluts can even experience that sensation as pleasure rather than pain. But pleasure is a whole different game. If you let pleasure in, it remains pleasure and can overwhelm you. The only way to handle an overload of pleasure is to keep pushing it aside and continually building taller and taller walls against it until it finally comes crashing over the top of your dam.

All four girls were concentrating pretty hard on ignoring the vibration that was coursing through their pelvises. With the intensity of the vibration and the wobble of the front dildo, there was no searching for the G spot. It was vibrating with the rest of the girl's bottom and the dildo was brushing past it with each rotation.

Wyatt held up the controller for everyone to see and moved both knobs up a little. The hum increased and slave number one gave a soft, shrieking gasp. All four girls were starting to perspire slightly. Their skins were now reflecting the light of the spotlights.