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   THE MARQUIS' EAST INDIA CATERING COMPANY

                             By: Charles E. Campbell

CHAPTER 1

   My name's Mark Evans. I'm an entrepreneur, really. Plain and simple. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. Although some people would employ other much more graphic and derogatory terms to describe my vocation, maybe labeling me  a pimp, or even a slaver perhaps. But I think entrepreneur is a far more fitting and accurate term.

   I've really been engaged in pursuits that are entrepreneurial in nature for most of my life. Even as far back as a youngster in junior high school, I saw a need, an unfilled opportunity, and acted upon it. I would purchase extra large pixie sticks in bulk, and take advantage of the ban on candy at school. Keeping a stash of the sweets in one pocket, and collecting quarters in the opposite one, I would make a few dollars between each and every period of the day. Usually forty or fifty dollars a day! Went great for quite a while, that was until some spoiled snot who wanted candy and didn't have any money with him ratted me out to the Principal. I served a week in detention, and was shut down, and watched far more closely after that.

   By the time I was in eleventh grade, I was tutoring this really dumb fat chick. Long greasy hair, huge udders, thighs that touched from her crotch to her knees, always dressed in sweats, you get the picture. Her parents had more money than God, but she was flunking just about every class from math to English. I was getting paid fifteen bucks an hour three times a week to help her pass Junior year. As an added incentive, her Dad told her he'd buy her a car if she passed all her classes. Man, she really wanted that car, so I told her I'd guarantee her she'd pass if she sucked my cock every session. She was naked and on her knees every afternoon faster than a novice in a convent. Pretty soon, I had her sucking the cocks of any guy who'd pay me twenty dollars for it. Six or seven guys most weeks handed me the double sawbuck for the chance to cream down her throat behind the bleachers in the gym at school. Shit, I  swear she thought that cum was its own food group, swallowing every load she got, never spilling a precious drop. I was raking in the dough so fast that I bought a car before she got one!

   Never saw the need for college, so I wasn't out of high school six months before ole Uncle Sam came knocking on my door with my 1-A classification in his hand, and sent my sorry ass to South East Asia. I'll tell you, thirteen months in that miserable hell hole called Viet Nam  was anything but pleasant. But my hidden talents helped get me through it unscathed , as I was sentenced, transferred that is, to supply. I made profits in the black market like it was going out of style. All legal stuff, you understand, no drugs or shit like that. Cigarettes, booze, fancy lingerie, that kind of thing. There was money to be made, and man, I made it. Hand over fist if truth be told. Made a lot of connections too, lots of guys like me, keen nose for opportunities, needs to be met, seizing the chance and running with it. Where I was working there was me and another guy also name of Mark. They called him Markie B., and my moniker became Mark E. Later, due to my elevated status, the spelling of my name changed to Marquis.

   One guy over there really stood out. Special Ops Marine. Hardcore, badass. A stone cold killer. Too many notches on the butt of his gun to count. Once said to me that there was nothing better than being able to kill people and over there it was free! They even gave you medals for doing it. He had a CO he was super loyal to. Probably would have taken a bullet for him without hesitation. The CO had a taste for the ultra kinky, shall we say. Over the top stuff. No kiddie touching or gay stuff, let me set that straight. He was into pain. Inflicting pain. (Rumor had it that he had been well schooled and was quite successful in extracting information from captured VC). He wasn't into the light playful things you might see in a bondage flick or magazine. He liked bull whips, water soaked rattan canes, leather floggers, (even owned a scourge he made himself, tying bits of brittle chicken bones to the whip tails).  Real rough stuff, heavy bruising, swelling, often times even drawing blood. Permanent marking really got him off.

    This got my fertile mind spinning in high gear. Need = opportunity = $. To make a long story short, it wasn't long before I was procuring "subjects" for the CO, through the SpecOp Marine. Mostly they were villagers, always female, varying ages, never children.  Nameless souls whose sudden disappearance would draw little to no attention in a country ravaged by war. Usually they would leave the CO battered and beaten, but there were times when he got a bit, shall we say, carried away with the freedom at hand, and the SpecOp would have a body to dispose of.

   For my end of it, I got linked up with a solid seemingly endless, and highly protected source of Hanoi gold, which I was able to turn around at a huge profit. While this was really sweet, it was the connections all this established which would come to serve me even better after the war.

   My service to Uncle Sam over, I slowly drifted stateside, (taking the better part of three years), via Thailand and Amsterdam, and found a sex trade alive and well, catering to the whims of virtually every taste/kink imagined. Storing all the intel for possible future exploitation.

   About six years or so after the war had ended, I was well established as a professional middle man, connecting various people, enterprises, and small businesses with each other. All legal and above board. By the 80's the burgeoning technology of VCR machines and pre-recorded tape wakened a sleeping giant in the porn business, and I became instantly involved.

    Initially I did what I did best, buffering deals. First locating women to "act" in the films, and then searching out particular women for specific types of films. Fat women, (or bbw as it came to be called), hairy women, women with shaved twats, huge tits, flat chests, puffy nipples, women who could duplicate the remarkable skills exhibited by Linda Lovelace............. The list is as long as the sickest imagination allows. Every fetish, every taste, all catered to, and all making vast sums of money for me.

   This went on for some time, ten years or so, until, seemingly out of the blue, I got a phone call from that Marine from Nam. Seems he and his former CO had gotten into the porn business as well, only they had become leaders in the very secretive, very dangerous, highly risky, and totally illegal side of the business. Starting off in the BDSM market at it's infancy, they had produced a large number of films with the usual light bondage, ropes, chains,  fake whips that saturated the genre. But the CO wanted more. He wanted the real thing. He wanted something closer to what he had back "in country." And so he sent his underling in search of The Marquis.

   To say I was reticent would be the understatement of all time, but I was, quite frankly, bored with what I was doing and there was no question in my mind that this would prove to be a challenge to my skills.

   The first step would be to locate a possible source. This was, after all, the good ole U. S. of A. There were laws, constitutional rights, a lot of Puritan sentiments and other obstacles that had to be skirted.

   I headed off to Manhattan. Figuring as the saying goes, "If you can't find it in New York, then it doesn't exist."

   This was  prior to the age of computers and the internet making the world a global Manhattan, so mucho foot work and the greasing of a few palms along the way were still the most fruitful methods of searching. But I was well schooled in locating things, and after just a few hours, I was headed to the lower West Side and an "establishment" simply called "THE SandMan's CASTLE."

   My field intel told me that this was the place for real people who were  living the lives of D/s. The people who frequented The Castle were committed to everything from bondage and discipline to corporal punishment and humiliation. Masters and slaves, Mistresses and slaves, gay, straight, and everything in between.

   I  found the building on West 16th Street. Three stories. Weather worn red brick. Had probably been built in the late 18th Century and used as a factory of some kind. The few windows that faced the street had long ago been bricked over. A massive wooden double door the sole entrance. Over the door, hanging from dingy thick chains on a rusted mast was a wooden sign shaped like a turret in a castle. It looked similar to a rook from a classic chess set. In front of the door, nonchalantly standing guard, was a hulking monster of a man. A solid 6'4", he had ex pro football player written all over his highly defined musculature. His bald black head glistened under the nearby street lamp as I approached from Seventh Ave. His eyes watching my every step. Not wary, but tuned in. Not threatened, certainly, but aware of his surroundings. His senses were keen and he was obviously prepared for anything.

   "May I help you, sir?" he inquired as I neared, looking up at the sign.

   "Yes, thank you," I replied. "I'm looking for SandMan's Castle."

   "You have found it, sir." He paused looking me over. "Forgive me, sir, but you don't appear familiar to me. Are you a member?"

    "Ah, no, regrettably I am not."

   "I see. Then how, may I ask, did you learn of us?"

   I handed the man my business card, which reads, simply:

MARQUIS ENTERPRISES

PROCUREMENTS BROKERAGE

1 800 TALK 2 ME

MARK EVANS PRES,

   I watched as he read the card, then he asked, "May I see your ID, sir?"

   "Certainly," I replied, reaching into my wallet to get my driver's license.

   He took my license and business card and spoke into a microphone that was clipped to his shirt collar. "I need a verification, Chuck," he said, as he took two steps towards the entrance. A small slot slid open in the door, behind which I saw a pair of eyes peer out and give me the once over. Then a hand came through the slot and the security guard passed my card and license through the slot.

   The guard said nothing as we waited on the street. A few minutes passed before the slot opened up and my license was passed back. The guard handed me back my license and said, "Enjoy your visit, Sir."

   "Thank you," I said in return, as he opened the massive door and held it for me as I entered the building.

   The sound made by the closing door boomed through the dimly lit stone foyer. My eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the darkness when I heard a soft female voice say, "Good evening Mr. Evans, and welcome to The SandMan's Castle. "

   I turned in the direction of the voice and could vaguely make out a woman standing in front of another door. She was topless, barefoot, and had a  stained and tattered rag tied around her waste, barely long enough to hide her sex. She wore iron shackles and chains on her ankles, and her hands were manacled together as well. A steel collar hugged her neck tightly.

   "I regret to have to be the one to inform you, Sir, but since you are not a member of The Castle, there is an admittance fee you are responsible for."

   "But of course, My pet, I fully expected as much," I answered. "And how much might that be?"

   "For your initial visit, Sir, the admission fee is $500. Any subsequent visits are $400."

   "I see. And what about becoming a member," I asked, eyeing the beauty as my eyes had fully adjusted to the light by that point, allowing me to drink in her full breasts, pierced nipples, and long smooth legs.

   My wandering eyes didn't go unnoticed, and she smiled as she answered, "I'm sorry to have to inform you, Sir, that full membership is by invitation only from an existing member. You may inquire further of someone inside, if you wish."

   "Very well," I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my money clip. I peeled off five one hundred dollar bills and handed them to her. She took them in her hand and said, "Please follow me, Mr. Evans."

   She pressed a button on the wall, and a metal door groaned and opened up allowing us to get on a creaking old freight elevator.

   The ancient elevator moved very slowly, groaning, bumping, and rubbing as it made the ascent. It looked like it was probably the original lift from when the building was constructed. I  wondered whether they kept it that way to add to the atmosphere of the dungeon.

   When we finally reached the floor, after an  interminably long ride, she stopped the lift and opened the grating, exposing a cavernous room with a very high ceiling, thirty feet at least! It was immediately apparent to me that the original design of this room was for some type of sweat shop garment industry manufacturing, very common in this part of the city at the start of the Twentieth Century.  The windows were placed at ceiling height and pivoted at the center to allow a modicum of ventilation from the exiting hot air trapped at the ceiling. The flooring was heavily worn wide plank pine, stained, gouged and scared from the long removed heavy machinery.

   Approximately twenty to twenty five people were spread about the room, which was filled with every imaginable modern and medieval torture device. Among the more prominent pieces was a wooden pony, a Roman Tau cross, a St. Andrew's cross, a whipping post, stockade, pillory, bondage chair, and an iron cage. Chains and cables also hung from pulleys attached to electric and manual winches.  Many of these had shackles or spreader bars attached to them.

   One male and two female slaves were being tortured as I entered the room. All eyes were fixed on the slaves, and no one paid me the slightest attention. (Their security and screening process obviously inspired the utmost confidence in the clientele). 

    As I was being escorted to a comfortable lounge chair I watched as two women, one dressed in elegant purple leather fetish gear, (which included thigh high black leather high heeled boots, a purple leather skin tight skirt, the matching top unbuttoned to her pierced navel), and the other naked, (excepting for a pair of black leather 4" spike heels),  long raven colored hair swishing gently with each move, were alternating blows as they whipped a naked female who was tied  to the Roman Tau cross. Her wrists and ankles were attached to the splintered wood with thick black leather cuffs, and her back was pulled tightly against the cross by a wide leather belt, that had been drawn so tight as to pull her stomach in, exaggerating her rib cage. I remember thinking how much agony she was enduring,  between the pressure of having her limbs pulled out and away from her body, (her feet were not supporting her), her legs spread obscenely wide, the worn hard wood tearing at her back, the stiff leather strap pulling her stomach in,and the relentless whipping of her breasts, belly and thighs.

   She wore a beautiful leather hood which completely obscured her face, and must have had a gag built into it, as her screams could hardly be heard in the room. Her body was devoid of all hair, except the auburn colored shoulder length tresses which clumped in a tangled swirl, drenched in her sweat. Harsh bright lights bathed her body, showing the angry red welts that decorated her freely. (Some of the welts were bleeding, as the two women had put down their floggers and were now using rattan canes). Her bindings were stressed as she strained to escape the terrible  pain. But they held. Held her tight. Her efforts to avoid the lashes futile, but her inborn survival instincts made her try reflexively after each stroke landed with an impact the resounded around the room.

   She pissed herself and began to shake as a combination of the pain and exhaustion overtook her. Suddenly she hung by her wrists, limp, not responding to the blows that continued unabated. It was only then that the women stopped beating her.

   "Revive her," one of the women barked angrily. "I'm not through teaching this cunt what it means to disobey me." She spit in the unconscious slave's hair and walked to a table for a bottle of water as she waited for her demand to be obeyed.

   "Yes, Mistress Robin," the naked woman said, putting down her cane and stepped to the cross. "Right away!"

   The naked woman quickly unclipped the lifeless looking slave from the cross beginning with her wrists. She let the arms fall and then the legs. Only the waist cincher held her to the cross. Doubled over at the waist, wearing only her wrist and ankle cuffs, her matted hair hiding her face, she appeared to slowly be rousing from her unconsciousness. The naked woman pulled on the heavy belt, loosening it, and the tortured body spilled to the hard floor with a sickening thump. In her state of semi-awareness, the battered slave made to no attempt whatsoever to break her fall, and the side of her head seemed to bounce as she landed with an audible groan.

   The naked woman left the slave in a heap on the floor and went over to one of the tables and picked up a salt shaker. As she walked back to the slave, she poured a copious amount of salt into the palm of her hand. Bending down, she proceeded to rub the coarse salt into the woman's bleeding breasts.

   The slave's body tensed and jerked as she screamed through the hooded gag hysterically and she scrambled, arms flailing away in the air to get away from the searing pain.

   "Help me into this, cunt,"  Mistress Robin said, handing a strap-on harness to the raven haired slave.

   Mistress Robin, who had until only moments before, been dressed in purple, was now naked, excepting for her thigh high boots. Her boyishly small, all but non-existent  breasts were capped with nickel sized areolas, and the biggest nipples I had ever seen.  Just about as big around as my thumb, and as long as the last joint on my middle finger!. They were huge, hard as rocks, and a deep, dark purple brown color. A large gold ring pierced the right one, deep down at it's base. Her pussy was shaved clean, and the top hints of the slit were clear to even the casual eye.

   "Yes, Mistress Robin. Right away," the slave replied quickly, taking the leather harness from her Mistress.

   It was an real effort for me to tear my eyes from the three naked bodies only eight feet or so from where I was sitting, but I wanted to see the strap-on, so I looked carefully at it as it was being placed around Mistress Robin's groin. The leather straps were adorned with sharp pointed chrome studs and it had many steel buckles to adjust and secure it properly. Nothing out of the ordinary there. But the phallus was really different, and obviously not something designed for pleasuring someone. Quite to the contrary, this cock was made just for pain and humiliation. A good 8" in length and 3" in diameter, the length of the shaft was festooned in hard bumps of plastic protruding a good 1/2" from the shaft. As I took in all the intricacies strap-on, I kept glimpsing something flashing, glistening, sparkling, on the leather where the phallus was attached to the harness, but I couldn't quite make out what it was.

  When the strap-on was belted to Mistress Robin's satisfaction, she looked around the room for a moment before her eyes settled on mine. She walked (strutted actually), the phallus swaying back and forth obscenely, over to my table, bent over, her tiny breasts a few inches from my face, and said in a soft sultry tone, "Pardon me, Sir, but would you please be so kind as to assist me? "

   Thinking to myself, 'What the hell,' I smiled and said, "Of course."

   I stood up and added, "How may I help you, Mistress?"

   A slight smile graced her chiseled face. " Thank you. I would like you to help slave jacquie with this disobedient slave whore. I want her laid out on her back on your table."

    "Sure," I said, glancing over towards  slave jacquie who was already standing over the broken women.

   I went over to where jacquie and the slave We both  grabbed the slave by her arms above the elbow, and yanked her quickly  to her feet. She was unsteady and teetering, but managed to stand semi-erect, relying on my grip on her arm for stability. jacquie took her by her other arm and we lead her to my table, pressing her buttocks to the edge.  Letting go of her arm, a stepped behind her and pulled her shoulders back until she lay on the small table top flat on her back.

  The table was no more than two feet in diameter, so her head hung over unsupported, as did her hips.

   Mistress Robin joined us, her eyes fixed on the naked slave, and said, "Now we'll truly see what she's made of, and test her allegiance and obedience to Me."

   It was at that moment that I was finally able to see what it was that I had seen glistening on the strap on. The base of the phallus was completely encircled with tacks. Sharp, hard tacks, about 1/4" long, at least two dozen of them had been affixed to the leather. To be fucked with that strap-on would be a torture unimaginable; between the size and girth of the knobby phallus and the tacks, the slave was going to suffer a hideous fate.

   Mistress Robin positioned herself between the slave's legs and said, "jacquie, I want free access to her cunt. You are to lift her legs up and hold them apart for me."

   jacquie immediately did as she was told, pulling the slave's legs up and apart.

   Then, turning her face towards mine she added, "And if you would be so kind Sir, please fuck her mouth. I don't want my pleasure distracted by hearing her cries for mercy."

   "With pleasure, Mistress," I said, my cock already bursting in the tight confines of my trousers.

   I undid my pants and dropped them to  my ankles as jacquie pulled the slaves legs up high. Taking hold of my cock, I slowly traced circles around the willing slave's open mouth, moistening her lips and extended tongue with pre-cum, in preparation of her face fucking. Mistress Robin watched, her strap-on poised to enter the gaping love tunnel offered up to her. She was watching so as to time her first thrust with mine.

    "Need I remind you, slave, that if you don't pay attention, if your teeth come in contact with his cock, I will have everyone of your teeth removed from that pretty little face and you'll become a suck whore."

   "Yes, Mistress. I understand," she whimpered quietly around my shaft.

  I glanced up at Mistress Robin and saw her staring at me with a sly acknowledging smile on her face.  It didn't take a psychic to read her intentions. With one fast push from my pelvis, I drove my cock right through the slave's mouth and down into the back of her throat, while Robin slammed the massive plastic cock into her, imbedding the tacks into the soft flesh surrounding the hole. The effect was as if we had put her on a spit to be roasted. The slave screamed around my cock, but her teeth never made contact with my vulnerable member.

   Pulling almost all the way out, savoring the sensations of her well trained tongue, I drove deep into her throat, causing her to gag and cough, spittle leaked from her mouth. Mistress Robin began a steady and slow rhythmic assault on the slave's pussy, stretching the hole and making multiple puncture wounds with each push. The slave was crying and moaning in obvious pain, but her level of concentration on her oral ministrations was amazing. Her tongue caressed me as she sucked with all her power.

   "Make him cum for me, little one," Mistress Robin cooed softly, "And I'll stop when he does."

   Finding myself wanting to prolong the hapless slave's torment as long as possible, I stopped driving into her mouth, and stood still, letting her do all the work herself, as her Mistress methodically destroyed her pussy. Looking down at Robin's strap-on, I could see that it was now coated in fresh blood. Small bits of flesh stuck to some of the tacks.

   I'm not sure how much of my unbridled arousal was from witnessing the slave's brutal treatment, and how much of it was from her excellent oral training, but I wasn't able to contain myself for very long, and came with a force I had never felt before, spilling my hot cum in the slave's mouth, as she milked me dry. Mistress Robin drove into her one more time, twisting her hips around in a circular motion to tear at the ravaged flesh one last time before pulling the blood soaked strap-on out of the slave's ruined hole.

   With nothing but a glance, slave jacquie was on her knees before her Mistress, cleaning the blood off with her willing mouth, while Robin unbuckled the harness. "Get her cleaned up and bring her back to me, slave," Robin commanded.

   :As you command, Mistress," came jacquie's reply. She helped the weeping slave off the table and lead her away. I pulled up my pants and buckled my belt.

   "Thank you for assisting me, mister......?"

   "Evans, Ma'am. Mark Evans."

   I extended my hand as she brought the back of her hand up for me to kiss. I obliged her,

   "And it was my pleasure," I smiled.

   "I thought that it might be." She turned and started to leave.

   "Might I have a word with you Mistress Robin," I said quickly.

   "Certainly," she said, without turning around. "Come with me."

   I followed her out of the room and down a short corridor. She lifted a necklace over her head and placed the key that hung from it into the lock and opened the door. Donning the necklace once more, she opened the door and I went in behind her.

   The room was decorated like a Victorian parlor. There was a dark walnut roll top desk in the corner, a settee, love seat, and a wingback chair arranged in a semi-circle facing a brick fireplace. Soft lighting was provided by authentic Tiffany lamps placed on a few tables.

   "Would you like something to drink," Robin asked.

   "Thank you, no," I answered. "I don't drink. I find it lessens the senses too much."

   "Neither do I," she said with a grin. "Although my senses are always at their highest.

   "What is it you wish to talk with me about," she asked, not waiting on pleasantries.

    "Right to business," I said nodding in agreement. "I like that."

   Reaching into my pocket, I  pulled out my business card and handed it to her.

   "Marquis Enterprises, Procurement Brokerage, Mark Evans President," she read aloud. "And what, exactly, might a 'procurement brokerage' be?"

   "Basically anything. Right now, I'm, let's say for want of a better term, a talent scout. I am searching for new talent to be showcased in very genre specific motion pictures."

   A knowing smile graced her face, and her eyes lit up. "I'm pretty sure I can make an educated guess as to what genre of film we're not exactly talking about here., otherwise why would you show up here?"

   We talked for the better part of half an hour, with me explaining my background to Robin, as well as what my client's wishes were. She asked clear and concise questions. Direct, always to the point, focused on getting the entire picture.

   At long last, she said, "I believe we can work together, Mr. Evans."

   "Please call me Mark," I interrupted. I like to make things more personal.

   "I prefer things to remain more formal, Mr. Evans," she said straightly. "Please do not misunderstand me, as I do not wish to insult you, but you and I are not friends. Not even acquaintances, really. What you are proposing here is a business deal. A transaction. I keep all of my financial affairs separate from my personal ones."

   "As you wish, Mistress."

   "And you may call me Miss Xavier."

   "Very well."

   There was a light knock on the door, and Robin called out, "Come in."

   It was jacquie and the other slave, who was hunched over with her head down and bundled in a thick white robe, although she was still barefoot. Her wet hair a testament to her recent shower.

   Robin stood up, and said, "I have your phone number. I'll be in touch. Please feel free to enjoy the club some more before you leave, Mr. Evans."

    A more obvious dismissal wasn't required. I rose, and took her proffered hand, kissing the back of it, and saying, "Thank you for your time, Miss Xavier, I look forward to hearing from you." I walked toward the door, and heard Robin say, (actually she cooed), "Come her my pet, and let me see the lovely marks I gave you."

     I decided not to remain in the club any longer, but instead went back to my hotel room, where I showered and went to bed, getting up early the next morning to make the five hour drive home.

   It was the following week, (I remember thinking Robin wasn't interested in my proposal), when I received a piece of registered mail. The letter was from Robin, and it outlined her expectations, (read demands), for the agreement between my clients and her. I smiled at the realization that I had brokered the deal, because her expectations were completely acceptable, and well within the parameters my client had given me to work with, both financially and in meeting his exacting needs.

   I was re-reading her letter a third time, making sure I understood all the implications, demands, and subtle innuendos before calling the Marine and telling him what I had done, when I saw a small envelope on the floor  under my chair. I hadn't noticed it when I opened the letter, and reckoned that it must have fallen out when I opened up the mail.

   Across the face of the envelope, in an elegant and flowing ornate hand, it simply read: "MARQUIS." I slit the envelope open, and inside was a small laminated card with an exact replica of the turret sign that hung above the entrance to the SandMan's Castle. No words were printed on the front, but the back had been printed with the words:

MARK EVANS

MEMBER # 23

   Little did I know then what direction my life would soon take, just because of that small card.