The Statue

A DARK STAR STORY

THE COLLECTIVE -- CHAPTER 8 (Can be read in isolation)

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Looking down across her as she lays beneath me I watch her back rising and falling on the heavy breaths she takes, heavy breaths to sate the performance she has not so much given but received during the last hour.

Pressing myself up from over her on my own outstretched weary arms I let go of a tired groan as I slip my still erect dick from the confines of her tight anus.

She does not react, spare for the movement of her chest on those heavy breaths, she remains almost perfectly still, she holds her silence now whereas minutes earlier she had panted and gasped before crying out during my final brutal punishment. The cry further proof that I have not yet fully broken her.

Kneeling my eyes casting up over her PVC clad buttocks and the pale skin exposed between the slit through the middle of her legs. The same black PVC that clads her whole-body spare for a mouth hole on the mask I had designated for her latest submission.

"Good little Pet" I offer on a hushed tone that she may not even hear given the nature of the mask. A variation of one of four masks she always now wears in my presence.

She, Rose Redmond her name had been, had become a welcome addition to the assortment of entertainment that lay between the walls of Warehouse 43. Very few were even aware of her existence, and it seemed very few in the world that operated beyond the walls of the Warehouse truly cared for the former flame haired beautiful girl who had come to the Warehouse looking for work and found herself indoctrinated into a new existence. Rose's disappearance from society seemed to have gone hideously unnoticed.

As I look to the hidden door, left slightly ajar, that leads to the small well-furnished room come cell in which she now permanently resides I cannot help but consider who will eventually reside in the identical hidden room that sits on the right-hand side of the four-poster bed to which my Pet is currently restrained face down to.

I knew who I desired, had known since the inception and construction of the two hidden sub chambers built into the suite of my private quarters, along with the two parallel corridors which led to the various private chambers and their plethora of simple or intricate methods of restraint at my disposal.

The first two floors of the Warehouse 43 very much served a practical purpose. Despite two floors' still lying abandoned in a desperate state, level three was the domain for the select members of 'The Collective' and the top two floors were very much my home these days. Increasingly I spent my time here in my chamber, keeping my Pet company when she was the only available pleasure with which to avail myself.

There was some consideration to converting level seven to an exclusive VIP rooftop bar. Whatever transpired I was proud of the sophisticated nature of the premises as it had morphed and grown to become and the success I had made of the venue on the floors below. Only one thorn buried itself deep in my side, the increasing emergence and subsequent threat of Logan Hughes cheaper, brasher establishment, The Dark Star.

Despite the stark differences between the two venues, I had noticed a drop in clientele over the months since Hughes had re-emerged. A ghost of a man who refused to stick to the shadows in which a presumed dead man should live. The reports of an arrest and charges made against Hughes own Son had shocked and intrigued me on many levels. Not least as I was unaware he even had an heir, an heir who the popular underground rumour was Hughes had betrayed.

My network of spies failed me on so many levels that at times I questioned their purpose, their combined failures causing me increasing agitation. I had not seen or heard from Chloe Macready since she had last appeared at the Warehouse in a noticeably agitated state claiming she was walking away from the vile trappings of the lifestyle that consumed her. Young Chloe seemingly yet another victim of Logan Hughes.

Beyond Macready certain individuals needed to be held accountable, a strangle hold needed to be implemented. Hughes time in the shadows or anywhere else he chose to lurk needed to come to an end.

A gentle knock against the main doors of the suite snap my attention from my thoughts. A knock so feint I question its existence until I hear it again.

Grabbing a robe which I wrap around my naked body I leave my Pet sprawled across the bed as I stride towards the doors to discover who dares interrupt me in the small hours of the morning.

Easing back the right-hand door of the two high solid oak doors I meet his clearly nervous expression.

"I'm... I'm sorry to disturb you Sir" Felix Alba offers stuttering away.

"What is it?" I growl, hoping for his sake his intrusion into my time is valid.

"I can't... I can't reach Artero and..." Felix continues to nervously offer.

"I'm not surprised at nearly 5 in the morning," I offer cutting across him, remembering now that Felix operates in a lowly capacity that offers Artero Vidal full insight into the Warehouse and the wider influence around our operations. Felix Alba was a night dweller who probably held little respect or consideration for time.

"It's Logan Hughes, Mister Salazar..." Felix offers on a tone that suggests he has developed an instant backbone. "...He's selling a girl... a blonde... I believe from the circulated image it's the one that Artero is looking for."

Was looking for is my immediate thought, knowing full well that the platinum blonde on whom I had fixated for so long, who had frustratingly disappeared almost from existence had since been located. Somewhere along that missing timeline the delightful Arabella Walker-Smith had fallen into the company of Marco Mancini. Mancini increasingly becoming as irksome to me as Hughes was as he rose in prominence, or at least increasing exposure.

If somehow Arabella has fallen foul of the vile Logan Hughes I have no concerns for Marco Mancini's loss. I have only concerns in respect to ensuring I benefit from the young blonde being trafficked by the disgusting method of disposal. An act that likely leads to an ultimately diabolical fate that can never truly be justified. I try not to think of the missing Laura Mancini, Marco's sister, whose own dark path to demise it would appear likely to have been started by much the same cold cruel transactional process as Logan Hughes now instigates once more.

"Pay whatever price is required... use a third party...I want no traceable connection to this," I offer, appreciating bleakly the irony of funding and rewarding such brutality.

I think only of the benefits which outweigh any ambiguity.

"Have Yvette make up a room... there's no need to wake her though."

Closing the door on Felix, I cross the room back towards the four-poster bed that dominates the room. My heart racing my mind overthinking.

As I cast my eyes over my Pet as she is tethered face first across the bed by thick chains that grip her limbs I feel my arousal grow.

I fuck my pet harshly as I imagine Arabella Walker-Smith.

I eventually cum deep in my Pet as her featureless slender body substitutes for the exquisite platinum blonde who will soon be mine.

***********

"It's not her" I snarl barely able to contain the contempt within my voice.

A little after nine thirty in the morning as a cold wind whips around the underground car park the sense of anticipation drains from me. I sense Artero Vidal look across his left shoulder at me as the curvy little blonde whimpers and snivels into a black ball gag that sits wedged between her jaw.

The young blonde lays in the cramped confines of the boot of the dark grey BMW saloon dressed in a hideously dishevelled short black dress over torn and laddered patterned hosiery, knee high black boots adorn her lower legs. A pair of steel handcuffs hold her ankles securely together, as do a second pair that trap her wrists behind her back.

Despite puffy red eyes, raw from tears, she reminds me of someone, she looks almost familiar, but she certainly looks nothing like Arabella Walker-Smith.

How so ever she has wronged Logan Hughes is not a concern of mine, there are certain qualities she possesses that I am sure can be utilised. She will not go to waste, my mind already sets on a purpose for her.

"Get her out," I coldly state, watching as Artero and Felix between them reach into boot.

The young blonde screams and protests at the indignant treatment she receives as she is hoisted out of the rear of the vehicle, struggling in her restraint like a salmon plucked from a river.

"Take her to the Curator.... Tell him she's his Venus."

A little over half an hour later, having taken on board two strong black coffees and a delightful raspberry pastry I walk into the Curators domain on the second floor of Warehouse 43. The room in which operates is dissected in two. A messy workshop area where he manufactures his own macabre creations and a far more clinically organised area that lends Christoph Schmidt the moniker I bestow him. Although I might just have suitably named him 'The Creator.'

The young blonde hangs in the corner of the room, dressed in nothing more than a patterned body stocking that is menacingly ripped open through her crotch. Her wrists now set in wide leather cuffs that suspender her on extended arms from the ceiling as her head hangs to her ample chest. I ignore Schmidt who busily scribbles notes on a large sheet of paper stretched over a cluttered desk he stands behind. I approach the blonde tilting her head back and noticing the perfect line of deep navy bruise that wraps around her throat.

"What did you to annoy him?" I enquire, only now appreciating what an asset she may well be if she knows anything about Logan Hughes.

"You'll get no response from her..." Schmidt interjects, "...I had to heavily sedate our subject matter."

As I look upon her face I can only see the whites of her eyes from slightly ajar eyelids, her breath heavy and nasal.

"Does she still need the ball gag then?" I enquire.

"She'll come to eventually...." Schmidt menacingly offers, "...and she won't be appreciative of her circumstances."

"You've everything you need I state glancing to the wooden frame that has already been constructed in the centre of the workshop, I am fully aware that this is a project that Christoph Schmidt has been planning for some time.

I look back to the blonde, as expensive a little guinea pig as the impulsive purchase has proven to be she still visually reminds me of someone. Given her current incapacity she is unable to tell me who she is. Pirouetting her in her restraint to admire her physique. She is not classically slender, but her proportions are perfect and offer ample curves to her toned form.

"Will she be permanently harmed by your plan?" I offer to Schmidt over my shoulder.

"I've no idea..." Schmidt offers, "...the process is experimental... she is hardly in pristine condition to begin with."

I look back to her as he speaks noting the back of the body stocking torn open and the savage welts that have caused lacerations in places that sit amongst bruises that diagonally cut, literally, across the pale skin of her back.

"Someone punished her," Schmidt offers with a darkly amused tone.

"She may suffer further" I state running a finger over one of the welts on her back.

**********

"I'm afraid it's a no Marco...you understand why I have to disappoint you?"

Marco Mancini sits opposite me leaning back nonchalantly in the leather covered swivel chair in which he sits in beyond my vast desk.

"But with the distribution plan I have I can offer you far greater selling power." The dark-haired Italian offers desperately. "This could make you a small fortune Hector."

"I said No..." I offer leaning forward across the desk fixing him with a defiant steely gaze. "...Do not assume I'll be convinced by your repugnant insistence like I'm one of your many female conquests... you can't fuck me like that."

I note his scowl at my insult, but I let it pass, I am grateful for him to open the opportunity up to me. There is an ulterior motive, however. there generally always is within the arrogance come ignorance of the bigger picture to Marco Mancini. Such selfish traits that will ultimately be his downfall if he does not quickly learn to address the weaknesses such traits represent. I know full well his ulterior motive, he wants his own supply line to the Russian's pure blue little ecstasy tablets that combine with a potent aphrodisiac effect.

"I know you've invited Golgachev to the meeting when you return from Italian sabbatical..." I state noting Marco's eyes as they widen on surprise at my insight, "...I know because he told me... that's the level of respect and trust we operate at."

Presently I own the purest supply of the pills in the whole City, the counterfeits that flood the market now so greatly inferior to vast quantity of the product I possess and regularly sell for at twice the price of street value. It is a perch I wish to remain on.

"I just want to..." Marco holds his tongue as I raise my hand.

"Stick to what you know best Marco..." I narrow my eyes, "...although I firmly believe your Father would never approve of your revised business plan operated under the well-respected family name."

I offer my advice heavily laced with insult to the young man knowing full well he will not respond as to do so would be an insult to the memory of his late Father, a proud traditional businessman at heart, even if that empire was never truly legal.

Letting the silence hang I take a sip of the single malt Whisky sat before me on the desk. Letting the liquid warm my throat as it is consumed.

"Now..." I offer sitting back relaxing a little to let the tension pass, "...I never invited you here tonight to discuss business.,. I invited you to become a fully fledged member of 'The Collective'... and tonight I've an exclusive little debut opportunity for you."

A little over half an hour later the double doors deep within the bowels of Warehouse 43 that we stand before slip silently open. As they do a halo of lights illuminate above the only object that stands within the small room. An object wrapped in a black satin sheet that perfectly disguises what lays beneath.

Stepping into the room I glance to Marco as I take the ubiquitous black featureless mask of 'The Collective' and pull it down over my face. Taking heed of my request Marco reaches up and slips his own mask down to full obscure his appearance. The two of us dressed identically in indistinguishable black trousers and long sleeve cotton t-shirts.

I step towards the object sat perfectly in the centre of the small square brick walled room eagerly, while Marco casually observes the room.

Taking hold of the corner of the wide linen sheet that covers the object I look over the top of to see Marco as he now awaits my reveal.

"I give to you Beth," I proudly announce.

Unpinning the join in the materials the length of black silk effect fabric drops in perfectly choreographed motion to reveal what is beneath.

A one-by-one metre slab of concrete that is painted gloss black.

A slab of concrete that sits immovable around its victim.

"Jesus fucking Christ" Marco announces on a tone that sits somewhere between shocked and impressed.

Beth Macready, the sister of Chloe Macready encased in hard set concrete. Her body positioned stood yet bent double as I pace around behind her. Casting my eyes up the backs of toned legs that are clad in thick denier nylon hold ups that meet ankle strap heels, the rest of her body completely obscured by the concrete until I step around to the far side of the macabre plinth.

A black leather posture collar sits tightly around Beth's neck holding her head in place as it meets the underside of her jaw and the concrete. Her dark blonde hair sits intricately braided around her head and dark makeup paints her face, which is distorted by a spider gag that holds her jaw apart.

I crouch to look into her eyes instantly recognising the effect and of the drug she is under. Black pools of dilated pupils eclipse her pale blue iris.'

Christoph Schmidt is to be commended for his masterful handiwork.

"You approve" I offer to Marco.

"As fucked up as it is... what's not to appreciate... she's beautiful."

"For the first time tonight Marco I can't disagree with you." I state as I step back around the plinth.

Crouching I take the steel shackle bolted to the right-hand base of the concrete plinth and pull Beth Macready's right nylon clad ankle towards the cold steel restraint. That such further adornment to her merciless confinement is required is debatable, having locked her left ankle into the left-hand side shackle I cannot help though but admire the visual aesthetic the effective restraint provides.

"Host always takes precedence," I state to Marco in reiteration of one of the simple guidelines on etiquette that govern 'The Collective' that have previously been outlined to him on more than one occasion.

I do not focus on him now though, closing my mind only to the task in hand as I gently ease down the front of the black linen trousers I wear. I am hard for Beth already by the spectacle she provides even as I stroke my dick, slowly running my clenched fingers gently along the base of my shaft as the middle and pointer finger of my left hand press up between her legs. Meeting the lips of her labia with my touch I press forward with increased pressure, hearing Beth moan into the spider gag that sits clenched to her face holding her jaw open.

Teasing and goading her body for several minutes feeling her walls slicker from natural lubrication as I slip my fingers back and forth into her, before eventually removing them.

Stepping closer to her I look down at what is visible of her body. From her hips and waist form round firm buttocks that meet the tops of pale toned thighs. Thighs partially clad in thick dark denier stockings that sit over her toned calves and lower legs, the posture of which are enhanced by the significant spiked heel of the pointed shiny black shoes that adorn her feet.

Without further hesitation I guide my dick between her legs and hear the startled yet ultimately stifled protest the gag permits from her.

Entering her slowly I inhale a satisfied sharp breath in appreciation of both her tight little cunt and how little stimulation my fingers had actually provided, nevertheless I press my hips forward to gain full penetration of her shapely lower body.

As I begin to fuck Beth Macready while she is trapped within 'The Curators' most brutal of restraints to date I hear her further audible protestation.

Protests lost moments later, her ignominy heightened but muffled further as I sense that Marco Mancini takes her mouth by virtue of the spider gag sat her between dark red lips.

**********

"Welcome to 'The Collective," I casually offer to Marco Mancini as I raise my glass a glass of Whisky towards his and the two cut crystal glasses clink against one another in the dim confines of the long emptied by now members bar to which we have retired.

I watch with amusement the failed attempt he makes to try and hide the grimace that the perfectly aged amber liquid brings to his face, while I appreciate the warmth and the sting of the liquid I gently sip. As with many elements of his life Marco has no appreciation for the finer things that bless his existence.

"Thank you," The dark-haired Italian offers, still dressed as am I all in black, his usually perfectly styled hair matted to his forehead with sweat from his exertions.

I had left him in Beth's company having sated my need via her prone body. In truth the visual spectacle had far outweighed the actual act, a climax sterilely earned as I had finally eventually managed to cum deep in the blonde.