Disclaimer: The following is fiction. The content of the story is not representative of the writer’s beliefs, opinions, or attitudes. This story is intended for adult entertainment only. The characters and events depicted in this work are fictional. The author does not condone or promote any unlawful activity, such as, is depicted in the story. By continuing to read this work you acknowledge that you are an adult who wishes to read works of fantasy and fiction for the purpose only of fantasy. All the characters in this story are adults. They may play different ages for the fictional character that they are depicting but they remain at all times adults.
Feature Writer: Regis
Feature Title: LADIES OF THE BLADE 1
Published: 01.08.2024
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
Synopsis: Sixteen wealthy businessmen, all clients of the unnamed (for obvious reasons) Count, are flown to his private island retreat where they are treated to a series of satisfying shows that feature the disassembly of gorgeous naked women. The flight is long, and the entertainment begins en route. Not for the squeamish.
Ladies Of The Blade 1
Our flight to Berlin was on a commercial Lufthansa Boeing 777, and we entertained ourselves watching new-release movies, but the trip to St. Petersburg was aboard the Count’s spacious 747 corporate jet, a private craft large enough to host a group our size and present some remarkable entertainment to amuse us during our four-hour flight.
Sixteen of us, all major business associates of the Count, and our special escorts were being treated to the Count’s specialty; It was no secret that as a long-time hobby, he produced outstanding extremely violent blood sports, featuring his personally selected naked young women.
The long wide-bodied craft in a commercial configuration would seat up to three-hundred fifty passengers, but our party of just thirty-two was seated at tables for four along the sides of the craft in the spacious middle section, with ample room in the center of the craft for the radical form of entertainment we had come to witness and enjoy.
The Count and Countess had a table for two at the head of the oblong circle of tables. He was a big, suavely handsome man in his early sixties, and his wife, a stunningly elegant woman a decade younger, was a condemned sadistic murderer he had personally rescued.
Twenty years earlier the Count had bought her from the warden of a Hamburg prison. She was on death row, sentenced to hang, and his intervention made the warden, who faked her death certificate, a very wealthy man. Since then the prison has become an excellent source of women for special use.
The space we occupied as guests on the huge aircraft included the spiral staircase to the generous upper cabin, which was set aside for small private activities. A partition separated us from the rear third of the large craft, that housed a lavish kitchen and quarters for crew, handlers, and entertainers.
Count Nicholas, our gracious host, was an enormously wealthy twelfth-generation aristocrat who used his riches to create more wealth, and was reputed to have a net value of more than ten billion Euros. He frequently lavished his special guests with entertainment available only in the privacy and discretion afforded by a private aircraft such as this, as well as on a private well-secured estate.
The gorgeous Countess was his partner in his hobby, and among other things, took responsibility for procurement of ladies to be used and abused for their special purposes. She also the hiring staff, who were very well paid to be discrete, and found themselves to be the subject at a funeral if they were not.
The specially invited group in which I found myself, all of us wealthy American businessmen, were guests of the Count and Countess for a four-day weekend, and it was, according to the terms on the invitation, to be a time for unusual extravagances, costing several young naked ladies their lives.
We had all been doing business with the Count for years, and in that time had developed a solid trusting relationship. Our common thread was our independent wealth and our particular taste for extreme sexual excesses. Violent excesses. Frequently terminal violent excesses, all with overtly sexual content.
There was nothing more satisfying to me than to witness beautiful women, most of them quite young, being stripped naked and placed in such distressful situations that they would willingly kill each other. My wife had been a reluctant convert, but her conversion was complete, and now she was as anxious as I was to participate in these private excursions.
We had developed a taste for blood sports in which athletic, beautiful young women and girls, and sometimes young men, were forced to participate in contests so fierce that severe damage, and often a violent death of at least one of them was the only satisfactory outcome.
It was always a spectacular, breathtaking sport, and we were primed to witness the death of these fit nude young participants. That was our agenda for this long weekend. A few of the participants were traveling alone, but most had brought their wives or an escort, who like my wife, had become an eager observer who enjoyed the highly destructive games devised for our entertainment.
The Count had met us in New York and had provided us with luxurious hotel accommodations. Limousines met us to transport our group to Kennedy International. Our Lufthansa flight took us to Rome for a purposeful stop-over. The Count had arranged a special showing at our hotel in which nearly a hundred beautiful and sophisticated high-priced call girls joined us for cocktails.
The famous Paris designer Jean-Paul Gaultier had specially outfitted them all with the latest in his world-renowned fashions, matching them perfectly with his incredible creations, and they wore the expensive originals with panache as if they had been made for them. No underwear was ever worn by the renowned designer of women’s fashion.
After getting to appraise the ladies informally we were seated and they were paraded for us, in groups of three, and we held an impromptu auction for the rights to their companionship for our extended weekend at the Count’s estate in Russia. These gorgeous, experienced young ladies were well used to observing the most outrageous perversity, much of it readily available in their historic city for a price.
It was commonly known by those of us who mattered that modern, scaled-down versions of the incredibly brutal ancient Roman Games were available for a price in Rome. Although the scope was reduced, the scale of violence and pain was more powerful than ever.
These sophisticated ladies of delight the Count had acquired had seen it all, and witnessed the basest level of human degradation in history. They had also learned to appear as if they enjoyed it.
They were true cunts in servitude, and knew perfectly how to play the role, accepting everything as normal.
They were surprised to see that women accompanied us, but it was none of their business, and they knew better than to show that they had noticed. We each handpicked our choice of these voluptuous and elegant ladies, thanks to the generosity of our host, and were all very pleased with our choices.
These companion ladies were accustomed to making, after expenses and pimp fees, 1,500 Euros a night, and through our auction, we had bought their services for the full weekend for an average of 5,000 Euros. We had hired them to accompany us as sexual companions to service ourselves and our wives.
Their services were obtained discretely and with cash, to ensure there was no paper trail because the Count had let us know each of these outstanding lades was required to be fully disposable, should we or our wives choose to see them off. With our agenda, that was a distinct possibility.
Even at the highest levels, theirs was a high-risk occupation, in which beautiful and usually well-educated women skilled in the carnal arts of escorts, were frequently harmed in the line of their work, or often disappeared without a trace. It was a risk they were willing to take, because of the excellent money they could make.
Entertaining the penis, and feeding the ego of a wealthy stud was easy and good business. There was a particularly high turnover at the top end of the call-girl industry, as the ladies worked to score a wealthy sugar daddy who would put her up in a lavish apartment as his mistress, with full knowledge of his wife.
Sometimes this happened, and most believed it was the usual end of a call-girl career. The police knew but could never prove that the women who were no longer available were more often abducted and privately snuffed since there was no trace of them after their disappearance.
The lucky ones became sex slaves in the pornography industry, in which they could live for several months until they were too ravaged to be of sexual interest, in which case they were beautified with makeup and hairdressing to star in their final performance, a sex snuff video.
Just as often these elegant high-priced escorts found themselves in the company of wealthy clients who had particularly short-term plans for them. Sometimes they took a paid date with a partner who wanted to play extremely rough. These were men who got their rocks off copulating with a woman, but not ejaculating until they killed her in some devious manner.
In almost every case, the men who liked to do this were high officials in corrupt governments of third world countries or organized crime bosses, with a need to dominate women totally, satisfied only when they took her life, proving themselves in what proved to be a most unsatisfactory way.
It was unsatisfactory because there could be no witnesses, which meant they had to repeat the exercise regularly in an attempt to satisfy an insatiable hunger. They, like the ladies they captured and killed, were the losers in an endless game of what they knew best, which was the killing of helpless people.
Successful businessmen such as those in my group had more refined tastes and preferred to simply observe the total abuse of exceedingly attractive women. Most of these would disappear to become players in extreme games in which winning was seldom a possibility, and instead, a protracted, bloody, and very interesting death was virtually inevitable.
The Count had put his fortune to work to establish a highly secure cable network and made an outrageous form of reality television, his snuff videos, a hobby. He loved the Survivor-inspired shows on network television and had created for himself a new network, comprised of about two hundred fifty of his most trusted business associates around the world.
We paid a hundred thousand per year to enjoy the next generation of snuff shows, in which gorgeous and well-educated young women were put into incredibly dangerous situations in which they were creatively killed, and in many of which they competed to kill each other.
Every month he would invite a special group of us selected from his cable subscribers to enjoy a weekend of production of the violent reality shows. I was regularly included, and enjoyed the extent he went to, to please and entertain us.
END OF CHAPTER ONE