The man I work for is one of the richest in the world, but you’ve never heard of him.
He has no ego that drives him to the front pages of the news. Bloggers are oblivious of him. Paparazzi would shout at him to get out of the way if he ever found his way into the frame. He doesn’t lust to go out into the world after women.
I wrote the last sentence carefully so that the meaning is correct. He does not go. He has me to do that for him. He calls me a Procurer.
My employer has very specific tastes. The women must look a certain way, smell of a certain scent, walk like he believes a woman should walk. And they must be willing – eager, rather – to do certain things.
If she meets all these things, a woman who spends the night with my employer is set for life financially.
You may think, my employer must be old, or ugly. That is not the case. He is a relatively young and vigorous man.
This night, I have two women for him. He has asked for them to dress in black lingerie. Of course I keep a wide selection, and each woman found things that please her and that fit her like her skin.
In the first bedroom I visit Francesca. She is from Milan. She has long, straight brown hair that falls like water the length of her back and perhaps the most perfect figure in the earth. A single line of Italian script is tattooed across her flawless skin on her side and below her right breast. A quote from Dante, in English it would read “Heat cannot be separated from fire.”
Francesca smiles at me as I ask her if she has any needs to which I can attend. She asks for nothing, but her fingers move. She is nervous, it is natural. Her scent is sandalwood.
In the second bedroom I visit Alexandra. She is American, from the western coast. Her beauty and body are undeniable and she is pleasant enough but were it me I would choose the Italian girl. Alexandra sees herself in the mirror, too much I think. She toys with her golden waves of hair. The large dragon that is tattooed on her thigh, I do find it erotic, but such thoughts are not for me to entertain.
Alexandra is also nervous. Her scent is lavender. She asks me how much longer. Not long, I soothe her.
I visit my employer. He is sitting outside the room (Is that the correct word? My English is imperfect) that he keeps for women. I pour him whisky and light his cigar. He is naked and the current favorite kneels between his thighs and gently sucks his cock while I attend him. Long ago I ceased to be affected by this. He gives the sign to me. I am honored to be allowed to remain. I press a button and each of the two bedroom doors open into the room, one one either side.
Cage – not room. That is the English word.
The cage is not large. It is five meters wide and deep. The weave of the wire that makes it is large so that one’s view into it is good.
Francesca and Alexandra emerge from their rooms, two tigresses emerging from their dens. I press the button again and the doors click shut and locked.
This moment is important to my employer, and consequently to me. I have done my best to select these women. I have instructed them carefully. But women are by nature willful. Both are silent and still. Good.
This is the first time each has seen the other. While I have told each something of the other’s ability, I have not included any description. They assess, carefully and in detail. One’s physical strength may be estimated with the eyes; one’s inner will is difficult to discern. Francesca’s face is as impassive as a stone. Alexandra’s lip curls slightly as her gaze lingers on the Italian’s breasts. The nipples of each woman have stiffened at the sight of the other. Their breathing quickens. My employer’s nostrils widen as he inhales their scents. He nods.
They walk to the center of the cage, their black heels clicking on the concrete. If they notice the small drain in the floor they give no sign. I am careful that all blood is washed away, like sins. They face each other.
The attention of the current favorite to her master’s cock intensifies. Her painted lips strain to reach its base, her eyes closed as she opens her throat. She is wealthy now herself, and she has earned it. She is no prisoner but has chosen to stay. But she knows now that he is growing tired of her. She will be required to defend her position against the one of the two. She is not afraid of that. The women I find for him are never cowards.
Francesca and Alexandra are exactly the same height. This is not an accident. The blonde American is very slightly taller. I adjusted Francesca’s shoes accordingly. Their height is very important. As they stand now, their nipples exactly touch as they bulge within their lingerie.
My employer nodded again. Francesa and Alexandra are both right-handed. They each curl their left hand behind the other’s neck, grasping her hair close to its roots. I draw a coin from my pocket. It is an old lira that I keep just for this. “I assign heads to Francesca,” I said, so that all in the room may hear me clearly.
I flip the coin. “It is tails,” I said.
Alexandra plunged her fist into Francesca’s belly. The brunette took the blow without sound though her body trembled. Her dark eyes were still, locked to the American’s blue ones.
I had instructed them, as I said to you. They were not to release their left hands. Turns would be taken. Eight seconds, no more.
At the beginning, it was always quick. Francesca struck the blonde girl, in her navel. Alexandra’s pelvis tilted. Her breasts shook. Her eyes did not waver.
Ten turns were to be accomplished.
By the fifth turn, the girls were wet with sweat. Their breathing was heavy. It was warm in the cage but this was from pain.
By the seventh, they took the full eight seconds to recover.
Eight, and nine. They could no longer stop their sounds of pain.
I rose and walked to the cage wall. They came to meet me, shoulder to shoulder but not as companions. Through the large wire, I pass them each a cylinder of metal. It fits in their fists as they curl their hands closed. While small enough for a beautiful woman’s hand, because it is pure gold, it is heavy; 500 grams, a little more than one pound. The weight will magnify their blows.
They step back to their position. Their faces are no longer impassive. The reality of their competition is before them now. They are learning with each second to hate each other. A new round of ten.
Francesca is the first to fall. On the third strike from the American. She only went to one knee but still she only closely arises within eight seconds, and so her return strike is weakened. Alexandra smiles. She rests her allotted time and strikes again. Francesca cries out in pain and falls to both knees. Because Alexandra still holds her hair close behind her neck, her head is twisted up. Alexandra makes a slight move, as if to strike her upturned face, but restrains herself. That would have been a grave violation of the rule.
This time, Francesca could not rise in time to take her turn. Alexandra was permitted to use her grip to lift her opponent to her feet. She does, and strikes her the deepest yet.
Francesca falls for the third time in a row with a rending sob. Alexandra’s weighted fist has done its damage. There are five turns left. The Italian girl cannot take any one of them. Before her tenth, the American taunts her softly. Her words wound me as well.
“The Procurer,” she said, “did not find my match.”
The gold bar falls from Francesca’s nerveless hand as Alexandra’s fist rips her ovary. It rings against the concrete.
It is only the beginning.
A small intermission is taken. The women returned to their bedrooms. I check on them each in turn.
Alexandra is aglow with her victory thus far. “Did he enjoy that?” she asked. She runs her hand across the bed. She is already picturing him coming to her in this room to fuck her. “Will I fight the one sucking his cock next?” I remind her there is more to her contest, but with her early success she does not now hide her contempt for her brunette rival.
Francesca lies curled on her bed. She is hurt, and humiliated. “Cagna bionda,” she says, a film of tears in her eyes, speaking more to herself than to me. I make her a draught to ease her pain a little. “We will resume in fifteen minutes,” I tell her.
When it is time, they return to the cage. Alexandra strides with confidence, even arrogance. Francesca’s body is tense. Her abdomen is reddened, the spot where Alexandra struck her the most now turning dark with bruise. They stand again in the center.
As they stare into each other’s eyes, I loop a light chain around each of their lovely waists. It sits loosely atop their hips. I connect the loops with another bit of the chain, an arm’s length.
“Alexandra,” I say, “he would like to see your breasts bare.”
She turns her head to smile at him brilliantly and reaches behind her back, her chin naturally dipping so that her hair fell around her face. Her bra is nearly translucent but a pattern in it obscures her nipples. It now falls away. She hands it to me. Her nipples are pink, small in circumference but jutting in height. Her breasts need no support. She keeps her shoulders back to display them proudly.
“Francesca,” I say.
The brunette unclasps her bra and lifts it from her breasts. It is not for me to think but my thoughts are mine, and I believe that I have never seen perfection until now. Her brown nipples are large, continents on the globes of her breasts, mountain peaks in their centers. She arches her back slightly as well, and smiles for him.
I have instructed them before but he enjoys this to be said again. The current favorite raises her head from her fellatio to watch.
“Your opponent believes her breasts are superior to yours. She aches to prove it.”
Each woman raises her hands to the other’s breasts. She caresses them, finding the positions she wishes to place her fingers.
“To prove that you are her superior, crush her vanity.”
Fingers tighten. Lips draw back from teeth.
“The inferior woman is the woman who submits.”
Alexandra’s opening strategy is to drive her thumbnails into the centers of Francesca’s nipples, her fingers curled under the brunette’s breasts to crush their lower hemispheres.
Francesca grips the blonde’s prominent nipples between her thumbnails and forefingers, pulling outwards to the sides. Alexandra’s breasts stretch, her nipples alarmingly so.
They gasp in pain, their feet shifting. The chain prevents escape, but for now neither thinks of that.
Their sweat returns quickly. Alexandra deals with her pain by tossing her head back, clenching her teeth, giving it voice with moans.
Francesca suffers silently.
Alexandra bleeds first. Francesca’s polished thumbnails are red with it. A trickle runs down the backs of the brunette’s hands. She is trying to tear Alexandra’s nipples out at their roots. The blonde’s moans are mixed with sobs.
Alexandra shifts her grip, digs deeper. Now Francesca’s head goes back with the sound of a dying dove. Blood now leaks from where her dark nipple is inverted, driven deep into her own titflesh by Alexandra’s thumbnails. It runs over Alexandra’s wrists.
Five minutes pass. No woman has ever lasted ten.
No woman has ever lasted ten minutes.
Now, this day, two women have endured that time. My employer is pleased, I can tell. The current favorite rests her head on his thigh as she watches Francesca and Alexandra transfixed. His cock is throbbing even without her aid.
Francesca changes her strategy, as all her strength fails to tear Alexandra’s nipples to submission. Instead, she moves to crush the blonde woman’s breasts in her hands. She kneads her fingers deep to Alexandra. Her forearms cord with effort. Alexandra’s nipples protrude above the vee made by Francesca’s thumbs and fingers, bulging grotesquely as the brunette squeezes. Her blood pumps in spurts from her nipples across Francesca’s hands, in the rhythm of Francesca’s kneading. Alexandra screams continuously now, her head thrown back, tears run down her lovely face. She bites her lower lip to bleeding in her agony.
Francesca is no better. Despite her injured belly, she fights this round like a fierce warrior, yet Alexandra has hurt her horribly. The pale skin of her perfect breasts is purple with spreading bruises. Alexandra’s grip crushes blood vessels, perhaps milk ducts deep in her breasts. Her face is also wet with tears. She screams as Alexandra suddenly shakes her breasts violently like a lioness shakes dying prey in her jaws. As her mouth opens, I think she is about to cry out her surrender.
In that second, Alexandra releases her. The blonde woman’s arms drop. She lolls back against the chain, causing Francesca to stagger a step forward. I do not think this is even a conscious choice of Alexandra. I believe her strength simply failed.
Francesca screams as her breasts fall free, the sudden end of agony is agony itself. She suddenly surges, crushing Alexandra still. The American’s body jerks. My employer raises his hand, slightly. I step forward. “Stop,” I say to Francesca. Her exhausted eyes turn to me, for a split-second even unaware of where she is. Her arms fall to her sides.
I have an assistant, a procurer in training, a young woman. As I guide Francesca to her bedroom, she gently directs Alexandra to hers. The American hunches forward, her arms cradling her bosom. There will be no fantasy of my employer coming to her room in this interval, I think.
In Francesca’s room, she lies still while I bathe her tormented breasts with cool water. When her trembling eases, I return to the cage and wash their blood down the drain in the floor. She is sucking his cock again.
They have one hour to recover, if they can.
The hour passes.
I have done my best with Francesca and my protege has done well with Alexandra. Both walk gingerly but with heads high.
To each woman, I give a pair of gloves, fingerless, so they may still employ the claws that God has given them and that they have sharpened and painted. La nocche – the knuckles – of the gloves carry studs of steel, glinting nubs of metal. The palms of the gloves, when open, are like the sandpaper the carpenter uses at first, the coarsest grain. Rather than a chain around the waists, I now give them necklaces of chains around their slender throats, joined by a strand two meters long.
There are no more ritualistic contests. Within this chain and with these gloves they will fight until one triumphs. I leave the cage to them.
Alexandra remembers, of course, how she hurt Francesca’s belly. Francesca keeps her arms low as they close, to protect that place. This means, sadly, that she cannot as well guard her beautiful face. Alexandra lashes her fist into her. Francesca’s long hair seems to float as her head whips to the side. The steel studs of Alexandra shred her lips against her white teeth, now suddenly red with her blood. The American girl smashes her face again, the other way. Francesca falls to her knees. The black toe of Alexandra’s shoe spears into her injured belly.
During the first rituals, the women were instructed to remain without emotion. No longer. My employer enjoys the attacks of animals as his main course.
Alexandra pours out her rage. I will recount words here as I recall them, although I enjoy such primitive savagery less than does he.
“Get up, you fucking cunt!” she screams, but kicks Francesca’s thighs when she tries. She drags the brunette girl with the chain to the cage wall before my employer. The chain cuts Franscesa’s skin. At the wall Alexandra drags the Italian girl to her feet. “This is for what you did to my tits.” Her voice is deadly.
Her fists batter Francesca’s breasts. Her back to the cage wall, Francesca cannot escape it.
Alexandra turns Francesca to us. With her body, she grinds the Italian into the wire.
Francesca’s mouth is cut further on the rough weave, blood streams now from her lips down her chin. Her bruised belly presses hard against the wall but it is of course her full breasts that the blonde woman seeks to shred against the steel. Francesca breasts bulge through the weave; one of her nipples juts through, the other is crushed deep into her breast at the junction of the wires that cross. Though I had staunched her bleeding before, it erupts afresh. Drops spatter on the floor outside the cage.
Alexandra braces her feet and grinds harder. Blood sheets down Francesca’s belly, rivulets running along the wire. “Submit to me, whore,” Alexandra demands.
Francesca cannot speak. She can shake her head, barely.
Alexandra angles the force of her body downward. Slowly, Francesca sinks to her knees. Her belly is damaged but again it is her breasts that take torment as they drag over the wire as she descends. The wire tears them.
“Submit to me or I will kill you,” Alexandra screams. Her voice is frenzied now.
My employer grunts and seizes the current favorite’s hair. She freezes. He is close to orgasm, but if it is too soon, if he climaxes before the denouement, she knows she will lose his favor.
Her hip now between Francesca’s shoulder blades, still forcing her breasts through the wire, Alexandra drags the Italian’s head back with the chain. She smashes her studded fist into Francesca’s forehead, then uses her open palm to tear its skin.
Francesca clings to consciousness. She refuses still to submit. She has more courage than any woman I have procured before her.
With a scream of frustration, Alexandra slings Francesca back toward the center of the cage.
She forgets they are connected by chain.
I know that lovely Francesca weighs 57 kilos, 125 pounds.
Her body hits the end of the chain. Her neck jerks but it does not break.
Nor does Alexandra’s neck, but the blonde woman pitches forward with great shock. She lands on her breasts and face.
With a scream of incoherence, Francesca flings herself on Alexandra’s back like a panther. She wraps the chain, twice around Alexandra’s throat, once across her face, her mouth, the chain between her lips and teeth like the bit in a horse’s mouth.
Francesca pulls, with all her strength.
Alexandra’s courage is as great as Francesca’s. The current favorite can hardly be blamed. My employer climaxes, his cock pumping his seed into the favorite’s mouth and throat, then over her breasts as she gags and pulls back.
Only then does Alexandra submit.
The next day, I submit my resignation. I can never, and do not wish to, procure a woman Francesca’s equal.