Lost Property

  LOST PROPERTY

  Copyright Sean O’Kane 2010

  This edition published 2010

  The right of Sean O’Kane to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyright and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events depicted are entirely fictitious; any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely coincidental

  THIS IS FICTION. IN REAL LIFE ALWAYS PRACTISE SAFE SEX

  Thanks to Falconer for the loan of ‘Dandy’, and many thanks to Caroline as well.

  Also by Sean O’Kane in Silver Moon

  Church of Chains

  Taming the Brat

  The Story of Emma

  Tales from the Lodge (with Falconer Bridges)

  Bad Blood (with Francine Whittaker)

  Slavemaker

  The Arena Series

  Into the Arena

  The Gladiator

  The Prize

  Slave’s Honour

  Last Slave Standing

  Girl Squad

  Naked Ambition

  Lost Property

  Bound for Glory

  Prologue

  Marcel’s chauffeur swung the hired limo off the highway when the sat nav told him he had reached his destination. It didn’t really need to, the garish pink and purple, clap board house with the ten foot high letters above its roof were quite adequate to alert him.

  The letters spelt out ‘Mister B’s’ and underneath them, in slightly smaller letters was the legend; ‘Finest whores in the state’.

  Marcel told the man to wait once he had parked and walked up onto the porch, then in through the screen door and rang the front door bell. A woman who was all lipstick, teeth and bouffant blonde hair answered it. She looked him up and down, then gave him a wide lascivious grin, taking in the superbly tailored, lightweight suit, hand made shoes and the wrist watch that could have paid for a street of houses in this part of Louisiana.

  “Honey, I’ll do you a special price right here and now!”

  “Thank you,” he replied with a slight bow and a polite smile. “However I regret that my business is of a different nature. Is Mister Brubaker available please?”

  Her smile faded and she shrugged, then stood aside to let him in. He squeezed past her massive breasts, held in a bright pink corset and waited while she sashayed off into the house’s interior. Presently there was the sound of male footsteps and a large man in denim shirt and jeans came into the hall.

  “You the Frenchie, yeah?” he said, holding out his hand.

  Marcel smiled and took it. It was the ID he had adopted on the net for this particular quest. “Yes, and you are Mr Bee.”

  “That I am! Harrison Brubaker at your service. Got the merchandise all ready if you’d like to take a look before we get down to dickerin’”

  “I would like that very much.”

  Brubaker led the way out the back of the house and through a large yard, into a stand of trees. In the middle of this was an aged barn. He unlocked the door and ushered Marcel into the dusk within.

  What he had spent two years searching for and come thousands of miles to see and maybe buy, was standing in the middle of the floor. She was naked and was restrained, with her hands raised and tied to a rope that descended from a beam above her. Her head was completely enclosed in a black leather hood. Stray beams of sunlight, striking through gaps in the roof, illuminated her skin and made her glow in the dusk. Marcel noted her body was in good condition, her legs were long and the thighs smooth but powerful. The buttocks were high and tight, not too big but big enough to flatten and rebound pleasantly under beating. Her waist was trim and the stomach flat above a shaven crotch. Her raised arms gave her breasts some extra lift, but they didn’t look as though they needed it.

  He walked around her a few times, noting that the hood had breathing holes for her nostrils alone. That would enforce calmness on her in the confines of the leather scented darkness. Her breathing was quiet and steady.

  “She certainly looks like arena stock. Athletic, well trained.”

  “Oh, she is. I can confirm that! I got a ring set up out in another barn back in the woods. Sometimes one of the punters brings his girl along and we bet on how long she’ll last against this little darling. And she can take the whip all night long. With all the paperwork I got, she’s the real deal ok. Wanna see her take down one of the bitches indoors?” He cocked his head back towards the house.

  “Maybe later. Now I need to see her face.” Marcel took some folded papers out of his pocket as Brubaker unlaced the hood and eased it off the woman.

  Her dark hair was tousled and sweat-slicked and she shook it out, taking in mouthfuls of air now the stopple had been removed from her mouth, and running her tongue round her lips.

  Marcel looked at the pictures he held. They were stills from videos which had deteriorated somewhat and been restored to the best of a very expensive studio’s ability but were still a little grainy. One showed a dark haired girl, naked and armed with a whip combating another girl on the sand floor of an arena. Both girls were attractively welted as well as being sand-caked and sweat-lathered. In another picture the same dark haired girl was in some sort of cage and dressed in a leather corset with rounded metal studs all over it. Her fists were enclosed in thick leather straps and her opponent was reeling from a jab to the stomach. Marcel knew the rounded studs on the outsides of the corsets hid pointed studs on the insides and the straps at the knuckles were weighted.

  The girl in the pictures was younger than the one standing in front of him but there was no mistaking her; the lithe figure, the large, dark eyes and the thick black hair. Besides, he had some marks to identify her by.

  The woman stared at him as he approached, calm and unafraid; confident in her ability to serve in whatever way was required. She was experienced all right. He consulted the printout of an e mail and bent down slightly to examine her stomach. Sure enough there was the slight scar of a navel piercing still evident to someone prepared to look. He straightened up and moved closer, reaching out and grasping her right breast. She made no move to try and shrink away. He squeezed it hard and she simply looked down at the way her flesh spilled out from between his fingers. He twisted his hand slightly and saw what he was looking for; an inch long, shallow scar up by her shoulder – a memento of some accident long ago. The first agent to trade her had noted it, as well as removing the navel piercing.

  He moved behind her and tapped her left calf. Obediently she raised it and he took her foot as though he were a blacksmith about to shoe a horse, but what he was looking for was on the inside of her thigh, right up at the junction with her buttock. He smoothed the skin of the buttock cheek up a little and found another scar; a semi circular one this time and only a couple of centimetres long. That one was from a crash in a chariot race. It had taken him months to track down her old trainer and then he had had to lubricate him with Scotch for a week before he would talk.

  “It’s her alright,” he said, letting the slave’s leg drop and straightening up.

  “She was sold off before they chipped and branded them, so it makes identifying them harder don’t it,” Brubaker agreed.

  “What I can’t understand is why she was sold on at all!” Marcel ran a hand down her back, feeling the muscle tone and the smooth skin.

  “Back then there was no way they coulda known what was going to happen. And once she’d gone, I guess it was outa sight, outa mind. Until I began to put two and two together when I saw her come up at auction.”

  “Thank God you did, M’sieur! She would’ve been a sad loss. And now perhaps we can check out a couple of details on paper and then reach agreement on a price.”

  Back at the house and in Brubaker’s
office they drank fiery local whisky while Marcel shuffled through the bills of sale and auctioneers’ spiels that had followed the woman from dealer to dealer before Brubaker had spotted her real identity, bought her and begun to stir up interest on the net.

  “You want a percentage of her?” Marcel asked eventually.

  “No Sir! You got a mess of borders to get her across, then there’s a lot of folk who’ll do their damnedest to stop you doing what you’re planning. No, I just want a good price paid up front and she’s all yours.”

  Marcel didn’t blame Brubaker, there was a long way to go before he could bring all his plans to fruition, and in any case it would be cheaper not to pay a percentage, if all went according to those plans.

  “A million, here and now,” he said.

  “Add a half to that and she’s yours.”

  “Done!”

  The two men shook hands and went online to have their respective people make the transfer.

  “Soon as I get confirmation it’s landed, she’ll be ready to go. Wanna see her whipped?” Brubaker asked once the various transactions had been started.

  Marcel shrugged. “Why not? Although I have no doubt that she is genuine and will take whatever she is given. I still cannot believe that her stable sold her to buy a faster runner!”

  “Wisdom of hindsight. The guy who signed her over to the auctioneer’s been crying in his beer ever since! I think I told you that I tracked him down,” Brubaker said with a smile and picked a tightly coiled single tail, braided whip up from behind his desk.

  The two men walked back out to the barn. The slave was hooded once more and made no response to the door opening, clearly the hood was keeping her in complete isolation. Brubaker made to approach her and take it off but Marcel held him back and pointed to the whip. Brubaker smiled again and shook out the lash. Marcel stood back and watched as the American swept the lash forwards in a long arc. It wrapped itself around the slave’s lower back, the tasselled end biting in just beneath her breasts. She leapt and twisted like a hooked salmon, and Marcel could well understand why. Locked in her silent and dark world, the lash would have come as a scarlet lightning bolt of shocking pain from nowhere. Brubaker landed another across her buttocks with the end biting at her delta. A muffled yelp and a doomed attempt to lift her thigh to protect herself greeted it and then Marcel suggested the hood be removed. With her breathing free, she would give better sport.

  He stayed and watched long enough to see that despite her gyrations at the end of the rope the woman could absorb the kind of punishment an arena slave had to be able to and then left Brubaker to it.

  “Don’t damage her M’sieur, if you please, but by all means bid her a fond farewell,” he said as he left. He had a friend arriving soon at his hotel, a young heiress with some interesting toys she had acquired recently in the Far East.

  Soon after breakfast the next morning he got a call from Brubaker confirming receipt of the money and by mid morning he was standing in the brothel’s hall as Brubaker handed the woman over, complete with her passport and all the papers that pertained to her.

  “I’ll follow your progress with interest, Marcel,” Brubaker said as he shook hands and followed them out to the car.

  Marcel gallantly gestured the woman should go first into the car and then made his farewells before joining her. With the heavy clunk of the door closing, they were alone, the chauffeur safely behind a closed glass panel. He looked across at his new acquisition, she was dressed simply in a cheap cotton shift dress, with a tasteless floral pattern on it, that stopped mid thigh. Sitting down, her long legs were naked almost to the buttocks as she had made no attempt to pull it down as she sat, Marcel noted the fading welts that striped them. She was regarding him with unabashed interest. Like any woman with a truly good figure, she transcended the tawdry dress and Marcel found his cock beginning to stir as he looked at her flat stomach and her breasts nearly spilling from its bodice.

  “You are my new owner, yes?” Her accent was heavily Eastern European.

  “The fifth Baron Sagemont at your service,” he said, inclining his head and giving her a wry smile.

  She looked around the limo, her eyes wide with interest.

  “I do not wish to restrain you,” he told her, “although I can if necessary. I have your passport and if you promise to behave yourself, I can promise you a comfortable journey to your new home.”

  Her full lips curled up into a smile and Marcel caught a glimpse of even, white teeth. His cock responded again.

  “You have my passport, you have me, I think.” she said. “But if you buy me, why you let Brubaker whip the fuck out of me last night? And then have all his friends fuck me afterwards?” She smiled again and leaned forwards to scratch at something on her ankle, moving with all the unconscious grace of someone accustomed to nudity. Or perhaps, Marcel found himself thinking, it was to show off the generous, quivering swells of breastflesh to her new owner.

  “I will make no trouble, but I am one sore girl now,” she added.

  “You’re used to plenty of whip.”

  “Not recently. It is two years now since I was in a stable. Since then I have been just a whore with some whip, time to time.”

  Marcel grinned across at her. “Time you got back into practice then… Annette from…Lithuania,” he said, flicking through her passport.

  “I used to be schoolteacher,” she said and gave him a flagrantly flirtatious look from under her eyelashes.

  When they reached the airport and climbed out of the car, Annette’s eyes widened again as she took in the private jet with the famous logo emblazoned on it, a logo known wherever in the world lovers of fine brandy congregated.

  Once they were airborne and the seatbelt light had gone out, Marcel’s butler, Guillaume, served him with a glass of crisp white wine as an aperitif to lunch. Annette looked on with longing in her eyes for a moment and then in one simple movement, reached up and behind her, wriggled and lifted her dress off. She was entirely naked underneath and her tanned skin was laced with fading, dusky pink lines from Brubaker’s whip. They encircled her entire torso from shoulders to crotch. When she stood up, Marcel saw that they embraced her thighs right to her knees.

  She licked her lips and advanced on Guillaume.

  “I think I have to pay my way, no?” she said and reached for Guillaume’s trousers, running her palm up his flies and pouting her lips.

  “Feel free, Guillaume,” Marcel said. “It’s what she’s for.”

  He watched her sink to her knees and take his butler’s cock deeply into her mouth before it was fully erect and begin to suck ardently.

  He added mentally that whoring was only a part of what he wanted her for, but another look at her strong, whip-scored back, flexing as she worked on her knees, made him feel that he had spent his money wisely. If he got her into France without a fuss, then he could set about making his plans in earnest.

  Chapter One

  Kath looked up as her office door opened. He never knocked; just walked in as if he owned the place. And seeing as this was government property, then most certainly he didn’t. It never stopped him however.

  She stopped filling in the spreadsheet on screen and sat back, waiting until he decided to tell her what had brought him here. Her boss was a large man, well built, with a thick head of greying hair, he was dressed in a light grey suit that was expensively well tailored. Her eyes were drawn to his broad, muscular shoulders as he walked over to the window, hands in trouser pockets, his back to her and the room, almost silhouetted against the view over the Thames far below.

  “It’s not good enough,” he said at length, turning and facing her, legs planted apart, full of confidence and self possession. Clive Mostyn was tipped for high political rank one day in the not too distant future and Kath had always been able to see why. He never entertained a single second’s doubt about himself. But for now he was a junior minister tasked with statistical analysis of inter-departmental data; with special res
ponsibility for youth affairs. He would brief his seniors when they had to face select committees. She knew he was irked by the rank of ‘junior’, and she had to agree that the title didn’t sit easily with his six foot plus stature, and rugby forward physique.

  “Sloppy spelling and syntax, careless research and on top of that your time keeping is appalling.”

  Kath knew the trains had let her down a couple of times over the past couple of weeks but had hoped that she might have sneaked past the Wicked Witch of the West on Reception. Obviously not. As for the standard of her report writing, well, first class honours level English hadn’t been mentioned in the job specs or in the interview. But she sat nervously apprehensive and waited to see where this was leading. There was too much at stake to allow a rebellious outburst to jeopardise things. Mister Mostyn seemed to be considering her perceived shortcomings deeply.

  He sighed, as though regretfully having to discipline a favoured child for its own good.

  “Report to my office at five thirty.” He turned abruptly and left the room as suddenly as he had entered it.

  She checked her watch. Damn him! He had left her two hours to stew in. How serious was this going to be? She sighed in her turn and tried her best to concentrate on her work for the rest of the afternoon, reluctant to incur any more black marks before her carpeting with Mostyn.

  What made it worse was that making her stay behind for half an hour made it feel like he was a strict headteacher giving a naughty girl detention. But there was nothing for it but to humour him and she worked on until quarter past five and then adjourned to the Ladies to try and freshen up.

  She took her pale green shirt off and splashed some cool water over her face and underarms then patted herself dry and repaired her make up – she used some lash thickener to emphasise her large dark eyes; one of her better features she felt, although she was also well aware that the breasts straining against her lacy white bra would have got quite a few votes from various males about the place. She shrugged her shirt back on and then brushed out her thick black hair until it shone as it hung straight down onto her shoulders. She surveyed herself critically and stepped back from the mirror a little to check her grey pencil skirt wasn’t too creased – although if it had been there wasn’t a lot she could do about it now. She leaned back in and decided some blusher wouldn’t go amiss. Tension had made her a bit pale.