Chapter 21

In a basement in the suburb of Tokyo

The delivery was longer than usual. Difficulties with Japanese customs put the entire operation at risk. Yamamoto had to intervene in person with the highest authorities in the region. Fortunately, the White Corporation takes this kind of setback into account and the packaging methods keep the merchandise fresh.

Now Jasmine is waiting for the Honorable Yamamoto. It’s only been a few hours since she woke up and she can’t remember anything since the gigantic black man raped her against the cell wall in Nairobi.

The place has no windows and smells of humidity. A dusty bulb hangs from the ceiling and lights up the deserted warehouse. There are piles of garbage and wooden crates all around her. She bends her arms painfully ... Her whole body hurts, especially her legs and her pussy. She turns to the right, to Laura. The girl looks calmer now. A few minutes earlier, she was shaking and writhing as a strong electric current passed through her. The magnificent twenty-six-year-old Spaniard is hanging by the wrists from a nail on the wall. Her arms support the full weight of her body ... A rope hanging from the same hook ties her ankles together and forces her to bend her knees and turn her soles upward. The base of what appears to be a thick piece of wood sticks out from between her buttocks.

Jasmine looks away. She doesn’t want to think ... She just wants to wake up from this nightmare. She pulls on her arms again ... A painful cramp paralyzes her left calf. This is followed by the bite of a terrible pain deep in her vagina...

She is sitting on a sturdy wooden chair fixed to the floor. She feels something long and thick entering her and holding her more or less suspended in the air. His wrists are tied to a rope that comes from a pulley attached to the ceiling. But the worst part are her legs, open and tucked in at the knees, ankles tied to the back of the chair. Her whole body is stretched like a bowstring and centered on the stick that penetrates her. She spent hours trying to relieve the horrible pressure at the bottom of her vagina, bending her legs without having any support other than her ankles, or pulling unnecessarily on her arms. When she manages to lift herself up, a cramp or the simple fatigue of her muscles forces her to drop heavily. The pain is then terrible.

She can’t even scream. A big rubber ball keeps her mouth unbearably gaping. She cannot swallow, and her saliva leaks and runs down her chin and then onto her breasts and thighs. She hears footsteps behind her. She closes her eyes; she doesn’t want to be there...

“AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRHHHHHHHH!”

She has never heard such a blood-curdling cry. Yamamoto just hit Laura’s helpless soles with a stiff, sharp Japanese cane.

“Next time, you’ll be careful...”

Yamamoto boasts of his exquisite artistic taste and culture. He can decipher Egyptian hieroglyphics and cuneiform writing, he understands Sanskrit, he can read classical Greek and Latin, and he is an informed and well-known music lover. But his favorite art is dancing. Laura was a famous dancer and she worked for one of the most famous Parisian companies. Born in Seville, she had grace and rhythm in her blood. Yamamoto acquired her for her talent and often forced her to dance naked and shackled for him. But the night before, after a long day of sexual torture and appalling rape, she was exhausted. He inflicted this punishment on her, claiming a minor slip in her dance technique.

The soles of her feet are red. An initial session of two dozen blows left the young woman unconscious, on the verge of collapse. There are two dozen more to come.

To be precise, twenty-three, taking away the one he just gave him. The Japanese man pauses for a moment to check that the stick is fully seated in her virgin anus. It can’t come out. Its shape and a deep thinning of its base prevent it. But he likes to take care of every detail.

“How is my little mulatto doing?”

Jasmine opens her eyes. He is in front of her, impeccably dressed in a suit and bow tie. Taking off one of his white gloves, he wipes her tears and saliva.

“I’ve watched the video of your ‘audition’ at least a hundred times, you’re a great dancer ... Still a little inexperienced, it’s understandable at your age, but you have a lot of potential.”

Jasmine turned pale. She remembers that damn test, in Rio, the stifling heat and the grim apartment ... the faces of the men who were there, the questions about her family, her friends ... The humiliating test, dancing and making her hips in thong, then naked. The attack ... The darkness...

“You will make a beautiful couple,” he said, sitting down on a crate between the girl’s spread legs, “but don’t think you are here only to dance, he adds, stroking the inside of her thighs; a young and pretty slave like you has many uses...”

Yamamoto stands up. Jasmine, terrified by the veiled threats, follows him with her eyes. He lifts from the wall a miniature version of the nine-tailed cat used in the navies of old.

Ssssssswwwwwwwwwiiiiiiiiiissssssssssss! Crrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaacccccc!

“MMMMMMMMFFFFFFFFF! MMMMMMMMMMMMFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!”

Tied up like she is, Jasmine can only shake her head. The blow is so brutally painful that, opening her eyes, she expects to find her breasts torn. Miraculously, that did not happen. There is a slight redness that marks the nine lines where the whip bit her. There is only the excruciating pain that lasts ... Her breasts seem to be throbbing, alive with a life of their own, her nipples erect in an incomprehensible way. She’s sure she can’t survive another blow. But she is wrong. Two more hits, one on the stomach, the other on the breasts, convinced her.

“Here’s another use for a young and pretty slave: torture,” he said, stroking the marks with his hand. “Since the start of the year, I have lost two of my favorite toys, I hope you will be more resilient.”