Indoctrination – Chapter 33

WARNING! This is a work of erotic BDSM FICTION. It is ADULT ORIENTED MATERIAL of an EXTREME SEXUAL NATURE, including acts of abduction, exhibitionism, humiliation, and discipline. This is not for readers who are easily offended or incapable of distinguishing fact from fiction. The author does not promote such activity in real life unless it is between consenting adults and practiced safely. The copyright of this story remains with the author, Night Owl. This posting does not give anyone the rights to post or print content without obtaining the author’s permission first.

by Night Owl

I would choose so to live that I might stand boldly with my deed, without regret, throughout eternity.

“Priest-Kings of Gor”
by John Norman

Chapter 33: The Black Glove Society (Part 1)

Long before Dark Oak Manor existed, John Corbin (alias “The Raven”) grew up in Salzburg, Austria. He was raised by a strict Catholic family and taught the values of chivalry among others. More importantly, he was always told never to abuse a woman. Not in any way shape or form.

But even in his youth, he did not see himself as that kind of man. For as long as John could remember, he had strange fantasies involving pretty damsels being kidnapped, tied-up in some way, and even tortured. Sometimes he inserted himself into the fantasy, not as the hero, but always the villain. These fantasies evoked very pleasurable feelings in his body, which he did not recognize as sexual, until reaching puberty, and then the fantasies began to incorporate more provocative elements.

He never told members of his family, and to counter any repressions of guilt, he created elaborate scenarios that ‘justified’ what he was doing. In fact, he became quite good at convincing himself that it was the women who were ‘evil’ and that his punishing them was the ‘right’ thing to do.

The problem with that whole approach was, it kept him from trying anything in real life for many years. He repressed that dark side of his nature and never even considered seeking out a living partner who enjoyed being sexually tormented and controlled. The good news was, it kept him from becoming a sociopath, for at such a young age, his mind and emotions had not quite developed enough to deal with his own inner demons.

Then that all changed at age 17 when he had an affair with a local girl, a girl with long golden blonde hair and eyes as blue as a peacock’s neck. She was extremely slender and yet she had large, firm breasts that were very rare for such a wispy figure. John was quite taken with her, but one day, during a particularly ‘heated’ episode of sex, he put his hands around her throat and started choking her. He remembered looking down at her — head bent sharply backward over the edge of the bed, her long, swan-like neck stretched taut with his strong fingers gripping her like a vice just below the chin. Her arms were pressed against her sides and between his knees as he straddled her body. Her naked breasts heaved and shook as she struggled to breathe, struggled to get out from underneath him. She was completely helpless, completely at his mercy. John could have easily choked the life out of her, and the thought sent his mind reeling into such a high that he felt strangely disconnected from time, space, and body. Only the better half of his nature kept him from killing the poor girl. He vaguely remembered what happened next – his hands loosening, the girl squirming out from under him, then grabbing her clothes and running to the door, still gasping and in tears.

John never saw her again, and when word got out about what he had done, he left home to avoid an arrest. He wandered from town to town and kept odd jobs to pay his way. He traveled most of Europe, even spent some time in London, before moving to Germany and settling in Hamburg where he found a job as a doorman at a Turkish-style nightclub. He kept mostly to himself, and more importantly, he kept those feelings that seemed so alien to him repressed.

He was tall, moderately muscled with dark eyes and jet-black hair combed back against his scalp. All that and his brooding nature seemed to add to the mysterious stereotype that always seemed to draw women to him. In spite of these gifts, John never took advantage and, in fact, avoided these women completely, for obvious reasons.

The club he worked in was called The Tahari and it was a popular venue for tourists and locals alike. The drinks were cheap, the waitresses comely in their appearance and demeanor, and the stage girls, mostly Turkish, Persian and gypsy dancers, never failed to elevate the mood of the room.

One night, the tavern was even more crowded than usual, for the woman performing that evening was well-known and well-sought after by all the clubs throughout Europe. Raven, himself, had never seen nor even heard of her, but he was curious to find out what the excitement was all about.

As usual, the air was thick with smoke, and reeking of sweat, tobacco and stale beer that had spilled on the floor. The tables were already full and now patrons were starting to gather in tight groups around the bar or any spot where one could find room to stand and still see the stage in back. There were Turks, Arabs, Germans, Italians, Aussies, and even a few Americans. Most of them were businessmen out looking for adventure in the tawdry nightclubs of Hamburg. It was Corbin’s job to take his position near the stage and see to it that none of the more intoxicated patrons hassled the dancer during her performance.

The waitress that evening was a petite, young thing wearing a strapless black dress that barely kept her modest breasts in check. Greedy eyes followed as she weaved her way through the mostly male crowd, dodging lit cigarettes while skillfully balancing a tray of drinks above her head with one hand.

John knew little of the girl, only what he heard — that she was an American who came to Europe to live and study art history in places like Rome and Paris, only to find those dreams disappear faster than a gambler’s lucky streak. She seemed un-phased by the stares and comments from men as she squeezed by them, all the while, keeping one slender, naked arm raised high and the tray weighted with drinks perfectly balanced over her head. He watched her intently, not just to admire her appearance and the way she moved, but to make sure her admirers kept their hands to themselves.

His attention on the waitress broke when the stage lights were finally raised. All heads turned in that direction, voices were hushed as the performer made her appearance. She moved gracefully out to the stage, covered from head to toe in a hooded cloak. No one could see her face or the exotic outfit she was surely wearing underneath. She turned to face the audience. The crowd was completely silent when the music started thrumming softly. She moved slowly, hips swaying under the cloak and turning leisurely to the rhythm. She raised her hands high and the thick, loose sleeves slid back, bearing her arms. Suddenly, the energy in the room seemed to heighten with the first sight of female flesh underneath this heavy garment. The opening music suddenly increased in tempo, spiraled into a crescendo; a beat of drums joined in, and it was then the woman finally tore the cloak away and tossed it aside.

For the first time that evening, John let his guard down and the emotion to show on his face. He recovered quickly, however, masking the expression with stoic indifference while the rest of the room erupted into a frenzy.

Her style of costume was different than the traditional bedlah style that John was used to seeing. While the Persian, gypsy and oriental dancers tended to wear light, colorful costumes, this dancer’s look was dark, earthy, and rich. Her black top was like a bra and it just barely covered her firm, spherical breasts. Shiny gold coins were embroidered into the fabric and rows of dark beads dangled off black tassels underneath against her exposed ribs. Instead of a tiered skirt, she wore a brown scarf just around the hips, decorated with more gold coins and long swaths of black cloth falling between her legs in front and back. Coins and other metal adornments hung around her neck, her upper arms, wrists, ankles, even in her hair. She had a traditional Indian bindi (or red dot) low on her forehead and a small piece of metalwork dangled like jewelry just above it from her headband.

Her figure was a perfect hourglass shape, with a smallish waist, an impressively toned stomach, curvy round hips and bust. The creamy sight of her light skin was maddeningly enticing, and a sharp contrast to her long, dark hair, which hung like a thick mane over her shoulders and back. Her large and shining dark eyes were made up with a heavy use of kajal, making them appear almost hypnotic.

But it was her style of dance that caught John’s attention the most. Unlike the more popular belly dance or cabaret striptease, her style was more edgy, more primal, and fiercer in character. The coins and tassels shook merrily with every swing of her hips, teasing the audience with her body as she moved around the stage.

When a drunken patron tried to approach her, John stepped forward, ready to act, but she turned and stopped him with a waggle of her index finger, as if this feisty woman were telling John, ‘I don’t need your help.’ She then booted the drunk back into the crowd with a sharp kick, drawing a room full of laughter.

After that, the music grew softer, the beat slower and with it, her dance softened into something more fluid and descriptive. Like everyone else, John was mesmerized. She seemed infinitely flexible and performed back bends with slow, graceful arcs. Her mood was deeply emotional and she used every body part brazenly – her hair, breasts, legs, belly, shoulders, eyes, facial expressions – as if she had a story that needed desperately to be told from the very core of her soul.

She continued to dance around the perimeter of the stage, flirting with the crowd, until she saw John again. When their eyes met, she smiled and moved closer and closer to where he stood, swaying her hips with every step to the music. As she approached, she crossed her arms at the wrists in front of her, then raised them higher, hands rotating, arms climbing until they were high above her head, giving him alluring views of the V in her top plunging between her breasts.

In that moment, all of John’s bottled-up hormones decided to make themselves known as an anticipating thrill made its way up his spine. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he realized the audience was not disappointed, but captivated with her attempt to seduce him.

He leaned back against the wall and, folding his arms in mock comfort, stared at the tantalizing woman in front of him and offered her a wicked smile, daring her to continue. The message was clear:

Let’s see what you’ve got.

Willingly rising to the challenge, the woman returned the smile tenfold. Swinging her hips from side to side in rapid movements, she stepped even closer to John, turning slowly around as she went. Once she completed the turn, she slowed her approach, undulating to the music.

John tried to keep direct eye contact with her, but he found it was simply not possible. His gaze kept sinking downward, as if the movements she was making were driving his eyes toward the most enticing parts of her body. She raised her arms high again, this time, crossing her wrists together above her head. Her ample tits brushed against his folded arms with every sway of her hips and turn of her body.

As the music played on, John found he was entirely hypnotized by the dance she was offering. His gaze followed her every move. The grace with which she mastered the steps was astounding, trapping him more and more in the snare of her rhythm.

Then suddenly she sank to the floor in a kneeling position with her thighs spread wide and the long swath of cloth draped in the middle. She slowly arched backward, her hips pumping, her hands stroking the sweetness of her belly, caressing her full breasts under the top. Her head rolled back, exposing her neck, as she sank back with her long, dark hair splayed out over the floor tiles. Still on her knees, her small hands clenched in tight fists at her sides and struck the floor as if she were struggling with the unfulfilled desires within, her head tossing from side to side. When the tempo of the music beat faster, she rose to her feet effortlessly and close to John again, her hands touching him, her breasts rubbing against him, her dark eyes drawing him in.

That was too much. The necessity to take her in his arms went beyond any rational thought. He reached out, planning to make her straddle his hips, but when he was about to grab her, she suddenly stepped back, and with a quick spin, the woman was kneeling in front of him with her head to the floor and her arms stretched forward, almost touching his feet.

The music suddenly stopped. The woman stood up and bowed to the cheering crowd, then she gave John a wicked smile before leaving the stage.

That was John Corbin’s first experience with Gorean dance, and he was so intrigued with what he just witnessed that he could think little else but of the woman who performed it. She wasn’t even particularly beautiful, at least not to his liking, but in the dance she became so.

Suddenly all of those ‘feelings’ that he tried so hard to suppress, churned upward to the surface. He wanted her so much that nothing else mattered. Leaving his post, he went backstage to her dressing room and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” came a voice.

When John entered, the woman was sitting at her vanity, dressed in a silk robe.

“What do you want?” She spoke to him curtly through the mirror.

“You and I didn’t finish . . .”

“Finish?” She laughed. “There was nothing to ‘finish’. I’m paid to dance, and nothing more.”

“You wanted it. I could tell.”

“You know NOTHING about what I want. Now get out before I call the police!” She stood up from her chair and turned to face him.

John was unfazed by her threat. He walked up to her, made the expected pass, and she responded by giving him a stinging slap across his face. He replied as most men wouldn’t. He twisted her arm, turned her away from him, and using a hard bare hand, slapped her fiercely across the rump. She reacted immediately, and when he slapped her behind hard again, she gasped aloud as if all thought of resistance was gone. Recognizing her reaction exactly for what it was, as complete submission, he sat, pulled her over his lap, bottom-up, swept the robe all the way up over her hips until her bare ass was in view. Now, firmly and with great authority, he totally took control, spanking her until she began to bawl like a baby.

Ignoring her cries as just so much nonsense (which both of them knew they were), his hand wandered over her rosy-red ass cheeks, found a path between her tightly clenched thighs and discovered she was very wet, indicating to him just how insincere her protests were.

John sensed total victory. In just a few brief moments he had her robe completely off and tossed it on the floor as if it was just a rag rather than the very expensive garment that it really was,

(“. . . and wasn’t that the ULTIMATE indignity?” he thought).

The woman offered little resistance as he grabbed her by the hair and bent her naked body over the vanity and held her there with one hand while fondling her ass with the other. Forcing her thighs open with his own thighs, he inserted his finger full depth in her sensuous feminine flower, teasing it and bringing her ever closer to orgasm. She had been totally conquered by a simple spanking and by a bit of foreplay. He had won the prize and obviously it was now his for the taking.

Glancing over one shoulder, John saw a small day bed in the corner of the room.

(“This is convenient.”)

He spanked her further and harder, to her very great dismay, or perhaps to her very considerable joy, he then grabbed her by the arm and threw her on the bed. He stripped and joined her. He was rigidly erect, and she, obviously totally acquiescent, totally passionate, totally, and absolutely orgasmic ally responsive. He took her in strange positions and in strange ways, vanquishing her completely and certainly satisfying her better than she had ever been satisfied. After it was over, and his rage subsided, John expected the woman to cry ‘rape’ and run for the police, but she didn’t scream, and to his surprise, only beckoned him to come back for more.


Her name was Moria Chappell and she didn’t hail from the Mediterranean or some far-off exotic land as her dance suggested. She was from a little farm town in Northern England, and even though she had long since severed those ties and adopted a Greek accent, the old Manchester dialect occasionally slipped out if she wasn’t careful. John didn’t care though where she was originally from, because as a performer, she was the most exotic creature he had ever encountered, and during their short relationship, the woman allowed him to do things to her that he had only dreamed of since his youth.

At first, he had to console himself with administering punishments he felt she deserved in order to justify the pain he inflicted on her, and Moria played her part in finding ways to misbehave or just to ‘piss him off’ in order for him to take some sort of (fun) action.

The more he got into this game, the more he found that he enjoyed it. She enjoyed it too, and encouraged him to do more, teaching him everything she knew about bondage and discipline. She showed the various ways of how to tie a woman up with rope – not just as a means of restraint, but as an art. She showed him how to apply hot candle wax, together with cold ice to the flesh to bring both pain and pleasure. She instructed him on everything, all while offering her own body as a template for him to experiment on. With each ‘session’, the veil of punishment got thinner and thinner, the boundaries of what was safe and what wasn’t were always compromised as the young couple delved deeper and deeper into the dark world of S&M.

One night, Moria informed John she wanted to move in with him and be his ‘kajira’.

Kajira? Move in? What the hell was that about? John wasn’t sure, and feeling somewhat perplexed, he gave the girl a fierce spanking for bringing up the subject. Not long after, they found a place together.

It was then he realized just how much he came to depend on Moria. She served as an outlet for that dark, sociopathic side of him that he never understood, and a way to control the rage that couldn’t be controlled. Every method of punishment he inflicted on her happened because it was what they both wanted. In some cases, she wanted it so very desperately, even more than John wanted to give it to her, and John wanted to give it to her badly.

Out of all the torments, it was the lashings, either with a crop or flogger, that satisfied him the most. As her body quivered and jerked under his punishments, something in him changed. The dark, clouded energy within him became pure and clear as the blows transferred it from his hand to her. The hidden anger faded away as his focus narrowed down to the subtle smell of the leather, the sharp ‘snap’ of the instrument against her soft skin, the exquisite torment of her face, and through it all, he could almost taste her arousal as the lashings drove her wild. With Moria’s help, he learned about subspace and Dom space. Seeing her enjoy the pain, seeing her go into that submissive mind frame because of the things he was doing to her also took him to the next level.

Right about that time, Moria began talking of a secret society where men and women just like themselves didn’t just role play, but actually lived out their dominant and submissive fantasies, day to day. Again, she brought up words like ‘kajira’, which meant ‘slave for life’.

John wasn’t impressed. He already knew of a few clubs in Hamburg that practiced S&M, but Moria turned quite serious and told him this was no mere club, but a sub-culture, called The Black Glove Society, which developed and ran a network involving the kidnapping and training of people, mostly women, to be sex slaves.

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing and asked Moria where she got this information. She proudly pointed to herself and told him that SHE was a member. Still doubtful, and thinking the girl was probably only teasing him to provoke another whipping, John was nevertheless intrigued with the story and told her to continue.

Moria went on to describe The Black Glove Society. She said it was formed more than twenty years ago by a group of wealthy elites calling themselves “the inner circle”. The group all shared a passion for the S&M lifestyle and liked having young, attractive women around, day and night to serve them — sometimes to cook and clean, or sometimes to entertain guests, but mostly for sex. They believed women to be nothing more than vessels to fulfill any sexual fantasies they might have. The leader of the group was a young, multi-millionaire and recluse; a man blessed with an extraordinarily high IQ named Rupert Thorne.

He paved the way for The Black Glove Society and created a set of ideologies based on a combination of ancient cultures and erotic fantasies that became known as the Second Life of Gor. He also studied the theories of Pavlov’s Dogs and helped blueprint an effective process for capturing and ‘conditioning’ human beings into becoming willing slaves. Mercenaries were recruited to bring in attractive women suitable for the indoctrination process, and the members of the inner circle trained the slaves themselves using Rupert Thorne’s techniques.

Initially, it was thought that prostitutes and runaways might be the best prospects for indoctrination because these women were usually forgotten and less likely to draw publicity. But Thorne found them too ‘shabby’ and the prostitutes, in particular, looked ‘used’. He preferred women of a more ‘pure nature’, not only because of their appearance, but he also believed they would be more receptive to the training process. So he created a separate network within The Society solely in charge of the search and surveillance of ‘targets’, their abduction, and finally the disposal of any evidence that would link their group to these disappearances.

At first, the activity was low-key, but soon more members were brought in – businessmen interested in buying and soliciting new slaves, trainers, handlers, and people with a passion for the lifestyle.

In just ten years, The Black Glove Society had grown to over a thousand members and slaves with ‘chapters’ began to spread all over Europe, each headed by someone from the inner circle. Rupert Thorne, the man of great intelligence and inexhaustible energy was behind its success.

“If this society is that big then why haven’t I heard of it?” John said with disbelief. “And what’s to prevent some bright guy involved within all this secrecy from blowing a lid off the whole operation. Maybe even go to a newspaper or magazine and collect a handsome reward for the story?”

“Because that ‘bright guy’ wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy it,” Moria answered him flatly.

Before John could say anything more, she continued,

“Secrecy and security have always been the most important objectives of The Black Glove, or else it would cease to exist. The founding members knew that, so they developed a process to keep it all contained. A process filled with ‘incentives.’”

“What incentives?”

“Well for one thing, all new prospects are vetted heavily, including deep background checks, to ensure that they are suitable for membership, requiring secrecy, loyalty, and trustworthiness. Second, all working members are paid extremely well. Most of them start at the bottom as security personnel and slave handlers, then they move up to trainers and even Masters, and eventually they can live very comfortably, even own their own slaves if they follow orders and stay loyal to The Black Glove.

“Finally, any infractions of the rules are punished quickly and severely. Large fines are assessed for minor offenses, and for more serious crimes . . . well let’s just say, pain is the commodity that insures obedience. If someone were to defect as you suggested, then an assassin would be assigned to kill him or members of his family, maybe even torture them first. Those are the incentives.”

“The carrot and stick approach.”

“Something like that. The discipline and punishment are real, the consequences for turning informant are real, but the actual motivating force behind keeping The Black Glove Society a secret is obvious. Every member, whether they be Masters or just doormen at the parties, are having their sexual fantasies fulfilled, with some of the most beautiful and compliant women they will ever meet. They are being paid handsomely for the opportunity to indulge in their wildest fantasies.”

She paused a moment and then continued, “The Black Glove Society has had less than twenty defectors, be they members or runaway slaves since its formation. Not one has been able to convince anyone our world even exists, and none of them lived long.”

“How about these parties you mentioned before?” John asked. “How do you keep them a secret?”

“All parties are planned carefully with the locations always changing and kept from most of the members until the last minute, making it difficult for anyone else to track them down.”

John thought about this for a moment before asking the obvious question,

“So how did you become a member?”

Moria answered without even blinking an eye, “I was a kajira. At my last auction, I sold for $82,000.”

John nearly jumped out of his seat when he heard this, but deep down, he wasn’t surprised.

“Who got the money?” he asked.

“It went to the owner who sold me with 25% going to The Black Glove.”

“But I’m no longer a slave,” she added. “I was given my freedom two years ago, with a handsome payment for my services, and I have since been working as a recruiter.”

“A recruiter,” John asked suspiciously.

“That’s right,” she smiled. “I search new prospects for membership and screen them.”

“Is that what you did with me?”

She nodded, and as John grew angry, she began to explain,

“The Black Glove is very selective and I told you about the vetting process. As a Mistress, it is my obligation to seek and get to know potential members, even intimately. After we met, I did some investigating into your background. You were correct in just how hot the media would be to have this story, even worse, imagine the implications if the international authorities were to find out about us, and it has always been my wish to protect The Black Glove Society from discovery.”

Normally John would have been infuriated to the point of violence, and Moria was either being dangerously reckless with her honesty or she knew him too well. Most-likely the latter because his anger was quickly cooled by the intrigue of this secret society. At this point, it really didn’t matter how this all happened. He was hooked.

“So I guess I passed the test,” he finally spoke up.

“Not yet. First you have to meet the man who started it all.”

“Rupert Thorne?”

She nodded.

“And when do I get to meet him?”

“I’ll let you know . . . and by the way,” she continued. “What has happened between the two of us . . . wasn’t all just business.”

“Well, if this Black Glove Society is everything you claim it to be, then I’ll forgive you.”


And so John waited, until one night Moria announced they were going to a party hosted by The Black Glove Society.

“Formal or informal,” he asked.

“Business casual. Wear that dark gray sport jacket and black silk shirt I like,” she suggested.

Knowing that a meeting with Rupert Thorne might be eminent, John listened to her advice.

As they stepped out of the house, there was a stretch model limousine with all the amenities waiting for them. Moria explained that it was her obligation to treat John to a good time and she was going to try her very best to see that he enjoyed himself.

When they got in the limo, the world outside seemed to just drop away. The windows were tinted black, not just for those looking in but for those looking out. There was no way the passengers in back could tell where they were going so as to keep their destination a secret. John could see now why Moria arranged it and guessed that all the members were transported from one location to another the same way.

“This alone must cost a bundle.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” she answered, “Now mix me a martini.”

John was starting to embrace the fantasy. He had no idea what she had planned or what their evening would be like. His anticipations were understandably high, but what he didn’t know yet, was that what lay ahead would surpass anything he could have possibly imagined.

After the drinks were poured, they sat back in the plush velvet seat, their bodies pressing against each other. Moria had on a black, soft leather mini dress that fitted her body like a glove, with silver stud embellishments around the open collar and a zipper up the side. The short sleeves covered much of her upper arms, but then opened generously around the shoulders leaving them bare.

She unzipped his fly and began to caress him. The glass between the driver and passenger section was also tinted, offering them complete privacy. For a while they cuddled, her hand stroking his cock, then one thing led to another. She slipped out of her dress first and had nothing on underneath. She straddled his lap with her back to him. She was so moist he had no trouble slipping his stiff member in. Raising her arms, she grasped the ceiling of the limo and began shifting and pumping her hips slowly, her round ass performing its own dance right in front of him. John grasped her waist with both hands, then reached up to squeeze her breasts, tweaking her nipples and eliciting a soft moan from her lips. John wondered if the glass between them and the driver was really tinted on both sides. In his own mind, he decided it wasn’t and imagined the driver watching Moria pumping away, her arms raised, her full, round breasts bouncing gently with each thrust, and her eyes closed, oblivious to the third pair of eyes watching her while trying very hard to navigate the limo through busy traffic.

John and Moria both came together, then she slipped her dress back on and they cuddled with their drinks again. After several minutes of intimate talk, the subject eventually turned to their destination.

“If there are so many members,” he asked, “then how do they keep track of everyone? And how do they keep outsiders from crashing their parties even with all of these precautions to keep them secret?”

“This,” she held up her hand with the inside of her wrist pointing toward him. “A human biochip implant inserted just under the skin.”

“Now you’re pulling my leg.”

Moria shook her head, “The implant system is actually a fairly simple device. Just a small, micro computer chip inserted into the body with hypodermic syringe. The injection is safe and comparable to common vaccines. Anesthesia isn’t even required. The slaves have their own biochip, usually injected behind the neck or between the shoulder blades.

“Each chip is used for identification purposes, as well as tracking, and every member is required to have one.”

Moria then looked at her watch and pressed a button in the door. The glass to the front seat opened.

“Are we almost there?”

“Yes ma’am,” the driver replied. “Just a few more minutes.”

John could now see through the windshield of the limo, but he still had no idea where they were. He couldn’t even tell if they were still in Hamburg. The area was surrounded with warehouses and old brick buildings located in what appeared to be an industrial neighborhood, one of many that were often deserted after dark.

They turned into the entrance of an underground garage and it was here the driver stopped. A man suddenly appeared from nowhere holding a type of scanner. Another approached the other side of the limo. Both were carrying semi-automatic pistols holstered under their coats. Without exchanging any words, the driver stuck his arm out through the window and allowed his wrist to be scanned. After a light glowed green, the limo was waved through.

John watched the limo go down a steep ramp. When they got out, there were at least three dozen other vehicles, many limousines, already parked in the garage. At the service elevator, another armed guard approached them with a scanner. He checked Moria’s wrist, and after getting the green light, he looked at John suspiciously.

“Valet or guest?” He asked.


The guard then checked a list and let them into the elevator by using a card key.

Inside the elevator John asked,

“What’s a valet?”

“Man-servant,” she replied.

When the elevator door opened, he stared at the scene before him and immediately knew this place had far exceeded his expectations. Moria quickly stepped out of the elevator, and John moved more slowly in disbelief, his mind trying to register the activity around them.

The club was huge, not packed, but nicely populated, and a stark contrast to the scenery outside of dingy warehouses and abandoned buildings taking up several dead city blocks. The architecture was impressive with high ceilings and a legion of intricate chandeliers hanging from the solid oak beams in the rafters. There were booths with tables along the walls, and in the vast center, clusters of tan velvet couches arranged like a game of Tetris.

Music filtered in from large speakers, smoke filled the air from cigarettes and cigars. John’s eyes darted everywhere at once, and yet, it wasn’t enough to fully appreciate the vast scope of activity he was witnessing. Everywhere, there were gorgeous young ladies dressed in very provocative outfits. It was easy to tell who the slaves were, for their clothing was much more revealing and flamboyant, while the Masters and Mistresses were dressed in more conservative party attire. The slaves also had collars around their necks; some were even being lead around on leashes.

Moria described the space they were standing in as the ‘lobby’ and that there were other rooms to visit – each with its own distinct theme. She then pointed to a doorway that led to narrow staircase where some guests were already descending.

“And that leads down to the dungeon.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all,” she said. “This wouldn’t be a S&M party without a dungeon, and the whole level beneath us is sectioned off into different punishment rooms with whips, racks, suspension wheels, you name it. The Black Glove spares no expense.”

“Can we go down there?” John’s eyes lit up at the prospect, but Moria quickly doused those fires.

“I’m afraid not. Only members have access. No guests allowed.”

John’s dashed hopes didn’t last long as they moved to the bar for drinks and then began to explore. A short corridor led them to a large, smoke-filled room that resembled a Turkish bar, though Moria referred to it as a “paga tavern”. In the center of the room, a large crowd had gathered and as they approached, John saw a woman dancing in the center of the circle on a large fur rug that served as her stage. She was nearly naked, wearing only her collar and a type of white loin cloth with trails of more cloth hanging between her legs in front and back. He was immediately captivated by the woman, but Moria didn’t seem to mind, rather she was amused by it.

The girl was performing the same style of Gorean dance that Moria enchanted John with the night they first met. She was about 5’10” and very slender with long sexy legs and arms. Her tits were not particularly large, but lively. Her pointed nipples were dark pink in color, each pierced with a small gold ring. Her dark brown hair had been put up loosely, with little wisps flying all around her face. On the back of her long, sylphlike neck, there was a small tattoo of a scorpion.

She moved backward to a pair of elephant leg bamboo poles spaced about five feet from each other and raised her arms high to grasp them with each hand. She then positioned both feet apart until they were touching the poles. All the while, the woman continued to twist and gyrate her core area, the trails of cloth between her legs swaying with her almost hypnotically to the beat of the music.

Suddenly, a section of the crowd parted, and out came a tall man dressed in a black robe. He looked somewhat lean, but handsome, his clean-shaven face, sharply chiseled. With him, a cart was wheeled out carrying a large wooden box. The lid was opened and the man in black carefully reached inside and pulled out a live scorpion by the tail. Its segmented legs and pincer-bearing arms were wiggling in protest as he held it up by the stinger for everyone to see.

The woman kept her wide stance, as if she her limbs were bound to the poles; her body swaying helplessly between them. She looked both excited and terrified as he approached. The beat of the background music grew louder and faster.

“Oh no, don’t tell me he’s …” whispered John, who was enjoying himself, but at the same time, feeling very uncomfortable with not knowing how far this would go.

The dark man stared intensely into the woman’s eyes while holding the scorpion over her naked breasts. She stared back, as if in a trance, her hips moving even more slowly and lasciviously from side to side. With the other hand, the dark man grasped the loincloth hanging low around her hips. The woman, in turn, closed her eyes and allowed him to pull the cloth away from her body and deliberately drop the live insect into the very private territory within.

Under John’s horrified gaze, the woman began writhing her body between the poles and gyrating her hips as the creature struggled to get out.

“A slip of the hand,” he spoke out loud, his eyes never leaving the woman, “any magician could do it.”

“If you say so,” Moria smiled back.

Everyone cheered louder while she continued her seductive dance, coins and bills were thrown on the fur at her feet, but there was also a drunk heckler in the crowd voicing his own disbelief through obscenities.

The tempo of the music increased. The woman grasped the poles tighter, she then threw her head back and screamed, her body shaking and thrashing, as if the scorpion’s stinger had finally found its target, but the heckler was still not convinced,

“THE BITCH IS FAKING,” he yelled with a thick Australian accent to anybody who would listen. “I’m not throwing any money down until she PULLS IT OUT so we can see it!”

The man in the dark robe finally lost his patience with the outbursts. He quickly moved to the noisy heckler, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him over to the woman.

“If you think this is a fake, they why don’t YOU pull it out.”

He then grabbed the heckler’s hand and guided it into her crotch. The heckler looked too stunned and frightened to move, his eyes as wide as saucers, as they reached around for the lucky insect. The woman threw her head back again, this time while her body convulsed uncontrollably, signaling the poison was taking effect.

Together the two men pulled the live scorpion out and the dark man raised their arms up for the crowd to see before placing it back into the box. The heckler was visibly shaken and drawing jeers now from everyone else.

“Now pay the girl,” the dark man ordered with two large men flanking him, “or your head goes into that box.”

With a trembling hand, the heckler finally took out an American hundred-dollar bill and stuffed it into the dancer’s waistcloth where the scorpion had been, then turned and left in a hurry.

As if by divine mercy, the girl quickly recovered and continued to dance close to the edge of the stage while guests threw more coins and paper currency at her feet. When the music finally stopped, she took a bow and left. The ‘guards’ carefully folded the fur rug with her tips inside and followed after her.

Moria turned to John, “So what do you think?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he couldn’t hold back his excitement.

They continued to mingle and drink in the sights around them. So many men of different shapes, sizes, and colors – all in leisure suits – were being tended to by beautiful women wearing an array of seductive apparel. John was almost speechless with what he was witnessing. The place had to have cost a fortune to build and operate under such secrecy. Moria did say the members of the Black Glove were multi-millionaires. What he was witnessing definitely gave that impression, and then some.

They stopped to watch another performer — a naked woman with long dark hair, captivating dark eyes rimmed with kajal was dancing with large python snake hanging off her shoulders. She had gold coins and jewelry dangling around her neck and lower belly, her arms decorated with gold bracelets and armlets. Her body had a voluptuous shape, smooth white skin, with flowering tattoos covering her shoulders and climbing like vines up her back. She was hairless between the legs, exposing her vaginal lips which looked soft and velvety.

As the woman danced to the music, she let the snake slide around her body and caress her skin with its suppleness. Her movements were slow and sensual, teasing the serpent by gyrating against it and stroking its smooth, moist scales with her hands. The snake began to shift against her body, coil and uncoil again, flowing and undulating. She held the snake’s head and gently stroked its snout with the palm of her hand, and the snake flicked its tongue at her in response.

Suddenly, the mood began to change as the excited snake tightened its coils around her waist. She began to struggle with it, the expression in her beautiful, dark eyes changing to horror as she realized the lover was now becoming the victim. She fell to her knees. The music changed to a slower, darker tempo with a strong drumbeat, as if counting the last moments of her life.

The snake began working its head and neck up and around her chest and beneath her arms, smothering her breasts with its scaly muscle. She lay on floor, raised her hips up with her feet, twisted and bucked. She tried to push the coils away as they tightened around her body. There was no escaping its death grip. Her breathing came in shallow gasps. The snake’s tail slithered up between her legs and its lower body coiled around her there, pressing tightly. She moaned a last gasp before her arms fell limp to her sides. She was still, lifeless, as if never to wake again. When the music finally stopped, the woman rose to her feet and held her ‘dance partner’ high to the applause of everyone watching while a male servant collected the coins and currency dropped at her feet.

“Her name is Zoe,” Moria told John. “She performs all of the Persian and Gorean dances, but her specialty is snake charming. In my opinion, she’s the best in the business.”

“I wouldn’t argue,” he replied. “How does she get the snakes to do that?”

“She trains them,” then Moria laughed, “but on more than one occasion she’s had to get someone to pry the thing off her.”

Just then, the tall, lean-looking man they saw earlier with the scorpion emerged from the crowd and approached them. The cloak had been removed, and he was now wearing a black, well-tailored suit.

“Rupert Thorne,” he announced and reached out to shake John’s hand while his eyes studied him with a little suspicion.

“I know,” John shook back. “I recognized you from Moria’s description.

Rupert looked impressed. “And she has told me much about you. I hope you can be trusted to keep our organization to yourself.”

“From what I hear, I wouldn’t live long if I didn’t, and I plan on living a very long time.”

Rupert smiled and the look of suspicion seemed to soften a little, “So she filled you in on how things are here. Very good.”

Rupert showed them around and explained his society in more detail. Much of it, John had already known from Moria, but he listened anyway without interrupting him.

“He was asking about the lower level,” Moria spoke up.

“Ah yes, the dungeon. Usually we don’t allow our guests to venture down there during their first visit, but I think this time we can make an exception.”

She then leaned in and whispered in Rupert’s hear and he laughed.

“How can I say ‘no’ to YOU, my pet. Take our guest down to cell 9 in 20 minutes and I’ll have everything arranged.”

Rupert bid them goodbye, and they continued to explore what the party offered. On some of the walls, steel cages hung, each with a nude woman inside dancing slowly and seductively within close proximity of the bars. Their bodies were supple, almost gazelle-like, and their dance movements seemed hypnotic under flashing lights.

In one room, the entertainment featured a man being tormented by what appeared to be his mistress to the beat of slow music. He was nearly naked, wearing only a black G-string, and lying face up on a long ottoman bench covered in thick, velvet padding. His body was tanned and well-muscled, though helpless now with his arms and legs drawn downward and locked in leather cuffs. Even more impressive was the size of his ‘tackle’, now semi-aroused, and indecently packaged inside the stringy thong.

The woman danced slowly as the music piped into the room while brandishing a black leather flogger with braided falls and silver metal spikes attached to the ends. She had a deathly pale complexion, her eyes as black as coal and her dark hair a wild tumble of loose curls that spilled over her shoulders. The dress she wore was also black and snug around her upper body, showing off her curves, with a black skirt flowing loosely over her legs. It was cut very low in front between her breasts and a shiny black leather corset pushed her cleavage upward through the opening. The long sleeves were wrapped tight around her arms but detached and pulled away from her milky-white shoulders and armpits and held there by leather thongs that were cross-laced.

“Her name is Bella,” Moria whispered to John. “She’s a dominatrix and the first ‘free woman’ to be allowed into The Society.”

“And is he one of those ‘servants’ you mentioned earlier?”

“A male slave. We call them ‘kajiri’. Some men in the society prefer the submissive role.”


Moria laughed, “Don’t knock until you’ve tried it.”

“Not likely,” and John gave her a playful slap on the ass.

The woman continued to perform her slow dance, brushing the spiked leather strands of her flogger over the slave’s helpless body, while he too moved to the beat of the music by twisting and lunging against the restraints – that and his size and shape growing visibly against the tight spandex he wore, all added to the erotic charge of the performance. She struck him once, twice and three times with the spiked flogger, leaving red marks on his chest and upper thighs. The slave responded by raising his hips and offering that part of himself with urgent ardor to the mistress, until she finally answered his plea and struck him there too.

“She’s like a spider teasing its prey isn’t she?” Moria observed out loud, “she’ll tease him awhile longer then milk his cock dry while everyone watches. Would you like would like to meet her?”

“No thanks, she isn’t my type . . . so when do we go to the dungeon?” John was getting impatient.

“Not just yet.”

After mingling and meeting more of the guests, they finally descended the long, narrow staircase to the dungeon. A man stood at the entrance.

“Cell 9,” Moria announced. “Rupert Thorne sent us.”

After retrieving the key, she led John through, what could best be described as, a madman’s labyrinth of corridors and chambers. Low burning torches in the walls lit most of the way, but there were places so dark that Moria and John could barely see well-enough to walk.

The first room they passed was dark, illuminated only by a large iron brazier in the center piled high with glowing red coals. Suspended directly over it, was a very attractive, slender but athletic-looking woman with impressive tits. She was completely nude and hanging upside down from her ankles. Her arms were chained to the wall nearest her, forcing her body to bend sharply backward so that her breasts were closest to the coals — about four feet. Attached to her nipples were metal clamps with small chains and weights at the ends dangling only inches from the glowing embers.

“This is Johari,” Moria announced. “She belongs to Rupert.”

“You mean his slave?”

“That’s right. Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Very much.”

Moaning through her gag, the girl struggled with her suspension as the heat waves shimmered upward, caressing her taut body. Her tanned flesh glistened with sweat and as the little runnels of perspiration rolled off her and into the glowing coals, the coals spat back up to her in protest. John was captivated with the scene, and while watching the weights dancing so close within the small inferno, it was hard for him to not to imagine that the girl’s nipples might also be feeling some of that heat climbing up those chains.

“You’re making me jealous,” Moria teased as she pulled him away.

“I was hoping that was Cell 9.”

“Not yet.”

Now John was even more anxious than before.

There were many more rooms with some of the doors closed for private sessions, some left open so people could observe these naked or nearly naked slaves, mostly women, being racked, suspended, shackled to walls, or hogtied on large wooden tables with rope. There were whippings, floggings, forced acts of sex, all eliciting screams and moans of orgasmic pleasure that echoed throughout these darkened corridors. It was like going back in time to The Inquisition, only the tortures were of a more sexual nature performed on some of the most beautiful bodies John had ever seen. He was almost overwhelmed, intoxicated with what he observed, and he anxiously wanted to be a part of it.

In a way, his journey down into the depths of this dungeon had purged his soul, but not with the results that most might expect. That dark and mysterious part of his nature had emerged completely and permanently, never to be suppressed again, only now he was more disciplined and able to control it, thanks to his time spent with Moria and the fact that he had matured considerably since that unfortunate incident with the girl when he was seventeen, the girl whose name he couldn’t even remember now. For the first time in his life, John felt comfortable within his own skin. He was home.

They finally stopped at a closed door and Moria opened it with the key given to her.

Perched in the center and lit by candelabra stands was a mid-evil style table rack made of heavy oak with two large wooden rollers at the ends. Two chains were attached, one for each limb of the victim, and the padded, leather restraints on the ends of the chains were lying on the table, open and ready for use.

John had little time to drink in the whole layout, before the door opened behind them, and three people entered. Two men dressed in black robes were holding a woman, their hands clamped tightly around her wrists and upper arms, though it seemed unnecessary because she was putting up no resistance. She had on a robe also, but with no sleeves and the hood covering most of her face. When one the guards removed the hood, John recognized her immediately as the same woman he watched perform the bizarre scorpion dance with Rupert Thorne.

“Introduce yourself to our guest,” Moria ordered.

“My name is Catrinel, Sir,” she whispered meekly. “It is my honor to be in your presence.”

“And do you know why you have been summoned?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good,” then Moria ordered the guards to ‘disrobe her.’

The cloak was pulled off, then the guards took one step back but retained their hold, forcing the girl to stand before them with her arms pulled away from her sides.

John regarded the sight of her as truly spectacular. Slim, beautiful, skin a very light chestnut in color and flawless. An oval face swathed by waves of her shoulder-length hair. Her breasts were not large, but hung high and firm off her ribs, topped by dark pink nipples now pebbled by the damp, cool air rushing around her. The gold rings pierced into them glinted provocatively in the candlelight. Lower, her slender hips framed her pink ‘sheath’ which had been shaved completely smooth. John remembered Moria once telling him that kajira were often shaved between the legs because it was a desired aesthetic and promoted more sensitivity during sex and oral play.

“Rack her,” Moria’s order broke John’s thoughts, and the girl allowed herself to be chained to the table with her arms and legs fastened to the rollers.

“Master Rupert said we are allowed only limited use of her,” Moria told John. “That her body is not to be violated or marked in any way.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” John smiled.

After the guards left, they stood at the table and observed, with heavy anticipation, their beautiful captive stretched before them. The chains kept her arms and legs pulled just taut enough for her to entice them with the twisting and squirming of her body against the hardwood surface she lay on. Her arms were not shaved completely, but trimmed very close, leaving just wisps of fine, soft hair in her hollowed pits.

John began turning the wheel at the head of the table, allowing him to observe their slave’s facial reactions, while Moria took a position at her feet. The slow creak of wood, the sharp echoes of metal clicks filled the chamber. Slowly, Catrinel’s graceful, lissome body was drawn, arms stretched to one roller, legs to the other, fierce tension imposed on her young limbs. Catrinel let out a whimper of pain, utterly powerless to stop the rack from delivering its agony. Soon, a sheen of sweat popped everywhere on her body. Her lush light brown hair was splashed across the dark wood, her brows compressed in an expression of sheer pain, her lips wide, white teeth exposed as her whimpers grew to screams, then expired into agonizing wails.

John enjoyed the rack immensely. Not just the sounds of groaning wood, tearing joints, the endless screams. He enjoyed the position it put this woman in — limbs stretched, the rest of her taut features left unprotected, and then to extend that very position, to make it the cause of such pain, was a wonderful experience. And what pain! It took advantage of the entire body, exponential, controlled by the simple act of turning two levers.

John watched the chains on the ends of Catrinel’s gleaming arms and shining legs and forced the lever again. He actually saw the moment the chains pulled, saw her body visibly stretch like tautening leather, and was rewarded by a long cry from the young woman. Catrinel’s eyes were filled with tears, her face a mask of pain. Her ribcage stood out, her young, pointed breasts drawn almost flat across her chest, the wisps of hair in her armpits matted with sweat. The gold rings in her nipples, almost beckoning them, and John knew just one long tug with his hand would send her into a new realm of pain.

Moria looked across the table at John and he at her. She flipped the lever on her wheel to lock it and he did the same. Then he watched Moria undress. His thoughts (and the stiffness in his pants) were clearly on Catrinel, but Moria was more than happy to be vehicle for whatever fantasy he might be entertaining.

Naked, she climbed onto the rack and lay on top of Catrinel, their breasts touching, thighs pressing together. John forced the roller again. Fresh groans from the chains elicited another long scream.

“Easy,” she warned. “We don’t want to damage her.”

John locked the lever again and was content for now in watching Moria torment Catrinel with her own body. She trailed long kisses down Catrinel’s neck to her breasts, then slithered her wet tongue around each hardened nipple and played with the rings. Moria’s hips began to grind against Catrinel’s hips, but it was more of a gesture to invite John to join them, which he did. Removing his clothes, he climbed behind her as Moria parted her legs so he could slip between them. Gentle rocking turned to quick, pointed thrusts, John against Moria, and Moria against Catrinel, only Catrinel was still whimpering, for with every movement, she felt the burning agony through her limbs and back, a red-hot savagery that worsened with every passing minute. Both John and Moria came together. It was the best sex they had ever experienced together, but the poor girl, Catrinel, had only suffered through it.

After climbing off the rack, Moria ran her hand up between Catrinel’s legs then withdrew her wet fingers.

“I think the girl is ready.”

She went to a cabinet for a few moments. When she returned she was brandishing a wand shaped vibrator with a tapered head no larger than a fingertip.

“Did you know the clitoris has over 8,000 nerve endings. That’s significantly more than a penis.”

“I wasn’t aware.”

“That’s right, and this technique is called ‘edging’, where you focus on just one part of the body, then bring her close to orgasm, stopping just before climax, and then repeating the process over again and over again. When you finally allow your partner to reach that climax, the effect can be earth shattering.

“Show me,” John challenged her.

Moria turned the vibrator on, and as it hummed, she pushed the tip up between the girl’s labia until it touched her clit. Catrinel immediately responded with moans and the pulling of the restraints which still kept her arms and legs pinned.

John hadn’t realized how far along Catrinel was, that it had been building just under the surface with every turn of the rack, and masked by the other, coarser sensations. Moria pulled back Catrinel’s clitoral hood to concentrate on the tiny pink bud of flesh inside. Catrinel was straining desperately with the chains, though not in an effort to escape. Instead she was being driven frantic by the exquisite torture Moria was applying, bringing her to the very point of orgasm and then stopping, only to start all over again once the feeling subsided. Over and over she did it until finally there was no stopping the poor Catrinel as she arched her back and twisted her loins as much as she could, as if trying to impale herself on the vibrator before slowly subsiding to lie exhausted on the rack.

They carefully turned the rollers to loosen the chains on her wrists and ankles again. After a rest period she was helped to her feet and escorted her out of the dungeon where Rupert was waiting for them at the top of the stairs.

“How was it down there?” he asked John. “Everything you expected?”

“I’ve never experienced anything like it,” he replied, still excited.

The party lasted until sunrise. By then John was committed to joining The Black Glove Society.