At-The-Q Isis

in the main floor gaming room Spencer and Chondra calmly cruised the slave-pen. Though it was nearing three in the morning, the casino in this extremely private women’s club was crowded (as always on the weekend) with a smorgasbord of femininity. A half-dozen languages and different accents could be heard.
The majority of women were dressed to the nines in evening gowns and jewels, but quite a few others wore silk or satin pajamas and flowing robes. Those women were members on vacation and staying at the club. Boisterous gamblers were laughing and cheering at the craps tables, roulette wheels were spinning, blackjack tables were crowded, and the dining room was packed.
A few dozen non-submissive male guests were immaculate yet conservative in black tie.
Spencer and Chondra were imposing figures. Casually strolling around the pen; they wore matching black-linen dusters, their lightweight floor-length coats hanging open and billowing back as they walked.
Beneath her duster Chondra wore a pair of tight, black leather pants tucked into black, ankle-high, spiked-heel leather boots. Her top was merely a black leather bra supporting her firm fat breasts and leaving her torso bare. Clearly visible on her flat brown stomach was an oval six-pack of small solid muscles.
She also wore a black baseball-cap low on her forehead, dark sunglasses, and with the duster’s collar flipped up she’d slung a wicked whip over her shoulders. It was a lethal looking cat-o’-nine-tails with an aluminum tip on each lash. Known as a “stinger-cat,” or simply a “stinger,” in Isis the whip was only permitted in the hands of a registered expert. A stinger could cut to the bone if not wielded properly.

She raised her eyes, expecting to see the sign requesting her clearance-level, but instead Aqua saw the hint of a grin, the Society hand-sign flash, and then his forefinger - his trigger finger - tapping his chest. She lowered her eyes as her heart began to race. He’d just confirmed what she only imagined. Sanction-mechanics were stalking the Isis pen. Black Heart was here. What other man could hunt as if he owned this club?
Due to the nature of work her Mistress did for the Society, Aqua (a branded Odalisque) was required to attend special classes to obtain the necessary clearances to travel with her Mistress. Those classes included the protocols to be followed should she be confronted by a Black Heart agent. When identities were established, proper passwords and/or codes accepted, she was to follow orders without question if those orders were Society/Black Heart business. Not even her Mistress could intervene, and to refuse carried a possible death sentence. Such was the price of world travel with her patron, and, she always thought with pride, a fact of life for those privy to Society secrets. Not for a moment did she ever want to be anyone else.

Beneath his duster Spencer wore no shirt at all. Hanging from around his neck on an 18-inch gold rope was an onyx-in-gold heart slightly larger than the average watch face. Centered in the polished black stone was a two-and-a-half carat, D-flawless, emerald cut diamond that twinkled as the black heart bounced against his hairless, muscular chest. He wore black designer jeans, snakeskin loafers, and his dreadlocks hung down his back as well as over his chest. Dark sunglasses hid Spencer’s eyes, and in his hand was a coiled chromed-steel leash snap-hooked to a black leather collar. Both mechanics wore black leather driving gloves.
The contrast between their attire to that of the formal wear the club’s revelers sported was striking. They were more in sync with the resident dominatrices, but not even those icy Vipers could match the nimbus of danger exuded by Spencer and Chondra. They moved with the confidence and grace of highly trained killers.
In the slave-pen, where only moments earlier it was lively with chatter, laughter, and milling about, it was now a scene of anxious silence. Dozens of submissives were struck by and drawn to the vibes of circling sharks. The males quickly ascertained it was not them being cruised and did their best (a few with obvious reluctance) to fade into the background; at least as much as possible in an area 20’x 20’ enclosed with 10’chainlink fencing. It was crowded but not uncomfortable. The females (all seventeen of them) held their heads lowered, eyes darting about; most of the subs now skittish as caged mice.
The pen was a melting pot; whites, blacks, Asians, Latinos, Italians, mixes; ages ranged from nineteen (the minim permitted inside Isis) up to their late twenties. They were a1l sneaking looks at Spencer and Chondra. Rarely did such raw power prowl the pen.
And there was the promise of that stinger-cat.
Chondra saw that a delicate young black girl caught Spencer’s eye, and knew it. The poor thing trembled like a startled doe, then, head lowered, darted over to one of the small padded benches and sat down. Amused, Chondra watched her begin studying the carpet, letting him know by body-language she would wear their collar (with the permission of her Mistress).
Her body-language was called “sub-speak” and was but one of several ways submissives opened the door of invitation. Speaking to cruising dominates was forbidden, but ultimately it would be the sub, one whose Mistress was not averse to sharing, who would make the final decision if chosen.
Now that one of the girls made a move the others began doing the same. Unavailable subs were rarely placed in the pen, and like moths to a flame, they began jockeying for position as if pulled towards the fencing; subtly vying for attention, sensing strongly that these two “tops” were offering something fierce, frightening, and fabulous.
A brazen, compact little blonde Chondra thought cute apparently decided it was a fine time to use one of the several kitty-litter boxes in a corner alcove of fencing. Chondra walked over and spoke to the sub while holding the thick handle of her whip. “Lucky for you, little vixen, that my King has eyes for another.”
The sub, kneeling on her haunches above the litter box, frowned towards Spencer, looked up at Chondra with smoky brown eyes, bit down on her bottom lip, and strained.
Chondra tried not to, but smiled. “You little hussy!”
She peeled off a glove, knelt, and placed her palm flat against the fencing, her forefinger poking through the chain link. “Suck on this,” she commanded, “while you do your business, nasty harlot.” The sub licked her lips and did as she was told.
Near the gate Spencer decided on the Hershey’s Kiss, who was giving him her profile with eyes lowered, knees together, hands on her thighs. He was swinging the collar from side to side by the leash, when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a baldheaded number of questionable race scowling at his choice. She was a soft and sexy looking baby-fat beauty; olive skin like a well-roasted sunbather, heavy breasts, nipples pierced with gold barbells, and there was a crystal teardrop in her navel. She turned a piercing gaze on him and Spencer saw ice-blue eyes that gave her an exotic flavor made more so by her perfectly clean-shaven head. Around her neck was a sheepskin collar clasped with a tiny gold padlock. Well, look at you...
Aqua turned back to the posing black girl and smirked. Little Ms. Braids-And-Beads was hardly worthy of these two night-stalkers. She felt his attention, lowered her head and touched the thumb and pinkie of her left hand to her right bicep, letting him know she was Society. For her the medallion around his neck was a neon sign. She bounced her pinkie twice and her thumb twice; she and her Mistress possessed a Black Heart security clearance.

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