STANDARD DISCLAIMER
===================
The following piece of fiction is intended as ADULT entertainment and
has been posted only to an appropriate group on the Internet. If it is
found in any other place this is not the responsibility of the author.
The author explicitly prohibits.
1) The posting of this story in an incomplete form.
2) The use of this story in a larger work without his express
permission.
3) The use of this story on any CD, BBS or Website without the
written permission of the author.
This work is copyright TM Quin 1997.
All characters in this story are fictitious, any similarity to
persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The author does not
necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities detailed in this
story, some of which are dangerous or illegal.
Quin 1997
tmquin@ibm.net
Notes on Doc's Orders (Special Edition)
================================
What is "The Hitchhiker's Guide to Slavery?"
================================
"The Hitchhiker's Guide to Slavery, " was the first of a series called
"Scattered Scenes," an impromptu set of sexually orientated short
stories written for the Internet. They are an artifact of the way in
which I write large stories. I'm not a professional writer, I find it
hard to stay focused on any one piece long enough to finish it.
Worse, I work by trial and error. I could have spent a whole day
writing a scene then discover that there was something about it I
didn't like. Usually I write either another version of the scene or
perhaps replace it completely. The cut material ends up littering my
hard disk as a number of .cut files.
"Scattered Scenes" is a way of reusing this material. Basically I
write a wrapper around the scene, enough new material to make the
scene stand as a story in it's own right. Once done the stories are
posted. The idea is to reuse the work already done without doing too
much extra writing.
What is the Relationship between "Hitchhiker's" and "Doc"
============================================
In March while finishing up "Hitchhiker's" I was involved in a fatal
car crash. This had two immediate effects. First, I was off work and
second I was on powerful pain killing drugs.
"Hitchhiker's" proved quite popular and requests started coming in for
an expanded story or sequel. Having the time I started expanding
"Hitchhiker's.." into a larger work using amongst other things bit's
and pieces of other unfinished stories.
What is a "Special Edition."
===================
This is a film industry term meaning the version of the film that
contains extra material not in the original release. There may be many
reasons why this material wasn't originally used, the film could be
too long, the scene considered irrelevant. In recent times George
Lucas has extended this concept to include the idea of new material
placed into an older film so that it more perfectly reflects the
director's original vision.
Why "Doc's Orders" the Special Edition?
==============================
When I originally wrote "Doc" I was under some pretty major
medication. (If you have ever been curious as to how Tom Quin writes
when seriously stoned then "Doc" could provide that answer.)
I made what it retrospect were a number of bad edits to incorporate
extra "Scattered Scenes" material into "Doc" which caused the
occasional jump in the dialogue. In addition there were several scenes
that ended up foreshortened because I simply didn't have the
concentration to finish them. As a result I was far from happy with
"Doc" and started looking for a way to improve it.
I'm luckier than most in that my family contains a real life editor in
the form of my eldest sister Emma. While I got to work on expanding
the cut scenes I passed the rest to her to clean up. Unfortunately
doing this sort of thing all day means you don't want to do it at
night on your own time. Emma's progress was glacial.
Then in June she got an option on a book she's been writing and the
progress on "Doc" shifted down to geologic. Which is why now six
months or so after we started we have only just finished.
Emma would like it known that any spark of genius in this manuscript
is probably her's and any fuck ups definately mine. If nothing else
this story shows what a difference a good editor makes.
What about the old version of the story?
============================
The original version will not be reposted. I request that anyone who
has story on a BBS or website upgrades to this edition as soon as
possible. While there are bound to be people who prefer the original
clunky version, it is the Special Edition that will form the basis for
the forthcoming sequel.
What Pictures are Associated with this story?
======================================
A number of pictures are associated with this story. As stated before
many times the stories are written first, then if a simular picture
turns up I'll use it. As a consquence there may be differences
in costume and bondage between the picture and the text.
These images are available on the binaries pictures groups and on many
web sites.
TARSI067.JPG -- Making Maria "comfortable."
BISH0843.JPG -- Examining Beth
DO1.JPG/BDILL009.JPG -- Slave uniform
BISH00337.JPG -- Kitten the house slave.
0086_36A.JPG -- JoJo and Myra go to town.
BD004.JPG/CLX039.JPG -- Becky bound.
BD031.JPG -- Sandra's turn
BISH0229.JPG -- "Gag that slave!"
*****************************************************************
STANDARD DISCLAIMER
===================
The following piece of fiction is intended as ADULT entertainment and
has been posted only to an appropriate group on the Internet. If it is
found in any other place this is not the responsibility of the author.
The author explicitly prohibits.
1) The posting of this story in an incomplete form.
2) The use of this story in a larger work without his express
permission.
3) The use of this story on any CD, BBS or Website without the
written permission of the author.
This work is copyright TM Quin 1997.
All characters in this story are fictitious, any similarity to
persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The author does not
necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities detailed in this
story, some of which are dangerous or illegal.
Quin 1997
tmquin@ibm.net
Doc's Orders by Quin
==================
Chapter 1 "The Hitchhikers Guide to Slavery"
=============================================
I was on my way back from Vermont, thanks to Doc and his frigging
timing. Okay, so I admit, I *had* promised to look after his delivery
problems myself. I can even vaguely remember taking the retainer.
But I hadn't agreed to work Easter week, especially not during my
first vacation in three years (I didn't even get a chance to christen
my new Snowboard, for God's sake). Whatever the job was, I grumbled
to myself, it had better be worth ditching an entire week's worth of
ski lodge rental.
Doc's phone call had come that morning, his British accent ever so
polite and demanding: "But Charles, old boy, I thought we had a deal.
You know that I wouldn't ask if the assignment didn't require your
special flair. Besides, I believe Kitten is preparing a special
dinner, and you *know* how much she looks forward to having you over.
. ."
Kitten. He knew I couldn't refuse her. She was my invisible leash,
his guarantee that he could reel me back at any time. So here I was,
cruising the back roads of Worcester County, MA on an cold, overcast
Easter evening, wondering why he needed me so damn desperately.
I was so busy thinking about Kitten, and Doc, and this mysterious
problem of his that I didn't even notice the girls at first. We've
all seen hitch-hikers from time to time -- huddled by the side of the
road, waving those pathetic little signs at the passing traffic. They
look at you with such hope as you approach that it's almost impossible
to drive away without feeling like a complete jerk. I mean, most of
the time when I'm working I'm simply not allowed to stop, but somehow
that doesn't make me feel any less guilty.
But the moment I saw those two, I could tell there was something
wrong. They had no sign, no warm clothes -- hell, they didn't even
signal until I was almost past them. I glanced in my mirror. Two
young girls, alone and in the middle of nowhere. In some countries it
would be a trap, an obvious setup by carjackers or robbers who thought
they could make it as modern highwaymen, but this was New England and
I didn't think any of the local muggers would bother with something
like this. Still, five years of Advanced Recon teaches you to take
nothing at face value. I pulled up a good distance ahead of them,
picking my spot so that any potential ambusher would have to break
cover to reach me.
I watched in the mirror as they ran up to the car. The leading girl
looked to be sixteen or seventeen, well built, about 5'9" with blonde
hair just hitting the top of her shoulders. She was dressed in a
fitted leather jacket and a knee-length plaid skirt, a weird
combination for this weather. Even weirder, there was something
_familiar_ about it, something I could almost recognize, but in the
dimming light I couldn't quite make it out. In any case, the outfit
couldn't have been very warm, although she had the intelligence to
wear a sensible pair of shoes. The pack she carried was small, good
for maybe a couple of days, and the lack of a bedroll or tent bag made
it clear that these two weren't planning on a long stay in the Great
Outdoors. Off in the distance, her friend seemed to have prepared a
little better. I got the impression of a mop of dark hair over a
yellow waterproof jacket, below which was a pair of jeans and some
scuffed black ankle boots.
Now, let me just state that I stopped purely for humanitarian reasons,
I wouldn't have left a dog out on a night like that, much less two
human beings. However, by the time they reached me, I admit that I'd
started to see the possibilities in the situation. I grinned a little
as the blonde drew level with the car. It was obvious what she was
thinking -- youngish guy, on his own, in a large old car. The whole
thing must've screamed 'run away as fast as you can'. She hesitated,
looking back towards her friend, and that's when I made my decision.
The location certainly helped. I knew this area quite well, since
Doc's place was only a few miles away, and this road was a quiet
two-lane only used by locals, so they'd probably been here a while.
I wound the window down. "You girls are lucky I came along," I said,
trying to sound asexual and friendly. "Not much traffic comes this
way after dark, and that storm will be here real soon."
The blonde looked up at the sky. It was overcast and showers were
definitely on the way, although I think _storm_ was pushing it. While
she thought about it, I checked out her friend. This one looked like
she had some Spanish or Mexican blood in her, with large brown eyes
and curly dark brown hair, but her skin had this gorgeous pale
porcelain quality that came straight from Northern Europe. She was
about the same age as the blonde, although the serious expression on
her face made her seem more mature.
The blonde was obviously waiting for her opinion. The dark girl gave
me a long, steady once-over. I figured she was the practical one of
the pair, something she confirmed when she silently shook her head.
Time for more pressure, "Don't have all day ladies," I said
indifferently. "Hell, I don't even know if I'm going wherever you're
headed."
"W...worcester?" the blonde blurted.
"Nope -- I'm going to Bolton," I said firmly, as if I expected them to
argue. "But I could drop you by I-91. You can get a lift into
Worcester from there." I looked around, raising an eyebrow. "Well,
it would be easier than gettin' one around here, anyway."
The blonde looked at her friend, begging with her eyes. I watched as
the dark-haired girl did the calculation. Two of them, one of me. I
got the feeling that if she'd been on her own she'd have waited for
something less risky, but her friend was already cold, and if they
stayed here much longer they would get caught by the rain. Finally,
she nodded, proving that she wasn't that smart after all. The blonde
sighed in thanks and headed towards the trunk.
"Uh-uh. No good going there, sweetheart," I said, jerking my thumb at
the back of the car. "Trunk's full. You'll have to put your stuff on
the back seat." She flushed a little when I called her "sweetheart."
I liked that -- made her look cute. "You can dump those packs on the
seat behind me, then one of you can ride up front. It'll make it
easier to talk."
I watched as they did that silent consultation again. Neither of them
really wanted to talk, but if that was the price of the lift. . .
The brunette nodded again, and the blonde opened the back door,
throwing the packs on the back seat before moving to let her friend
get in. Part one was complete; I had separated them. The blonde came
forward to the passenger door, struggling out of her jacket.
Underneath it, she wore a tight polo neck sweater in a dark green
color, echoing a green in the tartan skirt. I blinked as the memory
piece clicked in place. Now that I could see the complete outfit, I
recognized it immediately. It was the uniform of an exclusive
Catholic boarding school nearby -- I always thought of it as the
Virginal Preserve of St. Mary Buttclench. The sweater may have been
the regulation style and color, but she'd obviously taken some trouble
to tailor it, emphasizing a set of nice curves. I waited, expecting
the brunette to do the same, but the yellow coat stayed firmly in
place. She was going to be difficult.
Time for some introductions. "Hi," I said, offering my hand to the
blonde. "Charlie Parker."
She stared at my hand, long enough for me to get the message and pull
it back. That's fine, honey, I thought -- just wait until later.
"I'm Beth," she murmured, punctuating it with a little shrug. "And
that's Maria."
They didn't comment on my 'name' -- no jazz fans here, I thought. I
also noticed that she didn't give any surnames. I glanced back at
Maria, who just nodded politely, her body tight and weary. I noticed
that she'd positioned herself close to the door, although she was
sensible enough to use the seat belt. Good. If what I had in mind
was going to work, I definitely needed to have little Maria wearing
her belt.
I smiled. "Doesn't say much, your friend," I said as we pulled away.
Beth gave that little shrug again. "We had a bad experience a couple
of hours ago. A truck driver. He said he'd give us a lift but. . ."
"Aw, man. No wonder you looked so worried." I shook my head,
staunchly disapproving of all the perverts and wackos in the world.
"I have to admit, I was wondering what two girls from Saint Mary's
were doing on a road in the middle of nowhere."
They both stiffened. "S-saint Mary's?" Beth stammered.
Interesting reaction. I decided to probe a little further. "Yeah --
I recognized the uniform. You _are_ from there, right?"
The tension in the car went straight off the graph. Something was
going on between these two, something they didn't want to be
identified with, and I had just blown their hopes for anonymity.
"What makes you think that?" Beth said, stalling. She was obviously
caught between the need to deny everything and the disbelief that some
bozo in an old Ford could even possibly know about St. Mary's. It
was an exclusive school of the old line, the kind that daughters of
congressmen and diplomats attended. As far as I was concerned, it was
a training ground for girls who had the idea that they're better that
the rest of humanity breast-fed to them along with mama's milk, a
place where they learned how to use that long, sharp edge of wit and
breeding against the lower classes. I'd found that much out from
bitter experience.
I kept the easy smile, but I could feel a hot little caper of glee
inside. It was time to sink a little misinformation into this
upper-class piece. "Well, my wife's an old girl," I said sweetly.
"The uniform's been updated a little since her day, but the tartan in
the skirt is unmistakable."
"Tartan?" Her forehead wrinkled. "Ohhh -- you mean the plaid."
I nodded. The tartan _was_ distinctive, belonging to the family of
one of the school's founders. Of course, few people outside the Ivy
League set even knew that St. Mary's existed, never mind being able
to identify the tartan on sight. I had my own reasons for being so
familiar with it. I could feel Beth looking me over, wheels clicking
in her mind. It was obvious I didn't fit her impression of a suitable
husband for a St. Mary's girl. Still, it's hard to tell these days
-- I once stood next to Bruce Willis in a store in San Francisco, and
I was better dressed than he was. As far as they knew, I could be a
rock star or a corporate robber baron slumming at his New England
retreat. The question was, could I be somebody who would remember
them? Or worse, report them?
I decided to let her off the hook. "Check the yearbook for '82 when
you get back," I said, making it up as I went. "Her maiden name was
Jennifer O'Neil. Pretty redhead, don't think she got any special
distinctions. She was a day girl there for four years."
"Oh. A day girl." Beth visibly relaxed. I understood why -- day
girls were usually on scholarships, normal middle-class Boston girls
that the school took in to maintain their Christian piety. She didn't
say anything, but her body language spoke volumes; she'd been
terrified that we'd meet at some Alumni party, afraid that I moved in
the same exclusive circles she did. Afraid that their presence here
might somehow make it back to the school or daddy? Seemed reasonable.
She cleared her throat. "I know a few day girls," she continued, with
that distinctive upper-class whine that came straight off the nose and
managed to sound amused and condescending at the same time. "They're.
. .nice, I guess. And smart. Well, I mean, they'd have to be, for
them to get into St. Mary's."
I clutched the steering wheel a little tighter, ignoring the impulse
to backhand her. Five minutes ago she'd been a little girl freezing
her butt off by the side of the road, an object of pity even for me.
Now, after a few minutes in a warm car, all of her patronizing
instincts were reasserting themselves. Any last traces of reluctance
on my part disappeared -- Bethie baby had sealed her fate with her own
words.
"Yep, that's what Jen said, too," I said, blithely ignoring the
attitude. "She was on a scholarship for poor girls from South Boston.
She says that it's a great school, although she did take some ragging
about her neighborhood." I watched Beth's reaction, and Maria's in
the mirror, feeling the tension between them finally burst. I was
nobody important, and there was precious little chance that I would
mention seeing them to anyone they needed to worry about.
Now that I had them relaxed, I decided to change the subject onto
something a little safer. "So, what about this trucker who gave you a
bad time?"
Oh, yeah, Beth's ego was back with a vengeance. "He was an awful,
awful man. He said that he'd take us to Worcester straight away," she
complained, wrinkling that little patrician nose in distaste. "But
once we were out of town he started to change. He pulled off the
Interstate and started making lewd suggestions. When we wouldn't do
what he wanted, he threw us out."
I thought about this. The place I'd found them was quiet, and there
were large numbers of wooded side roads big enough to take a semi.
Friend trucker probably thought he had a party on his hands and tried
to get some privacy, and I had no doubt whatsoever that these two had
encouraged him. Despite what you see on TV, truckers aren't
sex-crazed maniacs. Most of them work for big companies, and those
companies run a virtual cartel. No trucker in his right mind would be
willing to risk his job for two little tramps like these, not when
there was so much pussy available on the road. If he'd turned off the
interstate, it was because _someone_ had given him the idea that he
would be rewarded.
I decided to play with their minds a little. "So what kind of lewd
suggestions did this guy make?" I wondered.
She shrugged, uncomfortable. "Well, you know. . ." she trailed off.
"I'm afraid I don't," I said virtuously. "The only young lady *I*
make lewd comments to these days is my wife. I take it from your
reactions that he was expecting something from you?" I tried to sound
as disapproving as possible." Something. . .intimate?"
She nodded indignantly.
"And how old are you girls?"
"Sixteen."
"Man. Well, I hope you took the guy's number," I said, trying to
sound convincingly shocked. Poor bastard. "He sounds like a complete
sleazeball."
"Oh, we got it all right," Beth said proudly. "And when we get back,
we intend to send his company a letter."
Anonymously, of course. After all, I thought, they wouldn't want to
explain what they were doing hitchhiking to Worcester.
Doc's was now only twenty or thirty miles away. Soon enough, my
relationship with these two charming ladies would have to get a little
unpleasant. I intended to put that off as long as possible, since
every mile closer to Doc's was a bonus. To keep them distracted, I
started chatting, asking about the school and dropping the names of a
few of the teachers that had been there when I'd lived nearby. As I'd
expected, Maria said nothing, but Beth was a fountain of information.
I didn't get any closer to who they were or why they were going to
Worcester, but she was more than happy to rattle on about what Daddy
and Mommy did. Turns out Maria's father was a banker of some kind,
working out of the country for Chase Manhattan, and her mother was
some socialite type from Long Island. I felt the disapproval from
Maria as Beth let that little gem slip, but it shouldn't have
surprised her. Both of them had been raised in an world where what
you did wasn't as important as who you were and who you knew. Name
dropping was second nature to my Bethie -- too young to have much
influence herself, she relied on hints about her access to power in
order to impress me.
And then, I felt an electric shock go through me as she started
talking about her own family. Her father was a lawyer, she said, some
medium ranking partner in a large Boston firm who was content to bide
his time and wait for his more senior colleagues to die. Her mother
was a Walters from Back Bay.
Back Bay.
I glanced at her, obliquely studying the lines of her face. Once I
knew what to look for, the resemblance was definitely there. I smiled
to myself. Little did Bethie know that she was about to fulfill a
fantasy I'd had for twenty years.
I started on the final stretch towards Doc's place, waiting for the
inevitable. Having been in the Service, I have this habit of thinking
that everyone has the same sense of direction that I do. But
apparently neither of the girls could tell that we were headed away
from Worcester. Finally, after about ten minutes of scowling silence,
Maria said, "We should have reached the Interstate by now!"
It was an accusation, a challenge of sorts. To some extent, I kinda
liked Beth. She was stupid, arrogant and vain, but wasn't really that
unfriendly. Maria, however, seemed to be a real ball breaker. It was
going to be interesting to see what happened with her. I kept my eyes
on the road and grinned. "Normally, we should have," I agreed.
Beth turned towards me, the first faint traces of real fear in her
eyes. "But--"
"Oh, relax. All I meant was, I'm taking the scenic route. I'm not
about to leave you two by an on-ramp in the middle of nowhere.
There's an oasis a few miles further down the Interstate. You can
wait where it's warm, and you'll have a better chance of getting a
lift from there to Worcester."
"An oasis?"
I sighed. God save me from stupid upper-class cunts. "A truck stop,"
I explained. "I couldn't go back to the wife and tell her that I left
two St. Mary's girls to fend for themselves on a night like this,
now, could I?"
Beth was satisfied, but Maria was more cautious. "If this place
exists, why not use the Interstate to get to it?" she asked.
Snotty little bitch. I shrugged. "That section's a toll road. I'm
willing to help you girls out, but I don't see why I should have to
pay for it."
That shut Maria up, but I could tell the honeymoon was over. The next
time I needed to adjust the lights I reached over and threw an
unmarked switch near the driver's door. From now on the clock was
ticking. It would only take them a few minutes to realize what I'd
done, then all hell would break loose. Fortunately I knew of a
perfect place not far from here. It was quiet and private, and if I
could reach it my troubles would be over.
'If' is a million dollar word. It's Fate's way of reaching down and
grabbing your nuts -- you never know if she's going to squeeze them
until they pop, or let go. In this case she seemed to like what she
was holding, because the girls didn't say another thing until I turned
onto a gravel road and drove into the woods. As we pulled into a
little clearing, they finally realized what had happened. By then, of
course, it was far too late.
Beth reacted first. "What the -- what are you doing?" she demanded.
I smiled as I stopped the car. "End of the line, sweetheart."
It must've been my grin. Her hand flashed down to the release button
of her seat belt and pressed the little red button.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, and again. I watched, amused, as she pounded it
harder, but wouldn't you know it, the darn thing simply would not
release. About this time she tried to move forward, not understanding
that the seat belt reel was also locked and she was effectively pinned
to her seat. I checked my mirror for Maria, who was starting to come
to the same realization.
Beth let rip with an ear-shattering scream. No surprise there, as I'd
marked her as a mouthy bitch from the start, but a car is a small
enclosed area -- my ears were ringing. The big surprise was how
little fuss Maria made. She just sat there, watching both of us with
huge, hollow eyes. I suppose it's the problem with being too
cerebral; you can't handle the quick changes all that well.
Still, it gave me a little more time for the necessary preparations.
Ignoring Beth's howls as well as I could, I reached under my seat and
found the small cloth bag I'd velcro'd there. I don't think Beth even
saw the handcuffs until it was too late. She was so busy pawing at
her belt and shrieking that I had her first wrist locked before she
knew it. She continued to struggle as I passed the other bracelet
through the lap belt and caught her free hand, but by then it was
over. With her hands chained to her waist, she couldn't stop me from
forcing the ball gag into her screaming mouth. I tightened the strap
and the car was suddenly, blessedly quiet. She made a few muffled
sounds and I could hear Maria whispering a prayer.
That's when Beth burst into tears. She shifted to face me and tried
to say something, but the only thing that came out from behind the gag
was muffled moaning. Her body language, however, was eloquent as
hell. Hands clutched together, eyes wide, she was silently begging
for her life. Oh, yeah. I felt a wave of satisfaction at a job well
done. I didn't bother to reassure her (I mean, considering where they
were going, why should I?) -- my next priority was making Maria
"comfortable."
The seat belt trick had been rigged by a friend of mine. Tiny
solenoids activated by the dashboard switch locked the buckle and reel
mechanisms on all the passenger belts, leaving the driver free to
move. I'd only used it once before on a multiple snatch, pardon the
pun, and that experience had led me to ask for a number of
refinements. Time to see if they worked.
I got out and walked around to Maria's door. She was still struggling
a little bit, probably out of habit. If she'd wanted to, she could
have reached over and ungagged Beth, but she seemed to know it
wouldn't do any good. After all, Beth had been _very_ vocal for most
of the last five minutes -- my eardrums were still throbbing -- and no
one had come.
Another set of cuffs in hand and ball gag ready in my jacket pocket, I
opened Maria's door and pushed a button on my key fob. There was a
loud click as her seat belt disengaged. She froze for a second, then,
with a speed that surprised even me, she sprang from the car. I
lunged after her, grabbing the coat. We struggled for a second, and
she managed to slip out of it, heading for the trees. That was
absolutely fine. Grinning, I threw the coat away and started after
her. I wasn't really worried; her only chance was to make for the
road and hope she could find someone to flag down before I got to her,
and she was heading the wrong way for that. I'll give her this much
-- she was good, probably a track star at school, but here she was in
my world. No amount of sand track practice can prepare you for
running on broken ground at night.
She almost reached the trees when an exposed root brought her down. I
jumped on her, forcing her face into the moist black loam. She gasped
for breath, choking on the dirt as I cuffed her hands behind her back.
Somehow, she found the air for one scream. But even then, it seemed,
I don't know -- half-hearted. Like her struggles in the car, it was
as much a need to _appear_ to be doing something as it was a serious
attempt to escape.
Digging the ball gag out of my pocket, I forced it into her mouth and
tightened the straps. She finally stopped struggling, and I let her
get her breath back before pulling her up and dragging her back to the
car. As we got closer I could hear Beth's muffled sobs. In the
twilight, I could just see her through the window, and I smiled at her
look of despair when she saw us. I think she really believed Maria
would get away. Feeling a little better, I dragged Maria towards the
back of the car.
I paused by the trunk and opened it, grabbing my bag and snowboard and
propping them next to the car. Maria decided to start struggling
again but I wasn't in a mood to play anymore, so I slammed the heel of
my foot against the back of her leg, hearing the muffled squeal as she
collapsed to the ground. Next to the spare wheel was a larger bag
with more supplies. Plucking it out, I turned to find Maria trying to
crawl away. Spunky little thing. I grabbed her by the shoulders and
carried her the few feet to her discarded coat, dumping her on it.
Then I opened my bag and went to work.
I used a couple of straps to fasten her legs together temporarily at
knees and ankles. This was just to stop her struggling too much as I
applied the duct tape. Great stuff, duct tape. I started at her
ankles, winding the tape tightly around her legs until I reached the
knees. These I left free as I had to be able to bend her legs, but I
wrapped another band of tape halfway up her thighs to pinion them
together. Wrists and forearms were similarly bound. Like Beth, Maria
had been wearing a polo necked sweater underneath her raincoat. Now,
duct tape over jeans makes a viable bond, but I was a little worried
about the wool of the shirt stretching. I thought about it, then
recovered the straps from her legs and reused them above and below her
elbows, as added insurance.
Maria had nice tits, and now that her arms were pulled back they were
thrust out in a very appealing way. I paused a second to have a quick
grope and listen to her muffled protests. She was still a little too
loud for my taste. Rolling her over, I removed the ball gag and
replaced it with an inflatable bladder. I used a small pump to
inflate this until her cheeks were distended and her eyes bulged.
Satisfied, I secured it in place first with layer after layer of duct
tape, and finally with a tight Ace bandage. Another grope test found
Maria effectively silenced. I finished up by using a couple of straps
to hog-tie her wrists to her ankles. She complained a little, or at
least tried to, but she was a realist despite that little show of
defiance earlier. She knew it was all over the moment she'd been
unable to unfasten the seat belt -- all she wanted now was to survive
this.
I admit she gave me some problems when she realized she was destined
for the trunk, but she was in no position to stop me. As soon as I'd
got her nicely tucked inside, I threw her coat on top and closed the
lid. Then my bags and snow board joined their packs on the back seat.
Little Bethie was waiting for me, after all.
###
My brilliant career as a kidnapper got started after I'd left the
service, just after Desert Storm. There had been a fraternization
problem between myself and a female Navy officer. Now, we aren't
talking Tailhook here; in fact, she outranked me. As we were on our
own time and there were no husbands or wives to get hurt, I never saw
it as anyone's business but our own. But they say that dress whites
and Marine green don't mix, even though we did OK there for a while.
The brass didn't see it that way, however, and decided someone had to
pay. I was on my final tour intending to re-up later that year, so I
was the obvious candidate. She was young and ambitious -- I was old
and cynical, so I cut a deal. No charges, I just left at the end of
my final tour and saved her from the scuttlebutt.
I kicked around for a while after I got out, but to be honest I'd been
a grunt too long to be good at anything else. Mercenary work just
didn't interest me. Hell, I'd fought and some of my buddies had died
to make the New World Order, and I didn't feel like helping to break
it up again.
Then I came across Doc in a gambling house. The old bastard was one
hell of a poker player, and after he cleaned me out with a full house
we'd got to talking. Okay, at that point he'd been buying, so I did
most of the talking. After a lot of extremely good Scotch, he asked
if I wanted to make some good money for a delivery job. I thought he
meant drugs at first. Bumming around looking for work wasn't all that
appealing, but the idea of being picked up by some hyper Feds on a
drug-running charge wasn't too swell, either. When I told him that,
Doc just laughed at me and told me not to be an idiot.
I took another mental look at my bank account, and finally figured
that anyone taking that stuff deserved what they got. Doc had his
delivery boy, and I had a positive cash flow again.
So we went back to his hotel room, where he introduced me to a
beautiful Asian girl called Mi Lin. I figured Mi was a hooker he'd
hired for the night, but I was a little surprised when he offered me
her services. I admit that those little oriental chicks always pushed
my buttons, and this one was _so_ willing. I'd been around the world
and used the local pros in just about every country you can imagine,
but I've never met any hooker who was so eager to please as Mi Lin.
You know the drill -- some don't do oral, some don't do anal, some
won't even kiss you. Mi never said no to anything -- she had this
long, long tongue, and licked me all over before giving me the most
fantastic blowjob I have ever had in my life. Then, just before I was
about to come in her mouth, she let it slip out with this obscene
little plop, smiled at me, and climbed up to slip my cock into her
cunt instead. I almost blew it right then and there. In the end, I'm
glad I didn't, because then I would've missed watching her moan and
wriggle as she rode me like a rocking horse. Tight, wet -- you
wouldn't believe the things her pussy could do. And she had this cute
habit of calling me *Master* all the time. Quite literally, she was
the best fuck I'd ever had.
The next day Doc turned up, all smiles and British cool. I expected
him to give me a briefcase or something, but instead he told me to
deliver Mi Lin to a cat house in New Mexico. It would take two or
three days, he said, and of course I could use her as I saw fit during
that time as long as I didn't damage the merchandise. I expected Mi
to object, but she seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement. I
must've looked a little dubious, because Doc finally told me what he
did for a living.
Doc was a trainer of slaves. No, that's too simplistic -- he was a
_creator_ of slaves, just like any painter or sculptor was a creator
of art. He could take any normal, healthy woman and turn her into an
obedient sex machine in a little under six weeks. It was hard to
believe at first, but Doc claimed that Mi was living proof. I don't
know what Mi had been doing two months before, but now she was content
to fuck and suck all night long. When I took her on the trip to New
Mexico, I half expected her to jump ship at the first opportunity, but
she seemed happy to be going along, as if she was looking forward to
her new life as a Mexican whore.
At first, I couldn't see how Doc's business worked. Hundreds of
runaways flood into New York every year, and there are pimps and
pushers at every street corner just waiting for them. Want a sex
slave? Just pluck a girl off the street, beat her a little, pump her
full of smack until she's hooked, then put her to work. That first
year all I did was deliver slaves while Doc paid me a fortune to be a
glorified taxi driver, and I still couldn't see how he made his money.
Who would pay for something that complex when junk and intimidation
was cheaper?
Then, as I experienced more of Doc's girls (one of the perks of being
his taxi driver), I began to understand. They were extremely willing,
and amazingly responsive to a man's needs. While you were with them,
you were literally the center of their world. They loved sex; in
fact, they seem to physically _need_ it. When they looked at your
dick, the hunger in those eyes was real. When you fucked them, they
really did enjoy it. There was no hint of deception, she wasn't
faking it or making out her shopping list while you were screwing her
-- she really did come and come. And Doc's girls were conditioned to
_like_ you, not just fuck you. Do you have any idea just how
intoxicating that is? To have a woman actually like what you say and
who you are, without qualification or compromise? To know that she's
happy just to be with you? That made any man, no matter what he looks
like, feel like a prince.
Then, of course, there's the sex. Doc's training protocol gives his
girls mouths that a Las Vegas showgirl would envy -- one of their blow
jobs can hold a man at the edge of ecstasy for a lifetime. And when
they fuck, it's like nothing you've ever known; body weight, internal
muscles, they use it all in a sex act that's nothing short of
incredible. Best of all, they'll literally do _anything you say._ I
began to see how a brothel owner could corner the market, to the point
where he could force his competition out of business. And with this
kind of programming, Doc's girls could continue to command top dollar
for years after a normal girl would be forced to retire. They were
more expensive initially, but Doc's slaves outlasted dozens of drugged
up runaways.
After I'd been working for Doc for about a year, he asked me if I
wanted to try recruiting, as he called it. Like I'd say no. We
usually picked runaways or prostitutes, women who could go missing
without being noticed. Occasionally, though, we got special orders
though Doc's contacts. The average contract was a guy who wanted his
ex-wife, jilting girlfriend or pushy boss turned into your basic fuck
toy. Because of the risks, these jobs often paid better than
providing a fresh slave, but they also needed someone with a certain
set of skills. That's where I came in. I pulled twenty-three
kidnappings last year, none of which have ever been reported. I've
become the ultimate predator, the biggest, baddest cat in the jungle.
I know my territory and my prey, know what to risk and when.
And like a cat, I sometimes play with my victims.
###
The moment I'd seen Beth in the full St. Mary's uniform, some
twenty-year-old feelings of pain and anger came back in a rush. And
when she opened her mouth about who Mommy and Daddy were, I knew just
how it was going to be. Somewhere, God had to be laughing his ass
off. It may seem unfair that the girls were about to pay for someone
else's mistake, but it did have a certain symmetry. Besides, every
St. Mary's girl I'd ever met was a total bitch, and these two showed
no signed of being any different.
I smiled at Beth, who wriggled in her seat as much as the belt would
allow. I had something special in store for her and it started with a
gag. Reaching into the bag, I found what I wanted. It was a rubber
mouthpiece, with the front part shaped a little like a boxer's gum
shield. One of Doc's perverted friends, a dentist who was called in
if a slave needed dental work, made it for me. Once, in a drunken
stupor, I'd explained an idea I had to him. The next time I'd visited
Doc, a parcel had been waiting for me. . .
Carefully I filled the gum shield with a special resin. She watched
silently probably trying to figure what I was doing. When I was ready
I took a strap from the bag and slipped it loosely around her neck. I
should've guessed she'd panic. She started shaking her head,
blabbering and crying through the gag.
"Stop it!" I ordered. "I have no intention of strangling you -- that
isn't what the strap is for. Now cut it out or I'll hit you."
She stopped, eyes full of fear.
Quickly, I unbuckled the ball gag. Before she had time to respond, I
shoved the rubber mouthpiece between her teeth. As she shook her head
and tried to spit it out, I forced one end of the strap under her jaw
and the other over her head, then tightened it, clamping her teeth
down on the gum shield. She blubbered, but she couldn't get her mouth
open. Next came the cuffs. Up front was good, behind was better. I
released her seat belt, then one wrist. She tried to resist but
didn't have the leverage to do anything useful. I pulled a small loop
of fishing twine loose from the seat and threaded the cuffs through
it, then refastened her wrist behind her. She tugged for a while
before realizing that there was no give in the new position. As she
was busy with that, I replaced the seat belt and pushed the magic
button to lock it. She tried to move forward but found that she was
strapped into the chair again.
Reaching into the bag, I next selected a leg clincher, a device that
straps around the thighs and clamps the legs together. She struggled
with that, too, and as her legs weren't currently bound it was a hell
of a job to get the clincher on and tightened. However, once it was
done the effect was perfect -- Beth's upper legs were completely
immobilized. Lower legs were more of a problem. I have some special
boots at home that are ideal for this, but of course you never have
what you need on hand when you need it. Instead, I used an
interesting thingy that Kitten had come up with -- a length of a
rubber material covered with cotton cloth on the outside and fitted
with an adjustable Velcro fastener. Reaching down, I wrapped it
tightly around Beth's lower legs, just above her ankles, then fastened
an eye on the device to a small hook under the seat. She moaned a
little but now she couldn't move her legs at all.
Then I removed the chin strap, sitting back so I could see her
reaction. For a second her eyes bulged, then she gurgled. I smiled.
The resin had set, cementing her teeth to the gum shield and locking
her jaws closed. Still, her gurgles were too loud. Forcing her lips
apart I located the small valve set in the front of the gum shield and
inserted the pump I'd used earlier with Maria. As the bladder in the
mouthpiece started to inflate, Beth's cries became more and more
muffled. When I thought she was quiet enough, I removed the pump and
did a grope test to confirm. Yep, silent as the grave.
Now for the piece de resistance. I stuck a strip of flesh colored
tape over her mouth, being very careful to work it around her lips.
The tape was thin and except for color differences it was hard to tell
where her skin stopped and the tape started. I managed to apply a
layer of foundation makeup to her face and the tape, and after a few
threats she held still enough for me to apply the next layer. I
finished by painting a pair of pouty lips on the tape with lip gloss.
Sitting right next to her, I couldn't see the join. The tape was
invisible, and the gloss lips looked like they were her own. Even a
few feet away it would be impossible to tell she was gagged.
Together, the mouthpiece and tape were almost a 100% effective -- you
could stand a few feet away and wouldn't notice a thing. I pulled the
plaid skirt down over the leg clincher, then got out and walked to her
door. I glanced inside, trying to pretend I was Joe Pedestrian, or
maybe Joe Traffic Cop. Her cuffed hands were behind her back and out
of sight. The leg clincher was hidden by the skirt, the binder at her
ankles looked like knee socks, and of course there was no sign of the
gag. A casual observer could see nothing suspicious. I smiled and
got back inside. As a final touch, I pulled out a long dark wig and
put it on her head. I doubted anyone would remember her but it didn't
hurt to make her look a little different. Satisfied, I started up and
headed for the road.
The first part of the snatch had gone really well, and I decided I
deserved a little treat. Reaching over, I found Beth's breast though
the sweater and started to massage it. There was the tiniest noise --
if I hadn't been listening for it, the engine covered it completely.
"Tell me, Beth, was this what that mean old trucker wanted?" I asked.
Of course she didn't answer. "Oh, now come on Beth," I said,
squeezing her breast tighter. "You can nod and shake your head, so I
know you can answer simple questions. The only hope you and your
friend have is to please me, and it would please me if you answer.
Understand?"
She nodded.
"Good girl," I said encouragingly. "Now, I'll repeat the question.
Was this what the trucker wanted?"
She nodded and looked down.
"Bet he wanted a blow job, too. Didn't he?"
She nodded again.
"Thought so. You see, I doubt his schedule would leave him the time
to fuck even one of you, so he'd have to make do with a little mouth
action." I grinned. "You know, it's almost funny. If you hadn't
been so high and mighty and actually sucked the poor bastard off,
you'd be safe in Worcester by now."
She nodded and looked at the floor. A couple of hours ago she'd been
horrified at the prospect of giving some poor trucker a blow job. Now
she'd suck off the whole Teamsters Union just to be safe in Worcester.
"Sooo, tell me Beth," I crooned, "do you want to suck me?"
She nodded frantically. It hadn't escaped her attention that I'd have
to remove the horrible gag for her to blow me.
"What about fucking me? Do you want to fuck me, Beth?"
She hesitated. It was fairly obvious she didn't want to go that far.
"Well I'm afraid you _are_ going to fuck me Beth," I said, in mock
regret. "And suck me, and do whatever else I want. Do you want to
know why?"
She was silent. I decided to tell her anyway.
"Back in '76, I was just a little older than you are now and living
just a few miles from your Alma Mater." She looked up.. "That's
Latin for St. Mary's," I informed her. "Anyway, I met this girl.
Let's call her Jane. She looked a lot like you, about the same size,
same blonde hair, same uniform. I loved her. They say young love
burns the hottest. Are you in love, Beth?"
She shook her head, her eyes slightly wide now.
"That's a shame," I said. "Young love is a wonderful thing. You see,
my mother died when I was very young and my family got split up
because of it, so when I fell for this girl, it was the first time in,
hell, ten years or so that I actually had someone I could love. And
you know what? She loved me, too, or at least she said she did. And
she loved to show me just how much she loved me." My grin was just
slightly bitter around the edges. "We had sex day and night, every
opportunity we got. Jane was one randy bitch, I'll tell you -- she
was never satisfied. Cunt, ass, mouth, she'd take me any way she
could, and a few ways I'd never even heard of before.
"But that's not the best part. The best part was, I wanted to marry
her. Can you beat that shit? I even had the perfect scene set up for
a proposal. I'm talking roses, champagne that I really couldn't
afford, and a tiny diamond ring."
I snapped my fingers. "And that's when she backed off. Said she had
to think about it, then shut up like a clam -- she wouldn't even
answer my calls. You might've noticed that the security at St.
Mary's is tighter than a virgin snatch in church, so I had to wait for
the Easter break." I shook my head. "It must be close to twenty
years ago today. I'm sure you can see the symmetry, Beth. Myself, I
was amazed as all hell.
"But back to my story. I went to her family's place in Boston to
confront her. The bitch laughed in my face. She said that I was just
a toy, a cute little blue-collar boy that she could just use and throw
away. Worse, her father was there, and the fat, pompous prick offered
me money to get lost. Or -- get this, Bethie -- he'd get his friend
the police commissioner to have me picked up. I walked out that door
with them laughing at me, Beth, feeling totally helpless and alone.
Just as helpless and alone as you feel now."
Several cars had passed us. I'd watched her reaction, felt her
despair at knowing that the other drivers could see nothing wrong.
"After that, I joined the Marines. Got involved in Recon, did my
share of interesting and extremely illegal ops. When I left the
service, I met this guy, you'll love him. He trains slaves, claims he
can turn any woman into a sex toy in a few weeks. Once he offered to
make a slave for me, sort of a Christmas bonus. All I had to do was
choose the woman, and he would do the rest.
"So I went out to find Jane. It wasn't difficult -- her face was in
the society columns almost daily. Trouble was, she was married and
had a couple of kids. And kids need a mother, Beth. Growing up
without one, I knew that better than anyone. Yeah, I could have taken
her, could have used her as a fucktoy just as she used me, but then
her kids would have suffered, and that didn't seem fair. So I let her
go. But my friend's offer still stands. All I need is a girl." I
chortled. "And guess what? _You_ are going to be that girl, you
lucky little bitch. In a couple of weeks you'll be sucking and
fucking like the best whore in the world."
We passed through a small town and I watched as Beth tried desperately
to attract someone's attention. With the little movement she had, she
got a few strange looks but no one realized what was going on. By the
time we left town she was weeping. I smiled. I could feel her
despair, and I knew Doc would be pleased. The first stage of
processing had begun.
When we were a few miles out from Doc's, I pulled over and went around
to the passenger side. Doc has a rule, one that all of his employees
rigidly obey: no slave will ever know the exact location of his
house. Which made perfect sense -- the man supplied girls all over
the country, and once they left his place they were effectively out of
his control. All it took was one slip with the brainwashing
techniques, and a girl could get away and alert the authorities. It
doesn't matter with our clients since they always work through a chain
of intermediaries and don't know our location, but the girls *have* to
be brought here for training. So we always made sure that the
merchandise was properly prepared before heading back to base.
I lowered Beth's seat, letting it down as far as I could. Taking a
small tube of cream out of the bag, I told her to close her eyes. She
jumped a little as I applied the cream to her lashes and stuck an oval
of surgical tape over each eyelid, sealing them closed. Next was a
simple sleep mask, like the ones you get on long distance flights. I
always thought that was a nice touch -- it was dark and quite late, so
even John Q. Lawman would assume my passenger was using a sleep mask
in order to get some rest. Perfect.
Maria was next. She looked up and tried to say something the moment I
opened the trunk, but a quick check of her bonds showed that she was
still secure. I knew Maria would probably only see a brief glimpse of
the place between trunk and dungeon, but a rule is a rule. A padded
leather blindfold made sure she would be as blind as Bethie when we
reached Doc's.
Satisfied, I hopped back into the car and drove on. Every mile
brought me a little closer to Kitten; by the time I was entering the
lane, I was very, very hard. It's said that even a craftsman can make
a mistake, and Kitten was mine. I came across her in a New York
alleyway on a cold December day five years ago. She was young,
although the grime and the smell kept me from realizing just how
young. I remember she was just sitting in a corner, starving and
probably contemplating whether to sell her blood or her virtue first.
Then I came along and made that decision for her. She was the easiest
capture I ever made, although I sometimes think she'd probably have
signed up of her own free will if it meant 3 squares and a warm bed.
It was only later while we were cleaning her up that we realized the
truth. Kitten was only thirteen years old.
Believe it or not, this was a serious problem. Neither Doc nor myself
are pedophiles and we don't deal with anyone who is. Unfortunately,
it meant we had a slave who was a good three years ahead of her sell
by date. We discussed it, even contemplated throwing her back, but it
was far too risky. Besides, as we watched her wolf down that first
meal we realized what a hard time she'd had.
Kitten's mother had been a pro in Pittsburgh. She hadn't known her
father. She'd gone into care at age nine after her mother was picked
up for the third time. Somehow the lady had gotten an early parole,
but died of a drug overdose before she could reclaim her daughter.
Real nice. So Kitten drifted in and out of foster care until she
finally ending up in a children's home. She didn't want to say much
more, but Doc's examination had revealed the truth. At thirteen
Kitten was no longer a virgin, and hadn't been for some time.
In the end, the solution to the Kitten problem was obvious. Doc lived
alone except for various "guests," and he wasn't getting any younger.
So Kitten became his house slave -- cooking, cleaning and looking
after the old man's needs. He now claims that he called her Kitten
because of the way she likes having her hair stroked, but I can
remember what he really said that first time. After all, Kitten *is*
the perfect name for a little pussy.
At fifteen, Kitten's sexual side started to assert itself. With some
reluctance, Doc started teaching her the various tricks he taught his
sex slaves. I think even he was surprised by her appetite -- on her
sixteenth birthday, when she was legal by his standards, she took him
to bed and, according to him, "rode him hard and put him away wet."
From then on she was Doc's slave, lover, housekeeper, nursemaid,
assistant, companion -- in a weird sort of way, maybe even a
granddaughter. But I always liked Doc's definitive answer -- as far
as he was concerned, Kitten was a sorcerer's apprentice.
Grinning, I bumped down the drive and pulled to a stop in front of
Doc's house. I kept asking him to get the road surfaced but he just
smiled. The noise, he said, was an extra warning of visitor in case
his assorted electronic systems ever broke down. The house itself
appeared to be one of those big New England frame jobs, built for a
large family and then left to age gently as everyone died or moved
away. It was an effective facade; the real stuff wasn't evident from
the outside, and the first time Doc gave me a tour I couldn't believe
how he had wound up with a place like that. In any case, it seemed to
suit him, and it was definitely perfect for his work.
Giving Beth one final check, I got out of the car. As I walked up the
porch stairs, I heard his voice from inside: "Charles, old boy,
before you come in go to the beer cooler and bring me a couple of
cans. Take what you want while you're there."
I detoured for the old wood and wire cooler that sat on the porch. It
had no refrigeration other than the cold New England air, but that
seemed to be enough. I knew what I'd find inside -- cans of British
beer sent to Doc by one of his European customers. Grabbing a couple
more for myself I went inside.
Doc's Orders by Quin
==================
Chapter 2 "Meeting Doc"
=====================
Imagine Richard Attenborough with a Texas tan and blue eyes that could
do fairly well as laser scalpels. That's Doc. As usual, he was in
the living room, sitting in this massive brown leather chair that
looked like it should've been in a men's club, with a journal of some
kind open on his lap. From my position, I could see an upside-down
graphic of a brain on one page. "You should put these in the
refrigerator," I told him, handing over his cans.
He blinked at me. "Dear me, Charles, whatever for?"
"Sorry, I forgot. You're supposed to drink English beer warm."
Doc smiled, and combat began. "Not at all, dear boy. Warm British
beer is an American exaggeration, I'm afraid. Beer should be kept at
the _right_ temperature. In my youth it used to be hand pumped from
vats in the pub cellar -- Britain is a cold country, dear boy, and I
assure you it arrives anything but warm. The problem you have here is
that you overcool your beer. It's a man's drink, not some fizzy
beverage, and it should be treated with respect."
I'd heard it all before, so I just shook my head. "Still as grouchy
as ever, I see."
He laughed a little. "One of the benefits of age, I'm afraid. In
another fifty years you'll see it's attractions."
I poured the beer into the glass he offered and sat back. "Well, you
wanted me, and I'm here. So what's so damned important?"
He had the courtesy to look a little embarrassed. "Ah yes. I'm sorry
to drag you from your holidays, but something of an emergency has come
up. I'm doing a special job for one of our New York clients, two
girls to be prepared in advance of some office outing. Very good
money, obviously, but due to some mix-up the date's been brought
forward."
I sipped the beer. "Are they ready?"
"Oh, yes, have been for a few weeks. I've just been holding them here
until the client was ready. It's really sort of a strange deal --
apparently he wants them to do something at this party of his, then he
wants us to dispose of them."
I raised an eyebrow. "Dispose?"
Doc chuckled. "I keep forgetting your training. No, dear boy, we're
simply to make sure that they disappear into some nice bordello
somewhere. I've already spoken to Juan, and he'll be happy to take
them. Teressa has also expressed an interest, although I don't know
yet if she wants both. As you'll see, they're more valuable as a set
but there are problems with Mexico at the moment. Still, with the
training paid for we could almost afford to give them away."
"Seems straightforward enough. I can't see that there's too much of a
problem."
Doc shuffled uneasily. "Yes, well, the truth is that there are some
problems," he admitted.
"Such as?"
"It's rather complicated. I know you are familiar with my techniques,
Charles, and you know that some have taken fifty years to develop. I
admit to having some failures in the past, but for perhaps the past
thirty years I've been sure enough of my findings to be able to draw
up certain axioms."
I nodded, having gone through something similar in the Marines. My
"special training" essentially meant that I went through torture by
professionals, all trying to find my breaking point in order to give
me the necessary tools to resist torture by an enemy force. I know
from personal experience that with constant physical and mental abuse,
almost anyone will break. The Marine trainer's job was to gauge that
point before the subject -- yours truly -- was irreversibly damaged.
Compared to Doc, those guys had been in the Stone Age. I once picked
up this crackhead runaway who gave me a nice set of scars on my neck
and chest -- I almost had a matching set of fang marks to go with them
before I dosed her with some chloro. Two months later, I saw the same
girl turned into a accomplished, willing, and perfectly compliant
whore. Doc claims his technique makes the slave actively need sex;
they develop this enormous appetite for fucking and seem to genuinely
enjoy every moment. Pleasure, he says, is a much more effective
persuader than pain, and his girls are the proof.
Doc scratched his nose. "The problem is this: our client wanted one
of the girls to maintain most of her original personality. That is,
he wanted her aware of what she was doing and able to respond in a
characteristic way to her environment. Now, as you know this implies
that we need to condition the girl with various desired responses
rather than simply break her. She would appear normal, but when given
a trigger event or an order from the master she's been conditioned to
obey, she would perform the desired task.
"All my research shows such a thing requires between three and six
months, depending on the subject. I've *never* produced such a girl
in less time, not with total success. The problem is that our
client's time scale has left a little under six weeks for training."
He shrugged. "That was barely enough time to break her friend. I
have made an excellent start on our specialty case, to the point where
I feel that she'll do the job he requires, but our control of her is
very unstable. I'm afraid that for the most part you must consider
both of them hostile and transport them accordingly."
I sighed, but accepted it. New recruits were usually "hostile" -- if
they weren't tied down, they would try to run away. Under normal
circumstances, moving one of Doc's girls after processing was easy.
No escape attempts, no bonds, you just drove them somewhere like they
were regular people. In fact the only downside was that if you didn't
fuck them every night they had a tendency to be moody in the morning.
"Okay, I can handle that," I said. "But what about this 'party'? If
she gives us any problems there, we could have witnesses."
Doc smiled. "I've thought of that. I'll give you a drug, a
tranquilizer that acts as a fairly effective will suppressant. Simply
inject her with it about twenty minutes before you arrive, and she
won't give you much trouble for the next few hours. Let the girls do
their thing, then pack them up, ship them back and let me worry what
to do with them."
The plan seemed reasonable, though the risks involved in transporting
an unstable slave had to be worth double. Then it hit me. "Hey,
Doc," I said, keeping my voice casual, "do you remember when you
offered to process a slave for me?"
"Yes?"
"Well I've found one. I recruited a couple of hitchers tonight and
one of them is perfect."
"Recruited?" he repeated, frowning. "Not around here, I trust?"
"I'm not that stupid. I grabbed them at least twenty or thirty miles
away."
The old man snorted, shaking his head. "I'm surprised at you,
Charles. I thought I had made it perfectly clear that we do not
recruit around here," he said crisply. "And 'around here,' dear boy,
includes a twenty to thirty mile radius. For God's sake, not even a
dog pees in his own basket."
"It's not as if I went out there looking for them," I said
defensively. "But circumstances. . .look, when you see her, you'll
understand."
He looked at me for a long moment, then finally nodded. "Very well.
I suppose if they're here already, it's a little too late to say no.
We'll need Kitten for this -- you'd better get her."
I was already out of my seat. "Where is she?"
"In her basket."
"Basket?" I was surprised. "Is she being punished?"
"No, our little Kitten simply has a few more kinks than even we knew.
Go get her and you'll see."
Doc keeps his slaves in hidden underground cells and dungeons. In
fact, nothing to do with his illicit career exists above the surface.
This means that if we got unlucky and the place was raided, it was
unlikely to yield any clues. However, Kitten had been a problem -- a
house slave has to wash, clean and look after her master. Which is
all well and good, except that a sudden raid was likely to find her
above ground. With this in mind, Doc and I had built Kitten's
"Basket," a small hidden cell concealed within part of the fireplace.
At night she slept underground with the others, but during the day
when she wasn't needed or if the security system reported an
unexpected visitor, she could be locked up in the basket until Doc was
ready to let her out.
I gently pushed the hidden latches and swung the basket's door open.
Large enough to take a bound thirteen year old, the little alcove was
now barely big enough for Kitten to lie down in it. But lying she
was, dressed in a leather basque and bikini brief set that made me
forget to breathe for a moment. The black stockings and high heel
pumps were an additional touch, one of Doc's favorite fetishes, as
were the long leather opera gloves that fit like a second skin. She
was gagged with a large leather pad gag of Doc's patented design, and
her ankles were fastened to a spreader. I couldn't see her hands but
figured they were bound behind her. A length of white cotton rope had
been used as a crotch strap, going once around her waist, then passing
between her legs, pushing the leather panties deep into her damp twat.
I noticed the small movement of the knots she'd tied as they teased
her clit through the panties. Even with the teasing, the whole thing
looked frustrating, and I had serious doubts that she could get off on
her own.
"She did it herself a few hours back," Doc said from behind me. "I
think it's her way to get you to fuck her. I'll go out and see to
that girl of yours. You'll find the keys on the small table, as well
as a condom. And do please use it, Charles, old man." A dry chuckle.
"Not that I don't trust you, but you _are_ peeing in the well from
which I drink."
He shuffled off as Kitten's eyes twinkled above the gag. She'd been
leading me on for months, cock teasing me until I could think of
nothing else, and it looked like she had finally chosen her moment.
Now, Doc ran an open house policy -- the few of us in direct contact
with him had almost unlimited access to the slave pens. The only
exceptions tended to be if a client specified that they wanted
exclusive use or if sex would somehow interfere with training. Other
than that, any girl in the place was fair game -- except Kitten. As
part of her apprentice status, Kitten only fucked the men Kitten
wanted to fuck. Oh, I have no doubt that Doc could order her to do it
(after all, she was still a slave) but I doubted he ever would. So
Kitten had played with me for the last few months, and this was the
payoff. I couldn't see the bondage angle, though. Doc keeps all his
girls bound and gagged as a security measure, and all of his slaves
have been fucked in bondage at least once. But Kitten was the
exception, so I could only figure that this kink was entirely of her
own choosing.
Of course, I didn't really care if she wanted me to fuck her in
bondage, rubber, or Scottish tweed -- I just wanted to fuck her, and
hard. By that point, I'd gotten my pants off and was trying to roll
on a condom with trembling hands. Kitten just watched, amused,
tugging occasionally on the crotch strap to keep things cooking. When
I was latexed and ready, I fished my snap knife out of my jacket
pocket to cut the cord above her snatch, slowly pulling on the strings
to release the bikini briefs. Kitten moaned very faintly as I removed
the panties -- Doc's gags are extremely effective, so I doubted she
would get much louder. She trembled with anticipation, and the
overpowering smell of her sex hit me as she shivered, making my
rubber-coated cock swell even more.
Pulling her legs so that she was rotated towards me, ass slightly
raised off the basket floor, I put my cock on the entrance of her
pussy and pushed in, just a little, then stopped when I heard her
muffled squeal. Even though she was dripping, she was still
impossibly tight. I heard the spreader drag for a second as she
adjusted her position. Then, amazingly, she thrust up, engulfing me
in tight heat that was beyond belief. Her muffled scream was
surprisingly loud in the tight confines of the basket. She thrust
again and I finally got the point. I started fucking her in earnest,
feeling her muscles at they grasped my cock and pulled me deeper
inside. The tightness was incredible; it was like we were joined at
the waist. I felt her orgasm building deep inside her body, feeling
it wash over my buried cock like a tidal wave. When she came, her hot
cunt sucked deeply on my cock, pumping, draining me dry as I seemed to
cum for hour after hour.
Finally, I fell back, feeling relieved I still had some body fluids
left and wondering for some strange reason if Mi Lin knew what had
happened, as if a woman can somehow know when she's suddenly no longer
"the best."
I managed to stagger to my feet and get the keys, one for the
spreader, one for the cuffs and one for the gag. I freed her slowly,
allowing myself the opportunity to tease her bound body before finally
letting her go. I left the gag 'til last so that I could remove it
when she was standing, then pulled the mouthpiece free.
Still breathing heavily, she licked her lips. "Hi, Master Charlie,"
she said, voice hoarse and sexy. "I don't know about you, but I
really needed that."
"Hi, Kitten." Honestly, I didn't know what else to say. It was
pointless asking if it was good for her, and I couldn't even say I
loved her because she belonged to someone else -- literally. In the
end, Doc interrupted the moment.
"Here we are!" he chortled, guiding a staggering Maria in front of
him. She "looked" around the room with her blindfolded face, gag and
upper body bonds still in place. She was joined a second later by
Beth. On her, Doc had removed both the leg bindings and the sleep
mask for some reason, leaving her looking oddly normal except for her
taped eyes. "Ah, Kitten, all finished are we? Good girl. Now take
this one down and start processing her straight away. I want a full
workup, virginal swabs, urine test and a blood sample for the HIV
test."
Kitten sighed -- from bondage babe to private nurse in a few minutes.
She recovered her bikini briefs as I put on my pants, flashing me a
smile as she grabbed Maria's arm and pulled her towards the hidden
dungeon door.
Doc pointed at Beth's concealed gag. "Not still doing this, are you?
It's going to get you caught one of these days."
I grinned. "I think it's pretty good myself. Squeeze a nipple if you
don't believe me."
He shook his head. "I have no doubt that the gag is effective and I
agree that it isn't easily noticeable. But the fact remains that
while a slave is in public view, she has too many opportunities to
draw attention to herself."
This was another one of our running arguments. "First up, I only use
it at night and even then only for short trips. Second, the
alternative was to put her on the back seat. I accept that there is
less chance of her being seen that way, but if someone does see a girl
bound and gagged in the back of your car, the shit will truly hit the
fan."
He grunted. "And if you're stopped?"
I threw my hands up. "If she's tied up in the back it's all over
anyway! This way, I just show her the gun and make it clear that if
she draws attention to herself the cop dies. In poor light you can't
easily notice it, even close up."
I don't think he'll ever be convinced. "It's your choice, I suppose.
And I also suppose this is the one you want processed?"
I nodded.
"How much?"
"Full treatment, the works."
"Expensive!"
"Oh, so your offer was only good for a six week fuck toy?" I asked
innocently.
"Holding me to my word, I see," he chuckled. "And I am a man of my
word, after all. Full treatment it is, then." He reached over and
pulled off the wig, letting Beth's natural blonde hair cascade down.
"Hmm. Isn't she --?"
I put a finger to my lips and shook my head. He looked surprised, but
went along with it. "Well, then, we had better get Kitten up here to
process this one, as well," he said out loud.
I shook my head again. "There's a problem -- I want to save the
uniform. That means we need to actually strip her rather than just
cutting the clothes off, and Kitten can't manage that on her own."
The old man smiled. "Never underestimate Kitten, Charles. She's far
more talented than you can imagine. But she has her hands full at the
moment -- I suppose we can help out."
We each took an arm and guided Beth down to a dungeon room where we
stripped her, ignoring her struggles. I showed Doc the special
solvent solution that allowed the hidden gag to be removed; even he
had to admit it was ingenious. When we were finished, Beth hung from
the ceiling, arms and legs separated by spreaders, blindfolded with a
conventional leather blindfold and chewing happily on one of Doc's
gags. Satisfied that she was ready for Kitten, we headed off in
search of Maria.
Doc smiled as we walked through the dungeon complex. "Charles, old
man, I must confess I never realized you were so ruthless. You can't
take the mother, so you take the daughter. I *am* right -- Beth is
Jane's daughter, isn't she?"
I nodded. "You can imagine my reaction, on tonight of all nights. I
didn't realize who she was until she took her jacket off and I saw her
in the full uniform. I mean , it's been four years since I last
checked up on Jane -- Beth was just a little kid then. You must see
why I took her, it seemed like fate. I can't imagine what Jane
Walters' daughter would be doing hitching to Worcester, but as far as
I'm concerned it's totally perfect."
Kitten appeared in the corridor. "I think I can answer some of your
questions, if you're interested?" she said.
We followed her into another dungeon area to find Maria hanging naked
from the roof, bound identically to her friend. Over the years Doc
had developed a set of standard practices -- binding the girls like
this allowed for a full medical exam with minimal fuss. Kitten gave
Doc a clipboard and pointed to some results. "HIV and micro
bacteriology will have to wait of course, but this bitch is definitely
pregnant."
Maria stiffened as Doc checked the clipboard, "You're sure?"
"Checked it twice. She's either pregnant or has some form of ovarian
cyst. Given her age, the later seems unlikely."
I looked at Kitten, amazed.
Doc noticed the look, "Come now, Charles, you shouldn't be that
surprised. Surely you didn't think I'd developed the technology just
to have an endless supply of willing pussy? The same techniques I use
to make a sex slave in two months can make a pretty good doctor in a
couple of years."
"Pretty good?" Kitten said, outraged. "You know my grade point
average!"
"Yes, my dear, but it doesn't count unless you actually graduate from
medical school."
Kitten pouted and stormed back towards Maria. I watched her go,
amazed, as Doc bent over and whispered conspiratorially, "I told you
not to underestimate her."
Kitten removed Marie's gag. "OK, you bitch," she said cheerfully,
"who got you up the spout?"
Maria seemed confused. "Up the spout?" I whispered to Doc.
"Pregnant. I'm afraid too many years living with an Englishman has
played havoc with Kitten's idioms."
The confusion seemed to loosen the bound girl's tongue. "Let me GO,
you bitch!" she screamed.
Kitten stiffened. "Wrong answer and wrong name," she hissed. "*You*
are the *bitch*. You will call me *mistress*, or by God I'll make you
suffer!"
I felt my blood run cold.
"May I suggest that we adjourn off to the snug for a whisky?" Doc
suggested. "I let Kitten do most of the discipline these days because
quite frankly she has a certain talent for it, and I get the feeling
things are about to get a little unpleasant. "
"Oh, please stay," Kitten said, without taking her eyes off Maria.
"This won't take a second."
Fast as a snake, she grabbed Maria's nipple, twisting it viciously.
Them, dragging the girl in by the stretched nub, she hissed in Maria
ear, "Hungry bitch? Arms getting a little tired? I'm the one who
decides when you come down. *I* say when or if you eat. So tell me
*slave*, what do you say?"
She gave another twist and Maria's will dissolved. "S...sorry."
"Sorry what?" Kitten asked.
"Sorry, Mistress."
I smiled. It wasn't easy for a St. Mary's girl to apologize, but
apparently Maria was a realist and understood that survival meant not
messing with Kitten.
"Good girl!" Kitten said. She turned and smiled. "See, that didn't
take long, did it?" Turning back to Maria, she gently massaged the
injured nipple. "So, tell us how you got yourself pregnant."
Even with half her face covered by a blindfold, Maria looked sheepish.
"It was Carl. A. . .a boy who works on the grounds," she muttered.
"I bought him condoms and hid them, but one must've had a leak." She
slumped down, miserable.
Then it clicked. "You were going to Worcester for an abortion,
weren't you?" I asked.
She nodded and sniffed. "One of the girls knew about this place
there. I mean, we couldn't use a legal clinic in town, 'cause they
have to take your name and I'd have to have my parent's approval. So
we thought about Worcester, but we didn't have transport."
"And Beth?"
There was a tiny movement of her shoulders that had to be a shrug.
"The girls said someone would have to come with me, in case there were
problems. So they drew straws."
I whistled. Suddenly, a thousand to one shot became ten thousand to
one. . .
And then a plan started to form in my mind, a way to shift suspicion
away from here and back towards Worcester. "This guy you were going
to see, what was his address?"
"It's in my jeans pocket."
Kitten had cut the jeans off with a knife; fortunately the pockets
were intact. I reached down and picked up the remains, working
through them methodically until I found a piece of paper. Doc read it
over my shoulder and winced. "My dear young lady, I know that things
may seem quite desperate for you now, but I can assure you that you've
had a fortunate escape." he told her. "This man is a scoundrel, a
quack and a butcher! I shudder to think what would have befallen you
at his hands."
Maria "looked" up. "Really?" she asked weakly.
"Really," Doc said firmly. "Kitten, help our young mother down and
find her a nice private cell away from the others. Minimal bonds, no
gag and double rations. She is eating for two, after all."
"Two?" Maria whispered.
"Yes, my dear. I think we will let you come to term on this one.
Don't worry -- both myself and Mistress Kitten are well qualified.
You will get the best in private care, I assure you."
"B...but I don't want the baby," she whined.
Doc smiled. "No, but we do. Now hurry along, Kitten dear, and do
make sure that our mother-to-be is nice and warm."
I watched as Kitten dragged the still reluctant Maria away. "Black
market, I assume?"
"Oh yes," Doc said cheerfully. "A good, healthy white baby can easily
pull in twenty thousand if you can find the right adoptive parents.
That's a tidy profit on nine months room and board. Further, it will
establish Maria as having a good reproductive track record. There are
societies were that is a highly valued property in a slave."
"You're a bastard, you know."
"And you are. . .? Anyway, while we're down here I may as well
introduce you to your cargo."
We wandered through the pens. Doc's place was originally built to
handle twenty girls or more, back in the sixties when there had been
an almost infinite number of Flower Children to choose from and HIV
was a far-off nightmare. These days he keeps maybe ten at a time, a
number he and Kitten can handle easily between them. The corridors
are always quiet, since the girls are bound and gagged at all times to
"discourage mischief". I must admit it works. It's hard for any
group to plan a mutiny when they can't talk to one another.
We stopped at a cell occupied by two girls. Unlike the occupants of
some of the other cells, these two wore clothes. The older woman was
in her mid-thirties, with long brown hair and dark brown eyes. She
was dressed in a fairly expensive female business suit complete with
stockings and sensible pumps. She mumbled something into her gag and
tried to move forward, but the steel collar around her neck stopped
her getting any further.
Doc pointed to her. "That's the one we were talking about," he
explained. "Her name's Myra. This one," he said, pointing to the
younger blonde girl, "used to be called Joanne, but these days we call
her JoJo."
JoJo was dressed in the most incredible outfit I'd ever seem -- a
latex lace up basque, latex thigh high five inch heeled boots and
shiny latex gloves. "This is their outfit for the party. We kept
them in it after today's practice so that they can give you a
demonstration," Doc added, opening the cell door and handing me a key.
We unfastened both of them from their assorted bonds. "Right,
ladies," he said when we were finished. "Go to work."
Myra straightened up from her slump and sat as if she was at a desk.
A pair of glasses had appeared from somewhere and she sat pantomiming
reading papers. Pausing, she pressed a button on an invisible
intercom. "JoJo, come in here, please," she demanded.
JoJo flounced over. There was something in the way she moved, in the
vacant look in her eyes that told me she was a six week special. Doc
had broken her, destroying completely the woman she used to be and
programming the husk as a simple sex toy. I could see how Myra could
be a problem -- there was still a flicker of self awareness behind
those brown eyes -- but for JoJo it was all over. All she could wish
for now was a kind master and an easy life. It was unlikely she'd
have either.
"JoJo! Fine personal assistant you are," Myra said harshly. "I was
looking through these accounts and I've found a problem."
"Really, ma'am? What's wrong?" Even JoJo's voice lacked any
personality. It was as flat and impersonal as a recording.
"There's still money in them, you little bitch!," Myra snarled. "Why
do I employ you!"
JoJo squirmed, pushing her latex covered cleavage in the older woman's
face. "I dunno. Because I lick slit good?"
At that point, Myra stood up and threw off her jacket and the glasses.
Doc pressed a button, and the music started. I'd seen lesbian
displays before -- most erotic dance shows have at least one if they
can get away with it. They're pretty boring as soon as you get the
feeling that the girls are just play acting. This however, was
different -- it had a weird sort of energy and rhythm to it, a
side-effect of Doc's training. Each woman latched on to the other,
eagerly licking, fingering, and teasing in time to the music.
Methodically they stripped each other; underneath Myra's blouse and
skirt was a latex top and a pair of matching bikini briefs, leaving
both women dressed almost identically.
At that point the women dragged each other to the floor, pushing up
skirts as they squirmed into a 69 position and started lapping and
sucking at each other's snatches. I could hear the wet, juicy noises
of tongues busily working away on clits, and the little moans and
squeals as the stimulation escalated. There was a strange urgency to
it all as each woman tried desperately to get the other to come. The
vacant look in JoJo's eyes had been replaced by a desperate, unearthly
hunger. I saw its reflection in Myra's eyes, but I also saw something
more; a horrified self-loathing and disgust. The emotions hovered
just below the surface, suppressed by Doc's conditioning, but they
were definitely there. Somewhere, the real Myra was aware of what she
was doing, totally aware but unable to stop. Then suddenly JoJo came
with a squeal, and moments later Myra followed her with a screaming,
mind-stunning orgasm that left her twitching on the floor.
"I think that's enough," Doc said quietly. "Be a good chap and help
Myra up, Charles. "
I did. The vacant look had crept back into her eyes, as if the orgasm
had somehow crushed the last vestige of her personality. She didn't
struggle as I rebound her and shoved the gag back into her limp mouth.
Locking them in the cell, we went back upstairs in silence. "Just
what the hell was that all about?" I asked.
"That was one hundred percent what the client ordered," Doc said
defensively. "He even scripted it and chose the music. There's even
a gimmick -- I've made it so that each woman has an orgasm that is
perhaps a tenth of it's usual potency. Except, if she comes just
after another woman, then it's more like ten *times* the usual
potency."
"So each tries to make the other come first."
"Exactly. If you come first, you get a little tremble. Come second
and the world explodes."
"So Myra won just now."
Doc nodded as we reentered the sitting room. "She usually does, one
of the advantages of not having been broken yet. The whole setup was
the client's idea."
"But why?"
He handed me a whisky. "Myra worked for a major Manhattan bank in
their foreign trading desk. Quite senior, a VP I believe. Joanne was
her PA. Our client was another VP whose department used the Foreign
Desk a lot. He started to notice some irregularities, which at first
he put down to some over ambitious trading. Gradually, he started to
find evidence of a widespread securities fraud being run from
somewhere inside Myra's department. As was common procedure at the
bank, he approached the board in Myra's absence and was ordered to
investigate fully. One weekend, he and some of his people entered
Myra's departmental records and started to do an audit."
I could see where this was going. "And the culprit turned out to be
Myra."
"Precisely. She had embezzled several million dollars in the past
three years and he was able to prove it. He called her in and asked
for an explanation -- apparently, she just laughed in his face. Told
him not to be a stupid little boy, that they couldn't go to law
because after Barrings and that Tokyo scandal any publicity would
bring down the bank. She even threatened to go public herself if he
pushed it. Then she handed him her resignation and just left,
laughing at him as she went and taking Joanne with her."
"So he hired you to get revenge."
"Mmm, in a way," Doc said. "You were in London that week, so Martin
and Ray picked up our two young friends. The bank has managed to bury
the loss through some careful accounting. In the meantime, the office
has a tradition of going out to a cabaret evening once a year. This
year, our man will provide the entertainment."
"How's he going to explain it?" I asked puzzled.
"He'll claim that Myra agreed to do it in exchange for not being
reported to the police and the federal authorities."
"Seems a little thin," I said. "If I'd stolen a few million, I'm sure
I could find a better way out"
"Ultimately it doesn't really matter. Our man will get his few
minutes of revenge and the public humiliation of Myra, and he'll be
happy. Let him explain it."
I wasn't satisfied but I let it ride.
"In any case, the party is tomorrow night in a club in Manhattan."
Doc added. "You will take them to the show and bring them back here
afterwards."
I didn't like it and I told him so, but I think he felt I was
overplaying things as a bargaining ploy. In the end we agreed on a
price.
Then Doc paused. "By the way Charles, in nine months it will be
Christmas, I believe."
"About then," I agreed.
"Let's have a party of our own, then! Maria will be having her baby,
and in nine months I can turn your Beth into the most perfect slave
you'll ever see!"
"Sounds good," I said standing. "But right now I need to get some
sleep if I'm driving into Manhattan tomorrow."
"Excellent idea. You know where the towels are -- sleep well, dear
boy." He picked up his neurological journal again as I got up and
headed down to the dungeon to say goodnight to Kitten. That look in
Myra's eye still bothered me. I had a friend who worked one summer in
a slaughter house. He had no problems "processing" hundreds of cows a
week; hell, he even joked about it. Then one day he just upped and
left. When I asked him why, he told me about an accident they'd had
with a cow that had somehow survived the killer blow. He'd had to
watch it die in agony, fully aware of what was going on.
Usually I didn't worry about those we processed. It was quick and
simple and there seemed to be little pain apart from Kitten's
disciplinary actions. But Myra was different. We were slowly
destroying her, and like that poor cow she was completely aware of
what we were doing to her. I shuddered.
Below ground, Kitten was in the dungeon with Beth. The girl's
position had hardly changed since I left her, although her shaved cunt
showed that Kitten had been busy. Slaves have no sexual contact until
the results of the health checks come back, but of course this didn't
include mechanical items. When I arrived Kitten was just about to
slide a large, intricate vibrator into Beth's pussy. Not wanting to
interfere, I waited until Kitten had finished.
Kitten looked up and smiled at me. "Slave, your *master* is here to
see you." She reached down to switch the device on, and I watched as
Beth began to squirm. "He gives you this gift of pleasure in
recognition of your obedience, as well as the gift of pain if you
disobey." Beth's hips quaked as she tried to get a better position
and her moans increased in volume behind the gag.
Kitten walked over, swinging her hips just a bit. "Come to see how
the slut's doing?" she asked lightly.
"Actually, I came to see you," I said.
"Oh. Doc told you, then?"
"Told me what?"
"That I'm to supervise the processing of your slave?"
"You?"
She rolled her eyes and grinned. "Yes *me*. You haven't been here
much recently, master. I do most of the training these days."
I pursed my lips, thinking. So Doc hadn't been kidding when he'd
called her his apprentice. "Okay, fair enough. But what I wanted to
talk to you about was that lesbian act. Do you know who the client
is?"
She shook her head. "Doc works on a need to know basis and I didn't
*need* to know. Even if I did, I couldn't tell you.
Compartmentalization is essential if our security is to be
maintained."
She was going to take a little persuading. I leaned in, carefully,
and brushed my lips along her cheek. She shivered. "The
intermediary, you must know *him*," I wheedled.
"Master, please--"
"Just a name?" I pleaded, moving down to trace my tongue along her
neck and shoulder. She sighed, arching her chest forward, her nipples
hard and visible through the basque. "Even a hint?"
"You *know* I can't say so--"
"Pleeeease?" I gave her my best puppy dog look, big eyes up and
adorable as I caressed one perfect tit through the leather.
Finally, she gave in. "All right, but if I end up scrubbing kitchen
floors naked again I'm going to hold *you* responsible" she murmured.
"It's Sam Turner. And now, why don't you put that tongue where it'll
do some good?"
I kissed her, and she dragged me down to the floor. We made love then
and there. Above us, in a world of her own, Beth swung backwards and
forwards, moaning into her gag and thrusting her hips as she chased an
illusive orgasm.
Doc's Orders by Quin
==================
Chapter 3 "New Beginnings and Loose Ends"
==========================================
Next morning I woke refreshed. I'd gone to bed with the germ of an
idea, and overnight it blossomed into a fully fledged plan.
I got up at six thirty, and headed off in search of Kitten (I had no
doubt that she would be up; slaving is like any other form of animal
husbandry -- up at dawn, down at dusk). She was in the kitchen having
breakfast, the leather outfit of last night replaced by a cute latex
French maid's outfit, which was probably for my benefit. It seemed
the teasing was on again. She was reading a book but when she saw I
was up she quickly put it down and headed for the stove. "Sunny side
up!" she announced cheerfully. "Right, Master?"
I nodded. The Marines had got me used to the idea of getting up
early, but at some primal level my body still didn't like it. She
took a moment to pour me a large mug of coffee and went back to
assembling breakfast. While her back was turned, I looked at the book
-- "The BIG Book of Girl's Names." It had a cute picture on the cover
of a woman playing with a baby.
"Getting a little ahead of yourself aren't we?" I commented. "She
may have a boy."
Kitten turned around, confused. "I'm sorry, Master?"
"I was saying, you're just a little ahead of yourself with Maria's
baby," I repeated, holding up the book for emphasis.
"Oh, that's not for the baby," she said, putting a large plate of
pancakes on the table. "That's for me."
"You?"
"Yes. I'm choosing my new name. At the moment I can't decide between
Caitlin and Kathryn. I think Caitlin sounds better but it has all
those beach bunny, 90210 connotations. Kathryn's more stuffy but hey,
she's a Starfleet Captain."
She seemed to be making sense. "Um, I think I fell off a few names
back," I said lamely. "What exactly are you talking about?"
"Doc asked me if I wanted a new name." Kitten explained patiently.
"Why?"
She smiled and arched her back, sucking her stomach in at the same
time. Her breasts pushed out, straining against the imprisoning
latex. Suddenly I was hard again. "If you haven't noticed, Master,"
she purred, "I'm hardly a kitten anymore."
Now that she mentioned it, I realized she was right. I knew
intellectually that she had grown up -- I'd fucked her, for God sake
-- but in my gut there were still two Kittens, the sex vixen and the
thirteen year old girl in that freezing alley. Finding that they were
the same person after all would take some adjustment. Perhaps a new
name wasn't such a bad idea.
"What was the second one again?" I asked.
"Kathryn. It's with a *y*. Do you like it?"
"Um. . .no, not especially -- I just didn't hear it the first time.
What are the others?"
She ran through a whole list. It didn't take me long to see the
pattern. "Do all these names shorten to Kat?"
"I thought I'd stick with the feline motif," she said, giving me a
one-shoulder shrug that flashed a millimeter of breast over the bodice
top. "Seems to make sense -- besides, I like it."
"Then why not just stick with Kat?"
She made a face. "It's. . .a little common, don't you think? Bit
too trailer trashy for me."
I gave up. "Just let me know when you settle on something. Speaking
of changes, Doc tells me you handle discipline these days."
"Oui, monsieur." She deftly flipped a pancake on the frying pan, then
slid it onto a waiting stack. I was presented with the plate and a
bottle of real Vermont maple syrup. "Do you want to know about our
methods or hardware?"
"Methods. How good are you at torture?"
"For pleasure or punishment?"
"There's a difference?"
"There is if you do it properly, Master,"
I grinned at the suggestiveness in her voice. "Seriously, I need to
get some information from Beth," I said. "I figure she's either going
to hold out on us, or she may tell us the wrong thing completely."
"Such as?"
"Her bank card number," I said, taking my first bite of pancake.
After that mouthful, I had to shut up and savor the moment. Doc was
an excellent cook with exceptionally high standards, so it came as no
surprise that this was one of the first things he'd taught his young
house slave. Kitten's pancakes were excellent, equal to the best you
could find in the finest restaurant in the world.
"Are they good, Master?" she asked innocently.
Now she was teasing me with food. I ignored the obvious trolling for
complements. "About those numbers."
She wrinkled her nose. "Piece of cake. Should take about an hour."
"An hour?" I frowned. I'd expected Beth to be more resilient than
that. Of course the money wasn't much good to her now, but it would
be a while before she accepted her new status.
"Probably less," Kitten said returning to the stove.
"Hon, I don't want to question your professional opinion," I said,
mouth full of pancake, "but I know this kind of girl. Even if you
took a whip to her, she's too stupid to know when to give up."
"An hour," she insisted. "Tops. Of course, if you don't believe me
we could have a small wager. . ."
I laughed. "What do you have to wager?"
Kitten smiled and bent over, thrusting her latex covered tush at my
face. She brought a gloved finger up to her mouth and looked at me
over her shoulder with a confused expression on her face. It was an
almost perfect reproduction of a fifties cheesecake shot. "Gee,
Master," she said wiggling her ass, "I can't think."
"Okay, you made your point. What do I have to put up?"
She kept on cooking, but I could see this sinister little smile on her
face. "Well. . .I've always liked the idea of a boy toy," she said
thoughtfully. "A male slave of my very own."
I nearly choked on my coffee. "You can't be serious?"
"Aha, but I am. Unless you're not so sure of your Beth after all?"
she said, taunting. "Or just not man enough to take the risk?"
I found myself flushing. The idea of being Kitten's slave did not
appeal at all -- I'm too dominant for that. Unfortunately, I'm also
too macho to back down. "No drugs?" I asked.
She gave me a pained look like I'd just asked her to heat up a TV
dinner. "No drugs."
That made me feel a little better. Beth was a Saint Mary's girl, a
bitch of the first order. I doubted she'd be smart enough to give up
that number in an hour if her life literally depended on it. "Deal,"
I said. "Get the number in less than an hour and I'm yours for *ONE*
night."
Kitten gave me an extremely feline grin. "No restrictions?"
"No restrictions," I agreed. "As long as when you *LOSE* there are no
restrictions while you're mine."
"Agreed." She handed me a fresh plate with more pancakes, ham, and
eggs. "Now eat up and let's go get our pigeon."
Needless to say the breakfast was excellent. We ate in silence but
Kitten's body language told me that she was supremely confident. I
began to feel nervous.
Afterwards, we headed down to the dungeons. Doc had explained the
history of the place to me; it had been built in the fifties as some
kind of Government survival shelter. The idea was that certain key
members of the Massachusetts State legislature would hide here in time
of war. Needless to say, everything from construction details to
stocking list was kept top secret, not only to hide it from the
Russians but also to prevent the possibility of the local people
trying to break in during an alert. In '62 the place got its first
tryout during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the Powers That Be
discovered the hideout's two major drawbacks: one, it was too damned
small for all the politicians and their hangers-on, and two, it was
too hard to get to. Figures. So the feds started building a new
shelter north of Boston and this one was earmarked to be destroyed.
Somehow, in the general confusion following the Kennedy assassination,
it was missed. Then Doc bought it from the government as an
undeveloped parcel of land in '65 -- with a group of slaves, he built
the house and the complex we know today.
We walked down the corridors listening to the muffled sounds of the
slaves in their cells. The design of the cells was a little unusual
and reflected some of Doc's thinking about the training of slaves.
Each cell had a section of steel bars about two feet wide, floor to
ceiling, just to the right of the door. This allowed air and sounds
in from the corridors and let the slaves see various comings and
goings throughout the day. As the bars were always to the right of
the doors and the slaves are chained to their bunks, however, it
wasn't possible for a slave to look out into another's cell. The
slaves remained gagged so it also wasn't possible for them to
communicate, but they *could* hear each other and know that they
weren't alone. Doc claims this greatly speeds up the breaking of a
slave because they share each other's despair without the benefits of
any camaraderie. After watching naked, gagged women being dragged
past her cell to an uncertain fate, the slave starts to think that if
all these others couldn't escape, what chance did she stand?
Eventually it overwhelms her.
By now we were outside Beth's cell. Though the cells are designed for
double occupancy, Doc always gives a new recruit single quarters for
the first few days -- he doesn't think it's fair to bother other
slaves with a new girl's tantrums.
Kitten picked up a clipboard from beside the door and checked the
contents. "Some of the paperwork hasn't been done," she said. "Want
to do it now?"
I reached for the clipboard but she pulled it back. "In there," she
said with a smile.
As we entered the cell, Beth was struggling to stand. Doc had a
standard uniform for slaves that almost all of them wore -- it started
with high heeled ankle boots. These consisted of a wooden sole
attached to a solid platform heel. The uppers were made of strong
black leather, like the stuff they use to make army boots, and ran
from the toes to a broad leather strap circling the ankle. The strap
was really a type of cuff and was fastened with a padlock which
effectively made it impossible to remove the boots. A couple of spare
D rings on the cuffs allowed for additional restraint. At the moment
a short length of chain was also clipped between the cuffs, hobbling
Beth's ankles. The whole look was workmanlike and functional, if a
little ugly. The boots were battered and old -- I figured countless
slaves had worn them through the years, and there were probably dozens
more in their future. But they served a useful purpose; not only did
they get the slave used to walking in heels, they also made escape
more difficult. Doc claims that the tendons in the back of the leg
starts to shrink if a girl wears heels too long. While that makes it
easier for her to walk in the boots, it also means that flats become
uncomfortable. In nine months, Beth would have no choice than to be a
high-heeled slut.
The rest of Beth's "outfit" was brief. Around her waist was a
chastity belt arrangement of two wide leather straps -- one was
fastened tightly around her waist, and the other was attached to the
first at the front and back, passing between her legs on the way. A
couple of simple locks held everything in place and ensured it
couldn't be removed, but it was possible to unlock the crotch strap
separately in order to gain access to her twat.
At cunt level, the crotch strap had a small metal plate for various
attachments. At the moment it was being used to hold a vibrating
dildo deep in her twat. I hoped she liked it, because something,
organic or otherwise, would fill her cunt every second of her time
here. It was yet another of Doc's training aids. He says it educates
the slave that her natural condition is to have a cock inside her. He
claims that after processing his slaves no longer feel comfortable
without something in there.
Beth's arms were covered in a pair of black latex opera gloves that
reached up to just above her elbows. Doc likes gloves and his
conditioning technique ensures that even after they leave the girls
continue to wear them. Apart from his little fetish, he says it also
helps reduce the chance of a stray fingerprint being found. Two
leather cuffs covered the latex on Beth's wrists and were fastened to
the chastity belt, locking her arms by her sides. A further clincher
at her elbows had the very desirable side effect of thrusting her
wonderful, naked breasts outwards.
By now she had struggled to her feet, and stood looking at me with an
incredible hatred in her eyes. Bound as she was, there was nothing
she could *DO* about it, but I was still glad that the metal collar
around her neck kept her chained to the wall near her bunk. She tried
to say something through one of Doc's leather gags. On Beth the thing
seemed huge, extending from her chin to her cheeks -- in fact, a
little dimple had been cut into it for her nose. Like the belt, it
had a removable section at the front that allowed for the fitting of
various attachments. The section was full, and I knew immediately
that Kitten had stuffed in a penis gag, to get Bethie used to the
feeling of a cock in that pretty young mouth.
I turned to find her waiting. "Shall we begin?" she asked, giving me
an amused look. "These are questions about your requirements.
Usually these are passed from the customer by our agent, but as you're
here--"
"Oh, uh, yes," I replied, aware of my huge hard-on. "Let's do it."
"Fine. Slave's name?" I must have blinked, because she added, "We
have her here as Beth. Do you want to change it?"
It was usual for a master to give his slave a new name, as much for
security as anything. In all the years of Doc's operation not a
single slave had been recognized by someone who knew her in her former
life. Most of this is to be expected, since slaves are rarely placed
near the area where they were recruited, but logically there must have
been some near misses.
"I haven't decided yet," I said slowly. Then suddenly, I knew. "No,
wait -- Jane. Her name is Jane."
"Slave Jane," Kitten repeated making a note on the clipboard. "Okay,
now, color." She make a little clicking noise with her tongue.
"Slave Jane is blonde at the moment -- you want her brunette or
redhead?"
"No."
"Didn't think so, but we still have to ask." She made a tick on the
clipboard. "Now, breasts -- we can enlarge them if you want, but Doc
asked me to remind you that his offer only covers our costs. Cosmetic
surgery and doctors fees are extra."
I snorted. "After he gets Maria and that valuable baby for free?"
She shrugged. "That's a management decision. You'll have to take it
up with Doc."
I reached forward to feel Beth's tits. She squealed into the gag and
started to back up. Quick as a flash, a crop appeared in Kitten's
hand and she brought it down hard on one of Beth's exposed nipples.
The squeal became a full fledged scream, although the gag reduced it
to almost nothing.
"Hold still, bitch," Kitten hissed. "This man is your new owner. He
has every right to inspect his property. Now stand up straight, legs
apart. Move again and I'll make you regret it."
Beth obeyed, sobbing. She stiffened but didn't resist as I gently
caressed her naked breasts. I felt a slight tremble as my hand
lingered, and her nipples started to harden. Just like her mother, I
thought, far too sensitive for her own good.
"I think these are fine," I said judiciously. "I'm not sure about the
nose though." The only real difference between Beth and her mother at
this age was the shape of the nose. Jane's had been strong and
straight -- Beth's was more of a button affair. "Is it possible to
get a nose job that makes it bigger."
Beth's eyes widened over the gag while Kitten shook her head. "I'm
afraid she's still a little young for that, Master. Plastic surgery
while the features of the face aren't fully mature is a little risky.
Maybe in a year?"
I nodded. Kitten reached down and unlocked Beth's crotch belt. She
pulled the dildo free, raising a groan from her helpless captive.
"Damp one," she commented. "As you can see, we've shaved her to our
usual pattern with a small tuft of hair for decoration. Is this
acceptable, or do you want more or less? It's usual practice to
permanently denude all the shaved area for easy maintenance."
"All of it," I said. "Completely, permanently clean."
This raised a stifled noise from Beth. She was of an age when she
could still remember it naked, when pubic hair was a mystical mark of
her womanhood. I reached down and ran my hand over her smooth pubis.
She stiffened, but with hands strapped by her side and mouth gagged
she was helpless to stop me. I stroked her pretty little mound
gently, feeling the faint tremors as her hips shook. In nine months
of electrolysis and hot wax, this area would be permanently clear. I
looked into her eyes and saw her silent plea. If I removed the hair,
she would be marked as a slut forever. Every doctor, every lover
would know immediately.
"Yes," I said. "Lose it all."
Kitten nodded, her gloved hand stroking Beth's belly. "Of course, we
will put her on a vigorous workout regime to get rid of the last of
this puppy fat." That raised a muffled protest which Kitten chose to
ignore. "Final extras. We have started heel training -- is that
acceptable?"
"Yep."
"Figure training, piercing, tattoos, special training?"
"No figure training," I said. "Silver rings in both nipples, navel,
clit hood." Beth stiffened. "I'd have to see the patterns for the
tattoos. I want the works on the training, both male and female,
dancing, oral, etiquette, housekeeping, child care--"
Kitten scribbled furiously. "We have nine months," she said, a bit
sarcastically. "Why not sign her up for everything, it saves
writing."
"Okay. May as well get Doc's money's worth." I grinned. "Besides,
it improves her resale value."
Nothing comes close to describing the look on Beth's face. That
expression of horrified shock made me feel so damned good. To be
talked of in the same way that someone might discuss the options on a
new car, to have other people decide how your body will look for the
rest of your life -- it must have been a first for her. I think she
especially hated the idea of the rings, since her body activity had
increased markedly since I brought them up.
Kitten handed me the clipboard. "Sign, please."
"Yes, Ma'am." I took the clipboard, "I want to talk to her."
"Now?"
"Now," I said and picked up the pen.
As I signed, Kitten went to reach behind Beth's head, removing the
gag. I'd been a recruiter long enough to know that this would be the
moment of truth, when you found out exactly what you'd got. As Doc's
orders on local hunting meant that we didn't operate even near Boston,
New York was our nearest major hunting ground. The trip to Doc's at a
nice legal fifty involved at least one layover, so at some stage the
gag had to come out in order for them to drink. How they reacted told
you a lot about how they'd take training. The dumb ones start
screaming and carrying on, calling you names, yelling for help. A few
quick slaps brings them back in line long enough to feed and water
them. The smart ones say nothing -- they knew that you wouldn't be
doing this anywhere they had a chance of rescue, so they do nothing to
provoke you into hurting or killing them. The real smart ones talk
quietly to you, hoping to get you on their side. I usually gag those
ones again as soon as possible.
Beth's gag popped out. Immediately, she started swearing, "Let me
*go*, you bitch!"
Kitten's eyes rolled.
Then my Bethie turned to me. "You fucking asshole! Should have
realized you were a prick!" she snarled.
Kitten smiled. "You know, we *could* cut her vocal cords," she
offered. "It's not part of the usual service but it is effective."
Beth's jaw dropped. Her reaction had been one hundred percent
predictable, exactly what a St. Mary's girl, spoilt and born to
privilege, would be expected to do. Now, finally, she realized her
danger, and the snarl dropped away like it was never there. "Please
let me go, mister," she pleaded, turning on the waterworks. "I won't
tell anyone, I promise!"
I tried to look thoughtful. "What about Maria? My friend wants her
baby so badly."
"You can have it," Beth offered, quick as a flash. "I'm sure if you
let us go she'll give it to you."
Self-centered little bitch. "But that mean's we'll have to wait nine
months."
She looked hopeful. "Okay -- then let me go now and release Maria
later. I can help you. I can tell people she's changed her mind, run
away."
I was underwhelmed by her loyalty. Just like her mother, she used
people up and spat them out. I decided it was time to tell her the
truth. "Your mother's maiden name was Walters, wasn't it?" I said
cheerily.
"Yes, but--"
"Jane Walters?"
Only then did she realize the significance of her slave name. I could
actually see the understanding filtering through her.
"Oh god. . ." she moaned.
"That's right, slut. The woman I told you about, the one who jilted
me, was your mother," I said, leaning back against the cell wall.
"You know, I really used to like the idea of making your mother my
slave, of bringing her up here and having Doc break her for me. But
last night I realized something -- all I wanted from your mother could
be done in three days. I could pick her off the street, take her to a
cabin in the woods somewhere and take everything I wanted in three
days. Then I could just bury her up there." I shrugged, enjoying her
flinch. "You see, it wouldn't be worth making her a slave. She's
what, thirty seven now? Loose pussy, sagging tits. I mean, really,
why waste my time with her? The girl I really want is your mother as
she was twenty years ago, young pussy in her prime." I leaned in,
just a bit. "What do you have to say for yourself now, *Jane*?"
"But I'm--" she began. I nodded to Kitten and the crop struck nipple
once again. This time she did scream and immediately the muffled
noises from the other cells ceased.
"Let's try that again," I murmured, once the echoes died down. "How
are you, *Jane*?"
"V...very good, sir."
"Mmm, that's better. But I prefer *Master*. Remember that, Jane." I
pushed the gag back into "Jane's" sobbing mouth and the conversation
was over.
Kitten knelt and gently pushed the dildo back into Beth's sopping
cunt. The girl moaned at the sensation, and a look of humiliation
flashed through her blue-green eyes.
Then my neo-slave mistress looked up at me. "Now can we settle the
other matter? I don't want to rush you but I have fifteen slaves to
feed this morning."
I nodded and held Beth steady as Kitten released her collar and fitted
a nipple leash. The leash was uncomfortable and Beth obviously didn't
like it. Still, that was the price of slavery and once her nipples
were clamped she became much more manageable.
We led her towards one of the dungeon areas on the south side. Beth
seemed a little stunned by it all, since she'd been brought to her
cell blindfolded and had little idea as to the scale of the place. At
one point we had to stop while the door at the end of a corridor was
opened, and I noticed Beth looking into a nearby cell. Inside were
two girls, one white, the other Asian, bound and gagged as Beth was.
The length of the chains fastening them to their bunks seemed to have
been badly chosen because they could just reach each other. The white
girl was bending over, rubbing her leather gag against the Asian's
exposed nipples. The Asian groaned into her own gag, her small body
shaking a little. The white girl went further, drawing her long brown
hair over the Asian's belly and breasts to the other girl's obvious
delight. Eventually they switched roles and the Asian started rubbing
her gag against the white girl's inner thigh. Of course they couldn't
get off, not wearing the chastity belts anyway, so to an extent they
only worsened each other's torment.
I found the scene strangely erotic -- two slaves taking what little
pleasure they could find. Kitten looked disgusted, I figured the
chain would be shortened soon.
At length we reached the dungeon Kitten wanted. I'd never been here
before, as it was one of Doc's training areas. It seemed very small
and was filled almost completely by a computerized console. Kitten
dragged Jane to a door and removed the leash. Then she did a
surprising thing -- opening the door, she quickly freed the cuff from
the girl's left wrist and pushed her inside. Slamming the door
closed, Kitten hurried over to the console. "Time starts now!" she
said, and pushed a button.
I watched the tiny TV monitor on the console with interest. It showed
a fish eye view of the small room Beth had been pushed into. The girl
seemed stunned, and a second later it got worse. A strobe light
flashed on, at low speed but uncomfortably bright. Beth spent a good
few seconds trying to bring her free hand to her eyes. Then she
suddenly stiffened and her gloved hand tried to move to her ear
instead.
"Oops! Forgot the sound," Kitten said. "This is what she's hearing
at the moment." She pushed a button and from a tiny speaker a sound
emerged that went straight down my spine and pushed panic buttons that
I thought were long dead, putting every nerve on edge. Seeing my
reaction, Kitten mercifully turned it off.
I was surprised to find that I'd involuntarily moved perhaps three
steps away from the console. I looked at the monitor -- there was no
doubt that the sound was much louder inside. Beth was pacing the
walls like a caged animal, face contorted above the gag. Her free
hand flapped around in a desperate attempt to shield her senses from
the onslaught.
This continued for about five minutes, by which time the girl was
almost catatonic. Then it stopped. Kitten hit the button and we
could hear what was going on in the cell. A small panel with a keypad
had opened in the wall next to the door, and I could hear an automated
but friendly female voice saying, "Sequence will start again in. .
.ninety. . .seconds. Please enter security number to open the door."
Beth staggered to the panel and frantically started punching buttons
while the polite voice counted down. Even when the count reached zero
and the awful sound started again she kept typing, tears rolling down
her face. Eventually she was overwhelmed and just rolled up in a
ball. Kitten hit a button and the sound stopped, then studied a small
screen in the console.
"As requested, Master, your number is 110681," she said, satisfied.
"Sounds like a date."
"Probably is. Why do you think banks went from four to six digits?
The brain works by association -- that's why some numbers are easier
to remember than others."
"How do we know it's the right number?"
"She entered that sequence fifteen times in two minutes, five of those
times was after the stimulus was reapplied. We call this the
"Disorientation Chamber" -- I can assure you, it's very difficult to
think in there. The keypad is of the same type as used in most
automatic teller machines, and the height angle and distance into the
recess are also exactly the same. Unable to think, she'll do whatever
she would normally do with a keypad of that type." Kitten chuckled a
little. "Still, if you don't believe me, we can always verify it at
the bank." She glanced at the clock. "And fifteen minutes is you'll
agree, much less than an hour."
I scowled. "You haven't proved it works yet."
"It will. Now we'd better get your girl."
Beth was too stunned to struggle. Kitten rebound her hand and we led
her back to the cell. I had no doubt she'd be fighting again within a
few hours, but for now she was drained. I have to admit, I actually
felt a little twinge of pity for her, but I ignored it as I helped
Kitten attend to the breakfasts for the other slaves.
Maria seemed to be adjusting well. By comparison to the others her
cell was a palace. Obviously designed for single occupancy, it had a
real bed, a small desk and a bookcase. Admittedly, most of the books
were sex manuals but it was still stimulation. She was still chained
at the neck and her wrists were fastened to a chastity belt like
Beth's, but I could tell from the way she moved that her cunt was
empty. She was also ungagged and immediately started asking
questions. Only a threat from Kitten finally shut her up, but I used
the opportunity while she ate to ask some questions of my own. She
was bowed and subservient -- above all else, Maria was a realist. She
had seen the conditions that prevailed for the other slaves, and must
have realized that only her unborn child separated her fate from
theirs.
In between bites, she told me about the abortionist, who had
recommended him to her, who knew where they were going and how long
those people were expected to cover for them. It confirmed that there
had been no one along that road between the trucker dumping them there
and my picking them up. Now confident that my plan would work, I had
Kitten unfasten Maria's off hand and passed her a book on child care,
then wished her luck and left. I wouldn't see her again until after
the baby.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"What do you think?" Kitten asked. I looked up, and had to admit
that the effect was stunning. In Beth's clothes, Kitten looked the
image of a St. Mary's girl. The uniform fit her perfectly, making me
happy we hadn't cut it to pieces.
I nodded. "Try the whole thing on, the wig too." I had to admit that
the thought of a street kid dressed in the uniform of one of New
England's most exclusive academies held a little subversive thrill.
Yet, good as she looked in the outfit, all this would be for nothing
if she couldn't pass herself off as Beth.
After feeding the slaves I'd recovered the girl's packs from my car.
Then, dressed in surgical kit to minimize the forensic evidence, we
had carefully gone through the contents. Inside Beth's bag we had
found a small purse containing a billfold and some makeup. The money
came to about two hundred in small bills, which I pocketed. The bank
card I put away for later. Maria had about six fifty on her, five
hundred of which we knew was the cost of the abortion. This seemed a
little steep, though to be honest I didn't know what the going rate
was. Still, I expect that the guy adjusts his prices according to
ability to pay.
In Beth's pack we'd also found an "X Files" baseball cap, something
that would make our job a little easier. We put the contents of the
packs into a number of large ziplock bags. Since the packs themselves
had been in contact with my car, we carefully incinerated them and
then placed the ashes in a separate bag.
Tucking her own hair into a small knot, Kitten slipped the wig on,
adjusting it so that it fell naturally around her face. I stood up
and circled her for the full effect. Sensible shoes and socks led in
turn to plaid skirt, above which was the tight school sweater. Beth's
leather jacket and purse completed the outfit. Kitten wore a pair of
woolen gloves that we'd found in Beth's pack, with a set of surgical
gloves underneath so that no overeager forensics type could pull
prints off the wool surfaces. The blonde wig, a close match to Beth's
hair, was the final touch, and since Beth hadn't bothered to bring a
raincoat the addition of the baseball cap to the outfit seemed
reasonable.
I cast a critical eye over everything. Beth and Kitten weren't all
that similar, facially, but that didn't matter. Height, weight and
clothes carry many more clues to identity than most of us would care
to admit, and from a distance I felt she could probably fool anyone.
"Let's go," I said.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I drove the van slowly towards the town of Worcester.
Doc had extensively landscaped around his house to hide the extent of
the underground complex. As I said before, the place now looked like
your average New England frame house, an effect both he and the
government had spent a lot of time and money to achieve.
Unfortunately, the large garage needed to maintain the transport side
of his business would look inappropriate. The van and a small car
were the only vehicles he kept there, and a small industrial lot in
Worcester had to serve the rest of his business needs.
In the back of the van, JoJo and Myra shuffled uncomfortably in their
bondage. After a lot of discussion, we had finally agreed that two
trips to Worcester were a waste of time. As I had Kitten with me, it
would be safe to take Doc's shipment along and secure them in the
warehouse until I was ready to leave.
"How's it going?" I shouted.
"They're a little restless, but I think we'll survive," Kitten said
from the back seat, where she was keeping an eye on the cargo.
"Think they'll stay quiet at the warehouse?"
"No problem -- we made some improvements to the room we use as a
transit cell there," Kitten informed me. "They'll be just fine."
At last we turned into the courtyard of the lot. I pushed the remote
to open the loading doors. Doc's business relies on cars and vans
more than most (after all, you can hardly Fed Ex a slave to your
customer), so we keep a variety of vehicles available in order to
match the environment in which we'd be working -- a Caddie on an
industrial site would draw the wrong kind of attention, as would a
delivery truck outside a fancy nightclub. Recently, Doc has been
thinking about using a small private plane for the long trips to the
West Coast. He's paid for my pilot's license, even for a conversion
to choppers, but he's still undecided. Things as concrete and
verifiable as a flight plan tend make him nervous.
In addition to our agents, some of whom do their own recruiting, we
have 6 recruiters/delivery personnel. As far as I know, though, I am
the only one who ever knows the final destination. Most deliver to a
staging area like this, and I pick up the recruits from there, which
means that these places always need some kind of short-term slave
storage area. In this particular warehouse, it was a small room
around the back, marked "inventory." As we unloaded the slaves, I saw
what Kitten meant -- since the last time I had been there, the door
had been replaced by a solid steel industrial one and a layer of
acoustic tiles had been applied to the walls, making it almost
completely soundproof. After the shipment was stored, we headed out
in a different, more anonymous van from the pool.
Maria's address led to an older, more affluent area of town where each
house was set apart on its own grounds. The houses were large and
Victorian, and the neighbors seemed to keep to themselves. Our back
street abortionist was doing well for himself, I thought. I circled
the area, checking for security systems and access to the back. There
were no obvious closed-circuit cameras, but I told Kitten to be
careful anyway as I dropped her off. She was wearing a small wire,
equipment we got from the same people who supply the FBI -- it comes
in very handy during the surveillance of potential recruits. As
agreed, Kitten would hang around out front for a while, as if
undecided. This would make sure that our man's discreet neighbors got
a good look at the uniform. While that was going on, I went around
back, finding a position where I could watch the back door. It was
almost funny -- I had done shit like this so many times in the
service, and it still made me nervous. Finally, I heard Kitten over
my headpiece -- she was going in.
I waited as Kitten went up to the house and knocked. There was the
creak of a door opening, and she stammered out a few words of
explanation -- she had a friend who was in trouble, another friend had
recommended she come here. A man's voice invited her in. As soon as
the door closed, I was over the back fence and heading towards the
house, blessing those discreet neighbors in my mind. Another blessing
happened when the back door turned out to be open.
I mentally reviewed Kitten's orders; she should keep him talking as
long as possible while trying to avoid him getting too good a look at
her face. Trusting her abilities on this, I headed down to the
basement. As I'd hoped, the guy had an old coal fueled boiler, the
logical place to dispose of his business's 'remains,' and the coals
were hot and ready. As Kitten started asking about prices and
clinical details in this trembly little voice, I was loading the
contents of the girl's packs into the furnace, finishing off with the
ashes of the packs themselves. I waited a few minutes to make sure
everything was burning nicely. It would probably seem odd to any
subsequent forensic examination, but by that time they'd have way too
much evidence to worry about some bobbles. I figured in fifteen
minutes everything would be gone, leaving only the telltale residue
and ashes.
On schedule, I was at the back door when Kitten started to leave. She
would be back soon with her friend, she said, if the doctor could see
her now. The man agreed, even offering to take her to her 'friend.'
Kitten politely refused, explaining that the friend was nervous enough
already, and repeated that she'd be back. Silently, I slipped outside
and vaulted the fence, then headed back to the van. As before, Kitten
hung around in front of the house for a few minutes, then headed off.
Any neighbors who were watching would remember the blonde girl in that
distinctive plaid skirt.
I smiled when Kitten finally slipped into the back of the van. "Right
on time, master," she said, twinkling. "How did it go?"
"Burning nicely. And the other thing?"
She held up a small evidence bag. This morning, it had contained
fibers from Maria's shredded clothes and hair brushings from both
girls. Now it was empty. "Sprinkled in every high traffic area I
could find," she said proudly. "In a few hours, they'll be trailed
all over the house."
Now it was time for the final moves. I rejected the first two ATMs as
too modern, but finally I found what I needed. The little
hole-in-the-wall ATM next to the convenience store would accept Beth's
card -- furthermore, it was within a few blocks of the abortionist.
I asked Kitten if she was ready. She nodded. Finding another quiet
alley, I dropped her off and waited. These days, all ATMs have
cameras. Most are fairly discreet so you don't have a lens stuck in
your face when you make your transaction, but they all have them in
one form or another. Older machines hide them behind a plate just
above your head so that they look down at your face. The newer
machines use CCD camera's or angled mirrors to look directly at you,
which is why we needed an older machine. With baseball cap in place
and looking directly down, Kitten managed it so that the camera never
got a good view of her face. The ten or so shots the machine would
take would show a girl of the right hair color, height and weight
wearing the victim's clothes and using the victim's PIN. Just to be
sure, she would be using her left hand, matching Beth's
left-handedness. The transaction would put her alive and well in
Worcester sixteen hours after the kidnapping and just four blocks away
from the abortionist.
In a few minutes, Kitten returned. She handed me the money and the
receipt. "Two hundred and fifty as ordered. Told you it would work."
"When you're good, you're good," I admitted. "And you looked down all
the time?
She showed me a magazine. "I was reading."
"Good girl." I snuggled her a little, giving her a nice kiss on the
cheek. "Now hurry up and get changed back there."
By the time we pulled back into the warehouse lot, Kitten was back in
more Kittenish attire -- leather boots, short leather miniskirt and a
silk top. We transferred the clothes and things back to Doc's van and
then collected the shipment. In the two hours or so we'd been away,
neither girl had budged a single bond. Satisfied, I fed, watered and
toiletted them for the road, then said good-bye to Kitten.
"I'm taking the limo like we agreed," I concluded. "Give me fifteen
minutes to get clear, then head out." I turned around and headed
towards the black Caddie limousine.
"Oh slaaave," she sang.
Shit. I turned around.
Kitten cocked her hip and smiled at me. "Don't forget our little
wager. . ."
I flinched, which seemed to be exactly the reaction she wanted. With
an almost childish glee, she danced back towards the van, and I knew I
was in big trouble. Still, something about the whole thing bothered
me, and it wasn't just the idea of being indentured to Kitten for a
night.
"Hey, Kitten," I called.
She turned around, waiting.
"You got that number in 15 minutes."
"Yes, *slave,*" she said with relish.
"So why did you originally tell me it would take an hour? You
obviously knew you could get it faster."
She actually started laughing. "Because you're not a fool, dear. If
I said I could get it in fifteen minutes, you'd realize there was a
trick to it. This way, you thought there was a chance I'd fail and
you'd get your grubby little mitts on me. It's a classic case of the
little head doing the thinking for the big head." She gave me an
extremely arch look. "Now stop talking to me and get on the road.
The sooner you go, the sooner I get to collect on our bet."
Yes, definitely in trouble.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
On the road, I found a decent rock station and started humming along
as I drove. I was generally happy with the way things had turned out.
Of course, some ashes and scattered hair and skin scrapings wouldn't
be enough for the local cop shop to arrest our abortionist friend --
depending on how well he cleaned out his furnace, there might not be
any evidence at all. But when the girls failed to come back, the
alarm would be raised, and I was sure one of their co-conspirators
would finally break. Combined with their testimony, the bank
transaction linking "Beth" with the house in Worcester would neatly
direct the police in that direction and away from the quiet road where
I found the girls.
I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I didn't even notice them
at first. It was deja vu all over again. Two girls on the side of
the road, hitch-hiking. And here I was, driving Doc's shipment down
to New York in his big black limo. Like I said before, I'm simply not
allowed to stop, but today I wanted to do something special, so I
pulled over.
The first girl was blonde, bundled up against the cold in a huge green
raincoat. No fancy school clothes here, just ripped-up jeans and a
pair of old Docs. She ran up alongside the car as soon as I stopped.
"Going to New York, mister?" she asked hopefully.
"Yeah, but I can't give you a lift," I said. "My boss is asleep in
the back, and he won't pick up hitchers."
By now her brunette friend had wandered up. "So why did you stop?"
she asked. Not bitchy, just curious. I liked that.
I pointed back the way I came. "Because if you go back there, you'll
find a big truck stop," I told them. "It's dry and warm, and you
stand a better chance of a lift than waiting here."
"Back there?" the brunette asked doubtfully.
"'Bout a quarter mile." I reached over and handed her a C-note. It
was part of the money we'd taken from Beth's account, so it seemed
strangely appropriate. "This will buy you dinner while you wait."
"Thanks, mister!" they said in unison.
"Shush," I whispered, jerking my head towards the tinted partition
window. "If he wakes up, I could lose my job."
They looked at me conspiratorially, and the blonde winked. I had to
ask. "Do you girls have a place to stay when you get there?"
"Oh yes, we have a friend there already," the blonde said quickly.
She wasn't a very good liar.
"Yeah. Look, while you're eating dinner, do a little rethinking," I
said. "A lot of places won't allow extra tenants and your *friend*
may not be able to let you stay. New York is a bad place to live on
the streets."
The brunette smiled politely. "Thanks, but we'll be okay, honest."
Hey, I tried. I pulled away, feeling a little better with the C-note
and everything. Just as I rolled up the window, I heard the blonde
shout, "Thanks, mister! See you in New York!"
I winced. For her sake, I hoped not.
Once on the road, I lowered the partition and looked into the back.
JoJo sat in her strange fetish outfit, hands cuffed behind her back
and one of Doc's gags strapped in her mouth. She sat passively,
looking through the tinted window. Next to her, Myra was similarly
bound and quiet. So far, she'd been no trouble and I still had the
will suppressant as a backup.
I grinned to myself. "Just a couple of hitchhikers, ladies, nothing
to worry about," I said, just like a proper chauffeur. We continued
along our merry way, down to New York.
Doc's Orders by Quin
==================
Chapter 4 "Mayhem in Manhattan"
================================
Out on the highway, I had chance to relax. Ironically, if you stick
to the speed limit there is actually *less* chance of being pulled
over on the Interstate than on some side road. Highway Patrol
officers and State Troopers assigned to major routes never have
problems making their quotas, so random checks are less frequent.
Gradually, my mind turned back to the delivery. It seemed fairly
straight forward -- the club the girls would be performing at had a
swanky Manhattan address. Their act lasted about twenty minutes,
leaving us exposed for less than an hour. Still, no matter how I
looked at it, something about this deal stank. It wasn't the rush to
get Myra away; we'd taken similar risks before with slaves that
weren't completely ready. I think the things ringing alarm bells with
me were the details. Why do this shit with Myra? Kitten had proved
Doc could extract almost anything, given time, and those millions of
dollars Myra was supposed to have stolen had to be somewhere. Our
client could be the big hero and have Doc recover the money for the
bank -- hell, I'm sure Doc wouldn't mind extracting a few million for
himself. So why have Myra humiliate herself on stage when you could
get a more tangible revenge? For that matter, why have them perform
at all?
Furthermore, it had taken all six weeks to break JoJo. That made her
an exceptional individual in my book -- I doubt I could resist Doc
that long. What was such a person like that doing working as a PA?
Question, questions everywhere, and not a fucking answer in sight.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
About a half hour from Manhattan, I stopped at one of my usual rest
stops and did my final preparations. Myra struggled a little as I
gave her the will suppressant, so I sat and watched her for a few
minutes. Doc's drugs were extremely experimental, as they had to be;
it's hard to get FDA approval for drugs designed to enslave the user.
Doc's lab is of pharmaceutical quality, however, so there aren't the
same risks as with street drugs.
Slowly I began to see the light dimming in her eyes. Then I noticed a
stray tear as it trickled down her cheek. Taking a compact from her
purse, I attempted to fix it -- after all, it wouldn't do for her to
look bad on her big night. Once the suppressant was in force, I felt
better. Whatever we were getting ourselves in for, at least I didn't
have to worry about Myra doing anything stupid. Relieved, I hit the
road again.
Eventually, we crossed over the Hudson Bridge into Manhattan. The
Blue Note Club was on West 28th, just a few blocks from the Empire
State Building. Back in the Thirties, this had been a major business
district, and had somehow avoided the redevelopment of the Sixties.
Now the area was a little rundown, but it was still close enough to
Broadway to be inside the party district.
I was over an hour early, so I cruised around for awhile, mainly for
safety reasons. If Myra was going to go apeshit, I'd prefer to have
her do it in the limo. But I had to admit that Doc's drug seemed to
be working. By now, she looked like a big plastic robot, to the point
where I could get her to look left or right on command. The next time
I passed the club, though, I was relieved to see the side entrance
was clear. Robot or not, if there was going to be trouble,
it was likely to be here when the slaves smelled freedom for the first
time.
From what I could see, the club used seedy and bohemian as a motif.
The windows were painted over with stylized representations of jazz
musicians and their instruments, so it was impossible to see inside.
I circled the block again, mildly surprised at my instincts telling me
to run. There used to be a time when I'd listen to them, but tonight
I ignored everything, rationalizing it with Doc's generous delivery
bonus.
*Yeah, and what good would a bonus be if you weren't alive to spend
it,* a little piece of my mind spoke up.
Okay, fine. I've got too many unanswered questions to pull out now.
*Curiosity killed the cat.*
Better to be a dead tom than a live pussy.
My instincts shut up with that. I looked at my watch again -- still
an hour early. The lights were on in the club, but the place itself
looked pretty quiet. Probably wasn't open yet. I imagined trying to
get the girls inside when it opened up and the alley was full of
people, and winced. Getting them inside now while the joint was quiet
seemed like the best thing to do -- I was sure our clients could find
us someplace to hang out until show time.
Finding a quiet spot, I parked and turned back to the girls. Myra sat
like a zombie, next to a slightly livelier JoJo. I gave the smaller
woman a long look -- unlike Myra, she seemed firmly under Doc's
conditioning. That nagging sensation was back, stronger than ever. I
thought about it, then decided to palm an ace just in case my
instincts were right.
Reaching into my overnight, I recovered my spare 9mm and a second
magazine. "JoJo," I said quietly, "lift up your purse and open it."
She did. "Now, I want you to listen closely to me."
JoJo looked at me, all subservience. "Yes, Master?"
"I'm going to put these in your purse." She glanced at the gun and
magazine I slipped into her handbag. "They're quite heavy, so you'll
have to compensate a little for them. As far as you're concerned,
though, the purse is light. You will carry it as if it's just part of
your arm. If someone asks you if you're carrying any kind of weapon,
you'll tell them no. If anyone asks you for the purse, you check with
me -- if I'm not there, you'll tell them no. You will only give your
purse and the gun to me. Is that clear?"
"Yes Master."
"Good girl." I chucked her under the chin. "Now, Myra, I need you to
do something, too. . ."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The side door of the Blue Note Club was in a quiet alley off West
28th. I figured enough players came to the club that the security had
to be pretty good, so leaving the Lincoln parked there was safe enough
for now. Doc had given me a cloak for JoJo, something to cover her
kinky costume until show time. I was fairly confident that the purse
would go unnoticed under it.
We left the car and headed to the side door. I knocked once, and
found myself looking up at this large animal, about seven feet tall
and just as wide, who answered the door. White, with brown hair
flecked with gray and shaved close to the skull, he had no neck, no
teeth, and looked like he'd been an enforcer in kindergarten. I felt
better about slipping the gun to JoJo.
"Yeah?" he grunted.
I indicated the girls. "I brought the special act?"
It took him a minute to find enough brain cells and process this, then
he stepped back inside. "Toby. They're here."
Toby turned out to be a willowy black guy in his early thirties.
Compared to his friend on the door, he was a stick with muscles. But
I could see those muscles were in excellent condition, and I noticed
the way his eyes seemed to be in constant scan mode. There was no
comparison -- this was the one I had to worry about.
He looked me over, presumably doing the same calculation I was. "You
carrying?" he asked, pleasant.
"Shit, yeah," I said. "This is New York, friend. If you don't have a
gun, the police stop you and give you one."
Toby smiled, showing a perfect set of white teeth, and held his hand
out for it. When I paused, his face stayed pleasant, but I could feel
the temperature drop. "Look, 'friend,' it's early and I don't feel
like cleaning your brains off my shoes tonight, so I'm gonna cut you
some slack. The boss is a little nervous tonight, so you hand over
your little peashooter and everything'll be cool. If you don't, in
the words of the master, we'll have to get medieval with your ass."
The grin cocked up a notch. "Don't worry. I give you my personal
assurance you'll get your popgun back when you leave."
Reluctantly, I reached into the holster and withdrew my .38.
"Thank you kindly. Now up against the wall."
I knew the drill. He frisked me expertly, finding the holdout in my
ankle holster straight away. "Naughty, naughty -- carrying a pocket
rocket and not telling me," he mocked.
"Can't blame a guy for trying," I muttered over my shoulder.
"Wanna bet?" But he straightened up and nodded to the animal. "He's
cool."
JoJo almost made it through. She was right between them when Toby
stopped her. "The chicks, too," he snapped.
I felt my heart sink. "Fine," I agreed, thinking fast. "But you
won't find anything. We don't let our slaves carry."
Toby smirked and reached for JoJo's purse, and at that moment I
could've kissed Myra. She did exactly what I'd told her -- a light
clicked on in her eyes and she took off like a stripe-assed baboon,
running down the alley on those impossible heels. Toby went after her
with a snarl, with me right next to him. Luckily, I reached Myra
first, bringing her down in a flying tackle. She opened her mouth to
scream but Toby's hand covered it. Together, we managed to drag her
back inside before anybody noticed (not that many people would've
given a shit -- this WAS New York, after all).
"Shit, man, I was told these whores were trained?" he panted,
scowling.
"In her case, *partially* trained," I panted back. "Your boss wanted
them before this one was fully finished. The only thing we can rely
on her to do is her act."
We took a minute to get our breath back, and my earlier suspicions
came back in force -- whatever he was doing now, my new friend Toby
had also been Special Forces at some point. Not a marine -- we can
generally spot each other in a crowd -- but he'd been something, maybe
Green Berets or Airborne. If the shit hit the fan tonight, that was
going to make things a little difficult. Still, it made me feel
better that he'd missed one trick. Thanks to Myra's diversion, JoJo's
purse and its precious cargo had made it through the perimeter.
"Follow me," Toby commanded, heading off towards the front of the
house. I herded the girls in front of me, taking a good long look
around as we walked. This definitely wasn't the backstage of a
thriving nightclub, even one that wasn't open yet -- the air smelled
stale and dusty, like no one had been here in a while, and I noticed
posters and bits of old tickets littering the corridor. Most were
dated about three months before, about as long as a prime location
like this could remain unoccupied. This seemed confirmed when we
entered the main room. Most of the tables were covered with dust
sheets, but at the back there seemed definite signs of renovation. As
far as I could tell, the club's last makeover seemed to have been in
the Eighties. It had that Yuppie Club Tropicana look, all bamboo
furniture and plastic rubber plants. I started to think that the Blue
Note Club was what the place was becoming, rather than what it had
been.
One of the more annoying Eighties features was a small raised island
just large enough for a couple of tables that had been built to one
side of the dance floor. Back then, it was a place where the
beautiful people could sit so that everyone could admire them. Now, a
large comfortable couch had been placed on it at an angle facing the
stage. On the couch sat a man and a woman, relaxing with a drink.
The guy was dark, mid to late thirties, well muscled but nothing to
write home about. He was dressed in a simple tux and looked like he'd
just stepped out of a James Bond movie. The woman was more exotic,
maybe ten years younger than her partner. Long, blonde hair fanned
over an expensive leather dress, the type that had a slightly ribbed
bodice like a corset, seriously showcasing her figure. But the most
extraordinary thing about both of them was that they were masked. He
wore a little burglar type that covered part of his upper face, while
she preferred this large leather affair with sections that extended
down to her cheekbones. In addition to the masks they were both
wearing gloves, he an open backed driver's pair, she had long black
leather opera gloves. A careful pair, not taking any chances on being
identified.
"Ah," the man said as we entered. "You're early." His voice had an
educated Boston twang that covered something else -- if I had to
guess, I'd have said California but educated at Harvard. "Would you
care for some champagne?" He recovered a bottle from a strategically
placed ice bucket, offering it.
I smiled. "Thanks, no -- I have to drive later. But I wouldn't turn
down a Coke."
Mister Yuppie seemed confused. I think he'd expected white slavers to
be like the gangsters you see in movies -- quiet, tough and
hard-drinking. "Toby?" he asked.
The black man headed over to a cool box hidden behind the couch and
returned seconds later with a can of Diet Coke. He tossed me the can,
and a brilliant idea hit me. Usually I open a can by just cracking
the poptop a little and letting the gas hiss out, but this time I
ripped it open. A gush of foam spilled out onto my hand. Cursing, I
crossed over to JoJo and dried it on her cloak.
"Sorry, man," Toby said insincerely.
"No problem," I replied. Thank you, schmuck, I added. Now I was
close enough to grab her purse if anything went wrong.
In the meantime, I eyed our hosts. At first they looked like a pair
of yuppies on some wild power kick, but there was something else,
something disturbing about them I couldn't quite put my finger on.
The hairs on the back of my neck tingled as adrenaline started pumping
through my system. "Uh, I was told that the girls were to perform at
a party?" I said, nodding at Myra and JoJo. "Is there somewhere we
should wait until the others get here?"
"This *is* the party," the woman answered, a leather-gloved hand
caressing the glass as she sipped her wine. Her accent was pure
Mayflower, each word rolled in two hundred years of privilege until it
seemed to drip money. "A very. . .private party."
"Shall we begin?" the man asked, clearing his throat. "After all,
you have such a long way to go."
I glanced towards the stage. On it were a chair and a desk complete
with telephone and intercom. I also noticed a small 8mm video camera
on a tripod. If I could get this over with quickly, I'd have another
few hours' safety margin on Myra's will suppressant.
"Why not?" I said. "If you're ready?"
The man nodded, and I directed the girls towards the stage. I was
going to follow, but Toby stopped me and pointed to the camera. I
could only watch as JoJo and her purse got further and further away.
Once they were in position, the woman snapped, "Begin."
On cue, they started the dialogue as corny as before, then went into
the lesbian scene. The drug seemed to have drained some of Myra's
drive and the teasing and stroking was not as one-sided as it had been
before. Both girls got as far as being bottomless and a small
struggle started as each fought for time on the other's clit. Myra
started to make significant headway, if you'll excuse the pun, and her
tongue danced over JoJo's slit. The blonde girl tried to fight but
the battle was lost. She started into her orgasm with a squeal of
disappointment.
With effort I dragged my attention away and back to our hosts. The
man was turned on, no surprise there, any man would be. The woman's
look was more indescribable. I could see her gloved fingers buried
deep in her pussy from here, but there was something in that look,
some form of pure hate too intense for me to comprehend. All of a
sudden, I knew this was going to end badly, and all I wanted now was
that gun.
With a scream, Myra came. I noticed the woman shudder and knew she'd
gotten off too.
I signaled the girls to come down and turned to the audience. "Madam
et Monsieur, that completes our feature presentation. May I please
remind you that we are available for club dates in the greater
Manhattan area. I thank you and goodnight."
Yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but JoJo had fallen behind as she left
the stage, so the gun was still just out of reach. I was stalling for
time. She was just starting to catch up, when--
"Wait!" the man said. "The party isn't over yet. Joanne, come over
here."
JoJo happily complied -- fuck toys will respond to anyone with a
commanding tone. I could only watch as she and her purse headed
towards the couch. I noticed that Toby had positioned himself
strategically to the right of his boss. The white guy who I'd started
to think of affectionately as "Ugg the Barbarian" stood near the door
to backstage. Over by the renovations I caught another movement. It
was a classic encirclement, and the fact they were doing it now
implied things were coming to a head.
The man undid his fly. JoJo needed no further explanation, sinking to
her knees and taking his cock tenderly in her lips. Like all Doc's
girls, she had a wonderful technique using tongue, suction, pressure
and friction to best effect. She was doing it slowly, building the
sensation. The woman watched enviously then hitched up her leather
skirt.
"Myra. Over here," she cooed.
Myra started over, but the guy pushed JoJo away with a groan. "No,
that bitch is mine!" he muttered, shoving JoJo roughly towards the
woman, "take this one." He beckoned Myra over, and finally noticed
that I was still standing there. "Hadn't you better be going?"
"I have to return the girls," I said. "Company rules."
"We've changed our minds," he replied, his voice hardening. "We were
so impressed with their performance that we've decided to keep them."
He turned to his date. "Haven't we, my dear?"
The woman just groaned. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed. She
had pulled one tit free of the leather bodice and was rolling the
nipple between her gloved thumb and forefinger. Down at waist level,
JoJo's face was buried deep in the woman's pussy, the slave's talented
tongue gradually building an explosive orgasm.
"We paid for them," the Yuppie continued, a hard edge to his voice.
"I don't see any problem."
I tried to look sympathetic while I worked out who was where around
us. "But they're not finished -- your time scale was too short. If
you want them, neither myself or my associates have a problem but you
must give us a month or so to finish the training." I knew as soon as
I said it that he wouldn't agree. I had been tempted to call Toby as
a witness of Myra's instability but a quick glance had shown him
mesmerized by the sight of the two women getting it off. That was an
advantage too good to miss.
Myra had started work on the guy's cock and his ability to focus was
starting to go. He sighed in pleasure. "I had hoped not to have to
do this here. Too many links back to the bank. . ." He groaned as
Myra upped the sensation. "But as you insist -- Toby, dispose of our
annoying little friend."
Bingo. I moved fast, avoiding a direct beeline for the purse in favor
of an angle about six feet to the right. Ugg could still shoot at me,
but if he missed the couple on the couch would take the bullet (of
course, this assumed that Ugg was smart enough to realize that). I
was closing in on JoJo when Toby finally broke his gaze and started
reaching for his gun. I knew that in seconds I would be a dead man,
and suddenly understood all that crap about curiosity and cats.
Then Myra bit down hard.
Even I didn't expect that. Tool-biting was a major no-no, something a
slave simply never did. The man screamed in agony, a sound almost as
bad as Kitten's sonic disorientator. Toby shifted his attention
instantly as my danger potential plummeted, replaced by Myra and her
pearly whites. That was all I needed. I vaulted over one of the
covered tables and pushed it over, pleased that it seemed more
substantial than the bamboo chairs.
"JoJo," I yelled, "come to me *NOW*" The slave had been too intent on
licking slit during Myra's performance, but she heard the order and
broke away. The woman tried to grab her, in an attempt to stop her
escape or to continue the pussy licking I couldn't say. In the
meantime, Toby had just managed to pry Myra off his boss's dick when
the shooting started, wild shots from the guys at the back of the
house. He must've realized that he was in a potential friendly fire
situation, and screamed at them to stop. Seizing the opportunity,
Myra made a break for the backstage door.
By now I'd recovered the gun from JoJo's purse. In my professional
opinion, Toby had been too relaxed about the entire situation, relying
on the fact that he had at least four armed guys against an unarmed
man and two slaves. It was time to shake that complacency.
My first shot took Toby in the leg. I had considered killing him, but
the rest of the goons were probably even more dangerous without a
leader. The next I planted between the two on the couch. Despite his
pain, Toby reacted like a professional -- he leapt and used his body
momentum to push the couch backwards, causing both himself and his
employers to fall behind the island and into cover. It also upset the
cooler, spilling crushed ice across part of the dance floor.
Moving fast, I scoped out the room. The two guys at the back were
closing fast, but the ice would slow them down a little. Toby was out
for the moment. I shot Ugg, a head shot in case he wore a vest. As
he fell back I yelled at the girls to run and laid down a little
covering fire, then raced after them. Shots whistled around in
confusion as I heard the woman screaming:
"Ignore him, you idiots! Shoot the women, _shoot the women!_"
Then we were out. I glanced down at Ugg as I ran over him. Single
shot just above the right ear. Not bad for a guy with a handgun in
this light. As we cleared the stage door I found the limo keys and
pressed a button on the fob. With a click, the car doors opened and
the engine started, a little James Bond trick I'd had done. The girls
threw themselves in the back as I dove into the driver's seat -- if
they'd decided to run at that moment I admit I couldn't have stopped
them, but they must've realized that the only safety was in the limo.
We were almost out of the alley when a shot shattered the rear window.
I groaned. Of course the limo wasn't bulletproof -- if you're not the
President or Al Capone you don't need it to be -- but it still came as
a hell of a shock. At least two more bullets slammed into the car
before we were clear.
I did a couple of quick turns, sweating the traffic. I hadn't seen a
car in the alley, so with luck it would take them a while to pursue.
In the meantime, we were in a bitch of a situation -- I was in a limo
very obviously damaged by gunfire, ferrying two not always cooperative
sex slaves around New York, and I had some weird oversexed yuppie
couple and their private army after me. Yeah, this was special.
Of course, Doc and I had arranged a standard procedure in case
something like this happened. What I should do now was simple: find
a quiet alleyway, shoot the slaves and set the limo on fire. I had ID
on me, not my own but good enough to hire a car and get out of town.
I could then arrange for Doc or Kitten to pick me up. That was what
I'd agreed with Doc, since no slave was worth compromising the whole
organization.
But. Yeah, there was always a 'but.' I glanced in the rear view
mirror. The girls were curled around each other, more like kids than
sex slaves. Part of me grudgingly accepted that I'd be dead without
these two, which made it difficult to off them. Besides, the bad guys
had wanted them dead, and the last thing I wanted was to do those
bozos any favors.
One thing was clear. We had to get off the island. By then it was
pretty late and the Manhattan shift had taken place; most businesses
were closed, most shows and bars open. This was as quiet as the roads
out of town were likely to get before three. There wasn't much of a
choice, so I headed for the Holland Tunnel. I'd have preferred a
bridge, since tunnels are too well lit if you're this badly damaged
and I knew it would be a miracle if I wasn't pulled over on the other
side, but my only other alternatives were to stop and get another car,
or drive through downtown Manhattan to the Queensboro Bridge. Neither
of them were very appealing right now, so I took the turnoff for the
tunnel.
"How's it going back there?" I asked.
"I'm fine, Master," JoJo said, "but Myra seems a little odd."
"Damn." I checked the mirror again. Myra was gently rocking
backwards and forwards mumbling something under her breath. "Was she
hit?"
"No, Master, I don't think so."
I grunted. Doc's will suppressor should have been good for another
hour or so, but then I doubted a drugged Myra would go around biting
cocks either. "JoJo, listen to me. The restraints you were wearing
this morning are in the small cupboard on your side. I want you to
take them out and cuff Myra's hands and feet, OK?"
Obediently, JoJo opened the cupboard and started to cuff Myra's wrists
behind her.
"Good girl," I praised her. "Now make them good and tight." Myra
didn't fight, although I wasn't clear if this was because JoJo was
doing the tying or because she was too far out of it. "Okay, now take
the gag and put it into her mouth. Strap it tight as well." Myra
protested a little at this but it was a little too late by then. And
the rear footwells were probably covered in glass, but I couldn't help
that now. "Push her on to the floor and cover her with your cloak. .
.good. Now put your feet on top of her and push down a little.
Listen to me, JoJo -- you must keep Myra covered and on the floor, is
that clear? If she tries to get up, push her down."
JoJo smiled at the mirror. Doc's slaves get a slight sexual thrill
when they obey orders. "Yes Master," she said in a husky voice.
In my mind I thanked simple, loyal JoJo a thousand times. So far she
hadn't failed me once. I made a silent pact that if we survived this,
I would find a kind master who would take good care of her. Table
dancing in Juan's Mexican brothel was not going to be her future.
I took a fairly eccentric route to the tunnel entrance. I admit that
it was a gamble because it gave Toby and the boys chance to get in
front of me, but the same factors of good light and surveillance would
stop them doing too much on the Tunnel approach road. I hoped.
I was passing a building site when something caught my eye. It was
one of those transparent plastic sheets they use to keep out the rain.
Suddenly I had an idea. Stopping the car, I climbed out and cut a
section off with my knife, then headed for the limo's trunk. I carry
supplies, anyone in my business would, and as it would be hard to
explain handcuffs and collars to the cops the most useful thing a guy
like me can carry is duct tape. For a slaver the stuff is just so
versatile. As a friend of mine says, it's like the Force: it has a
light side, a dark side, and it holds the universe together. I always
make sure Doc's vehicles carry two rolls, one white, the other black.
White is good for gags, it isn't nearly as obvious as the usual silver
type, while black is good for bonds since in a darkened car it isn't
that obvious.
Taking the black tape, I stuck small sections over the bullet holes.
It looked like shit, but it was better than the obvious rings of bare
metal. Next, I taped the plastic over the broken rear window. It
also looked shit, but with car crime like it is how many cars do you
see in a day with temporary patched up windows? Satisfied that we
looked more like the victims of a smash and grab than of a drive-by, I
got back in and headed for the tunnel.
We were on the approach ramp to the toll booths when I saw the car.
At first I thought they were cops -- the car was a tan colored Taurus,
and the FBI buys those in fleets. The aggressive way they wove
through the traffic behind me suggested it, as well. Then I took a
closer look at the mirror. The two in front I didn't recognize, but
in the back was my old buddy Toby with a pained look on his face.
Shifting my gaze forward, I checked out the massed cars in front of
me, and saw the danger. If I stopped for the toll, I would leave
myself in the perfect position for a drive-by. If I didn't stop, the
cops would be waiting for me at the other side.
I only had one chance. Slowly, I made my way towards the barrier,
aiming for the right-hand lane. As I expected, the Taurus started
edging towards my left side. Timing was going to be critical. As the
cars paused to pay the toll they could just reach out and shoot me.
Unless. . .
Then I saw what I wanted. A Volvo in the lane to my left slowed a
little. Perfect. I placed my gun on the window ledge, concentrating
on my target. Distance was all important. I fired, taking out the
Volvo's right rear tire. The car stopped, which meant its lane
stopped, and because it was in that lane the Taurus stopped. The car
ahead of me cleared the gate and I jumped forward, grabbing a handful
of change and hurling it into the toll basket. Probably paid the toll
for fifty guys, but I didn't care. For the moment, I was still alive.
We was almost out of the tunnel by the time the Taurus caught up. I
wasn't too worried, since I figured Toby was smart enough to know he'd
get better chances later, and there was a fair-to-middling chance that
I could shake them. The limo was a large, heavy Lincoln with poor
acceleration, but the top speed compared favorably with the Taurus.
The faster I could go, the better chance I stood. Assuming I didn't
get pulled over.
I had some idea where I wanted to go. Doc had another staging area on
an industrial lot just off I-280, and I was hoping I could find a new
car and maybe some backup there. Of course, all this assumed Toby
would let me get that far. Surprisingly, he didn't bother me as I
slipped through the minor roads needed to change onto the 280.
Perhaps he was following me, or he was after a place quieter than
I-78. Or maybe he just didn't like Newark
In any case we were on a fairly quiet stretch of 280 when he made his
move. At the first clatter of automatic fire I started swearing. Car
to car with handguns is tricky even if the other guy isn't dodging.
Throw enough bullets around, however, and something -- or someone --
is going to get hit.
"JoJo," I yelled, "get down on the floor with Myra _now!_"
Seconds later, one of the side windows exploded into a shower of
glass. I checked the mirror. The Taurus was coming up fast. I tried
to swing my rear end out and sideswipe him, but he was too quick. To
make things even more fun, a truck was chugging along ahead of us.
Wonderful.
The next time I looked at the Taurus, the guy in the passenger seat
was taking aim at us with what looked like a MAC-10. I had no
intention of finding out if it was. I hit the brake. The other
driver was good, but not _that_ good -- he shot by me and the bullets
missed by a mile. We placed musical lanes for a minute, then I
decided to push it and shot past him. Somehow, the gunman managed to
lock onto the limo and fired off a few rounds. My engine noise stared
to change, and I hoped to God it was just the muffler.
Time for something completely desperate and stupid. It could just
work if I was in a sports car; as it was, I had a better than even
chance of getting us all killed. As I drew level with the truck, I
checked the make -- Peterbilt, just what I needed. Beneath the main
container was a little metal tank with a gauge on the side. That tank
was the reservoir for the air brakes. Putting my foot down on the
accelerator, I inched past the truck, aware all the time that Toby was
right behind me. When I felt I'd got as far ahead as I dared, I hit
the button for the passenger window. The sudden gust of cold air
didn't even faze me as I emptied my gun into the tank.
It helped that the trucker was doing a minor correction at the time,
but the effect was still stunning. The tank exploded, and immediately
the trailer brakes came hard on, clamping down on those wheels like
the hand of God. The tires smoked and the trucker fought to control
his bucking, squealing trailer. He failed, and the trailer whipped
round, glancing off the back of the limo. Even so, it nearly sent me
off the road. I never saw what happened to the Taurus, but I could
imagine the reaction as the truck slid sideways on the tarmac,
effectively blocking the road. Crash city.
As soon as my breathing returned to normal, I started looking for the
next exit. From the way it was handling the limo was just limping
along -- I could probably nurse the car a few more miles. As it was,
we broke down less than a mile from the exit. Fortunately there was
some cover nearby and I was able to push the car behind it. I just
prayed Toby and his buddies were in worse shape than we were.
After making sure the car was hidden, I popped the hood latch and
uncovered the engine, swearing at the foul cloud of greasy smoke that
whooshed up at me. It was pretty obvious from the black slick over
everything that one of the shots had either cracked the block or blown
an oil seal. I figured another few miles and the entire engine would
seize. The hard decision I'd been putting off since Manhattan now
seemed my only choice. Pushing my last clip into the gun, I walked
around to the back of the car and opened the door. Incredibly, the
slaves were both asleep, curled up together like children at a slumber
party.
"Aw, hell," I muttered. Myra was still bound, of course, so the
kiddie illusion wasn't perfect, but after all we'd been through
together I just couldn't kill them in cold blood. One way or the
other, I was going to get them back to Doc's alive.
I had to laugh. Getting back to Doc's on my own was going to be
enough of a challenge as it was, considering that we were in a
near-dead car with no backup or even regular clothes for the girls.
Heading back to the driver's seat, I rustled up a map and scoped out
where we were. An idea started to form when I realized we were close
to a residential area. It was a fairly desperate plan, and it got Joe
Q Public more involved than I'd have liked, but I didn't have much of
a choice. Glancing back at the girls, I started the engine up and
headed towards sanctuary.
Doc's Orders by Quin
==================
Chapter 5 "Home Invasion"
==========================
I chose the house because the garage doors were open and it offered
the quickest way to get the car under cover. Of course the fact it
was near the edge of town helped, too. It was almost 7:30 am, one of
the worst possible times, but getting the car to come even this far
had taken all night. I'd lucked out because the streets were still
empty -- another couple of minutes and I'd have been screwed.
Realizing I'd have to be quick, I drove into the garage.
I turned around to the back seat. "JoJo, close the garage doors, then
stay with Myra."
"Yes Master." She seemed a little sullen, having woken up extremely
horny this morning. Unfortunately I wasn't exactly in a position to
do anything about it right now. Still, she was a slave, she had to
learn to live with disappointment.
I went to the trunk and pulled out a ski mask from the supplies bag.
Mask on, I grabbed my overnight bag and gun and made my way inside
through the garage door. I suppose I'd expected the typical family
scene -- Mom, Dad and a couple of kids. What I got was a little
different. The woman was in her early thirties, attractive, nice
figure, with mousy brown hair. She was dressed in a female business
suit, a uniform really, with one of those little name badges that
receptionists wear. The girl was fifteen or sixteen, obviously the
daughter, with her mother's eyes and hair. She wore some kind of
school uniform.
The girl opened her mouth to scream but when I pointed the gun at her
it died to a whimper.
"Not a move, not a sound, understand?" I rasped.
The woman nodded, gulping. "Please, my purse is on the counter," she
said quickly. "It's all we have, please just take it and go."
I gave her my best psycho look. "Tell me, lady, was that 'not a
sound?'"
"No," she whispered.
I shook my head. "You just don't give up do you? We can fix that."
I reached into the overnight, pulling out JoJo's strap gag, and tossed
it to her. She caught it, recoiling in disgust from the huge penis
mouthpiece. A man could never be this large and still walk.
I was deliberately acting twitchy, as if I'd plug them both in a
second. "Well, bitch? What are you waiting for?" I snarled.
"What--" she stammered. I suppose she'd never seen one before in her
life.
"Put the dick in your mouth sweetheart," I said coldly. "Just like
you were sucking someone off, only fasten the straps so it stays
there."
She stared at it, finally realizing what it was for. She looked up,
eyes full of fear. "Please, we'll be quiet. There's no need--"
I put the gun to the girl's head, letting my hand shake a little. I'd
already noticed the third breakfast setting, which meant I didn't have
time for any plea-bargaining. The girl whimpered, which seemed to
make up the woman's mind. Slowly and with trembling hands she opened
wide and pushed the mouthpiece inside.
"Now fasten the fucking straps!" I hissed. "Tighter, bitch, or
you'll end up burying a daughter." She grunted as she pulled the
strap extra tight. So far, so good.
Then I threw her the pair of leather cuffs JoJo had been wearing.
"One on each wrist, nice and tight." She gave me a look, the classic
doe caught in the headlights, before her eyes flashed to the gun
against her sobbing daughter's head. Trembling, she fastened the
cuffs on her wrists. I made her turn around and put her hands behind
her so that I could lock the cuffs together.
One-handed, I then took Myra's cuffs and fastened the girl's hands
behind her, bending down so that I could whisper in her ear, "OK,
sweetheart, who else is here?"
"No..no one."
"Bullshit! I can see the other table place, stupid." I pressed the
muzzle harder against her temple. "Now tell me who it's for. Is it
daddy?"
"M. . .my sister," she stuttered.
"Where _is_ daddy, by the way?"
"With his girlfriend." There was such venom in that answer that I was
forced to believe her. Looking around, I saw an almost clean dish
towel that would do nicely. Balling it up, I brought it to her lips.
After seeing what I'd done to Mommy, she had a pretty good idea what
was about to happen.
"Please, no!" she gasped.
I smiled my best psycho smile at her. "Listen sweetcakes, this is how
it works. While you and Mommy aren't gagged my trigger finger is
awfully itchy. I could blow your sister's head clean off. So open up
like a good girl and help my finger stop itching."
She was scared. She looked over at her mother. The woman made a
small gagged sound and nodded.
"A-all right," she said in this tiny voice. "But please don't hurt my
sister. She's a little slow but _umph._"
I pushed the towel firmly into her mouth, sealing it in place with a
couple of strips of duct tape. The girl struggled a little and a
strangled sound came from behind the gag. I kept applying tape until
I was satisfied, then ran my thumbs over her taped lips to ensure the
adhesive had a good seal. "There now, that's a lot better. I feel my
finger settling down already."
"Ummpph," she moaned.
I smiled. She was louder than I'd like but she wouldn't be waking the
neighbors. Most importantly, I doubted either woman could be heard
outside the kitchen. A search of the kitchen drawers revealed a few
additional towels, two of which made excellent blindfolds. The girl
started shaking her head and making little gagged noises as I tried to
tie the towel in place.
I looked at the mother. "Tell her to stop or I'll be forced to hurt
her," I said.
The woman made a muffled pleading sound, though it was hard to tell if
it was meant for me or her daughter. In the end it didn't matter --
the girl stopped struggling and I was able to tie the towel over her
eyes. I repeated the process with her mother.
"OK, listen up," I hissed. "I want you to understand just what these
blindfolds are. They are your protection. While you're wearing them,
you can't identify us. That means that we have no problems letting
you go when we're finished. If they come off and you see us then you
are in big trouble, so you keep them on. Is that clear?"
They nodded.
"Good! Now, I _am_ aware that you can see through the slit at the
bottom. That is why you will keep your heads down and your chins on
your chests. Is that clear? If I see anyone with her head up, then
that is seriously bad for them. If I see anyone with her head back,
it's bad for the whole family. Understand?"
There was a second chorused nod.
"Good."
Looking around, I saw a radio on the counter. I turned it on, keeping
the usual station but upping the volume a little. The sound would
cover my movements and reduce the chance either of the women could be
heard outside. Looking back, I found them both with heads down as I'd
ordered. Good little girls. Of course, there was little chance that
they would ever be set free, since Doc's paranoia almost guaranteed
that they'd be added to inventory. Still, the hope would keep them in
line for a while. Looking at them as they squirmed helplessly, I felt
myself getting hard again, and wondered which one I'd end up fucking
first. But that could wait until later. Quietly, I slipped outside
to retrieve the slaves.
I'd rebound Myra earlier so I could use her cuffs, but she'd been so
noisy lately that I let her keep Doc's gag. I carried her through to
the den, since I didn't want the two in the kitchen to know we had
another captive. She struggled and moaned a little but she was as
helpless as the other two. Tying her ankles to a radiator and
assuring myself that she couldn't be seen from outside, I wandered
back to the kitchen.
JoJo was standing at the door to the garage, awaiting orders. I
tossed her one of the rolls of tape. "Use this to tie their ankles to
the chairs. Tape their elbows, too."
"Yes sir," she said. I'd ordered her not to call me Master while we
were here.
Grabbing a couple of extra towels, I went in search of the missing
sister. All of the downstairs rooms were empty. There were the usual
family pictures and other collectibles, but I noted that nothing said
"Daddy," not even pictures from better days. I figured that there had
been a complete break and wondered what the story was.
The sound of running water led me to a shower room on the second
floor. All in all, the house was a nice one, built in the late
sixties and probably worth about a quarter mil. I wondered how they
could afford it. So sister number two was having a shower. Feeling a
little like Norman Bates, I crept a little closer before ripping the
curtain aside, ready to pounce on her before she could scream.
But she didn't. Instead, she said, "Hello."
The girl looked about thirteen, her body just starting into those
interesting changes that make up adolescence. But her voice and
attitude were definitely younger, around five or six. I remembered
what the other sister had said before I gagged her. What was the PC
term for it -- "Developmentally disabled?" In any case, she wasn't
going to be a problem.
"Hello," I said, keeping my voice neutral but light. "Who are you?"
"Amy," she said in a friendly voice. "Who are you?"
"Um. . .Jimmy. I'm Jimmy," I said, offering my hand. "Pleased to
meet you, Amy."
She shook my hand very formally, like a little kid. "Why are you
wearing that?," she asked, pointing at the ski mask. "Is your head
cold?"
"Yup. I have a really bad head cold."
"Becky, gets those," Amy confided, "but only when she has a test at
school."
"And Becky is?"
"She's my sister."
"Ah. Well, here," I said, giving her a towel, "you better dry off or
you'll catch cold, too."
She seemed like a sweet kid, so I kept my eyes on the bathroom shelves
while she dried herself, studying them for clues about the
inhabitants. As expected, there was no shaving kit or any hint of
male toiletries. Becky had been telling the truth. I relaxed a
little.
But now I had a new problem. I didn't want to have to tie Amy up if I
could avoid it -- she could panic or have a fit or something.
Instead, I took her to her room and helped her get dressed. I told
her that there would be no school today and that her mother and sister
were too busy to play. I had a friend who could play with her,
though, as long as she didn't go downstairs. Would she wait here?
Like a good girl, she nodded. Then I went in search of JoJo. I found
her putting the finishing touches to the mother's bonds. She'd done a
fantastic job, far in excess of what I'd expected. This could only
mean she wanted to be fucked badly. Slaves always over-perform when
they're desperately horny.
I took off the ski mask and guided JoJo to one side. "Here, put on
this mask. You'll find a little girl called Amy upstairs," I
whispered into her ear. "I want you to play with her until I say
otherwise. Whatever happens, keep her upstairs. Do a good job and
I'll reward you latter."
A sparkle appeared in the slave's eyes as she pulled on the ski mask.
We both knew what reward meant. "Now remember keep the mask on and
stay away from the windows," I instructed. "If the girl asks why
you're wearing it, say you have a head cold."
JoJo seemed a bit confused at the final part, and I wondered if Doc
had given her basic child care training. Still, for the moment it
didn't matter. As she trotted upstairs to play with Amy, I wandered
quietly into the kitchen and sat on a chair by the counter. The radio
was enough of a cover, and I doubted either of them knew I was there.
As time went on, they became more and more certain that they were
alone, taking more risks than they would have if they had known I was
watching. Suddenly, the mother let out a gagged scream and struggled
for a few minutes. She paused, listening I think for some response.
Finally she tried again with similar effects. Then she seemed to
realize that it was hopeless, that she was too well bound to escape
and her muzzle made screaming impossible. She settled down with her
chin on her chest as ordered, surrendering herself to the situation.
In contrast, Becky was a fighter. Most of the medals hanging up in
the den had been hers. I watched as her strong, athletic body
struggled against the bonds. She screamed into the muffling gag in a
desperate bid for freedom. She had none of her mother's realism; it
was hopeless but she fought anyway. I found myself hard, imagining
the young hellcat bucking below me as I fucked her helpless body.
Quietly, I walked up behind her.
"You know, Becky, I always knew you'd be trouble," I murmured, keeping
my voice low so that only the girl could hear me. Becky immediately
stiffened and placed her chin against her chest as I'd ordered. I had
a feeling Becky would make a good slave. She sat trembling for a few
minutes as I enjoyed her obvious terror. Then I continued in a soft,
friendly voice, "Yes, the first time I saw you I thought you'd be a
problem. Your mother has too much to lose, but you -- well, you're
young and stupid, and you don't know when you're licked."
Reaching down, I tugged at her cuffed wrists. "Did you really think
you could get free? Did you think I'd let you?" She shivered and
tried to make herself smaller. I ran my fingers over her gagged
mouth, finding the tape as smooth and well stuck as before.
"And as for all that noise. . .well, your mother can't hear you and
she's only a few feet away. You're completely helpless, you know? I
could do whatever I wanted to you, and chances are that your mother
wouldn't even know." I smiled. "Not that she could help you anyway."
Becky trembled. I think she could see where this was going. I let
her stew for a while, allowing enough time for her helplessness to
sink in, then I made my proposal. "You know, Becky, I have nothing
against your family. Me and my friend just needed somewhere to stay
for a while. If I thought I could trust you I'd untie you in a shot."
"Ummpph," she said, nodding her head frantically, her light brown hair
flapping against her head. "Umm mmuum muffmm mmupphh!"
"What?" I asked. "I can trust you?"
Realizing that her gagged sounds were unintelligible, she just nodded.
"Well," I said as if I were thinking about it, "you'd have to agree to
do whatever I say.."
She nodded again. I reached down and fumbled with the tape over her
mouth as if I were going to remove it. In fact I smoothed it down a
little more. Then I pretended to change my mind. "No. At least not
yet. Once you've proved that you're to be trusted, I'll see what I
can do."
She fell back, moaning with disappointment.
By this time I was extremely close to her, my lips almost touching her
ear. I doubted that her mother had heard any of the previous
conversation, but this part I definitely wanted to keep private.
"I'll do a deal with you, Becky. I promise not to hurt you as long as
you just sit back and give me no trouble. If you're really good, I'll
cut you free, but in any case the worse that will happen is that
you'll be uncomfortable for a few hours. Nothing bad will happen, I
promise. And just think what a great story you'll have to tell your
friends at school."
She relaxed a little. Now came the punchline.
"However, if you do give me trouble, like screaming or trying to
escape, well, then I feel that it would be appropriate for you to pay
a forfeit. Something to compensate for the trouble you caused."
She stiffened when I moved in even closer and yelped into the gag as I
put my hand on her breast. Her tits were young and firm, a tidy
handful feeling warm and pleasant even through her clothes. With my
other hand I brushed some of the hair from her face and rubbed her
cheek. "You're a very pretty girl, Becky," I whispered. "I can think
of all kinds of interesting forfeits for a pretty girl."
She started sobbing.
"Tell me, are you still a virgin?" I asked. She nodded, her
shoulders heaving as she fought conflicting emotions. "Oh, come on.
I'm sure that someone would have had a crack at your cherry by now," I
snorted. "I mean, you're such a pretty thing."
She sobbed.
"Now, just shush," I soothed. "If you do yourself a favor and be
good, I won't have an excuse to find out. All right?"
She nodded miserably. I doubted she would be any more trouble. I
allowed myself a parting grope to hammer my message home, then walked
over to her mother.
The older woman moved only slightly, just enough to relieve her
uncomfortable position. She was obviously a realist, understanding
that the only way to keep her family alive was to cooperate. That
would make my life a little easier. Despite the radio, she sensed my
presence and stiffened. As with her daughter, I came in closer so
that our conversation couldn't be heard. Bending down, I looked at
her name badge. It said "Sandra Fisher. Counter Assistant,
Belleville Saving and Loan."
"Sandra," I whispered close to her ear, "if you promise to be quiet
I'll remove the gag."
She nodded.
"Good girl," I said. "I want you to keep your voice at this level,
understand? Any louder and I'll gag you again."
She nodded a second time.
Reaching down I loosened the strap and removed the gag. She sat,
working her jaw for a while. When I was sure she was comfortable, I
began. "So Sandra, as you can tell we have a situation here. Me and
my friend need somewhere quiet to hold up for a few hours, and
unfortunately, that place is here."
She blinked up at me. "What have you done with Amy?" she asked, her
voice trembling.
"Nothing," I said. "My friend is looking after her, and if you
cooperate she need never know any of this unpleasant business took
place. Now, this is what's going to happen: first, we are going to
make a few phone calls. Nice simple ones, just to tell everyone who
needs to know that the Fisher family has a one day virus. Next, you
are going to tell me everyone who you may even remotely expect to come
around. The reason is that if anyone comes and I don't expect them,
I'll shoot them. Understand?" She nodded. "Finally, you are going
to sit here quietly until me and my friend have gone."
"How long will that be?"
"Three or four hours if you cooperate. If you're good, we'll just
leave you tied up and ring a neighbor when we're far enough away. If
you're bad, we may have to take Amy or Becky with us, OK?"
She nodded, sucking in a shaky breath.
"OK. First up, where are your car keys?"
"I. . .I don't have a car. My husb--"
"Yeah, I know about him," I said. If I'd thought about it, I'd have
realized that no car in garage and no car on the drive probably meant
no car, period. "All right, let's up that estimate by an hour, then.
Now, tell me Sandra, is there anyone who you're expecting to come
around? A boyfriend, a doctor, friends of Becky's, anyone?"
"N..no. Not during the day, anyway. Perhaps in the evening. .."
"I need to be sure, Sandra. We're going to ring all of those people
and make sure they don't come here today. You see, if anyone else
finds out we're here, it's likely to get unpleasant. And you don't
want things like that happening while your daughters are here."
"No," she whispered seeing the implied threat.
"Good."
The list was longer than I'd expected. Seems that Sandra Fisher was a
member of the PTA, an activist in at least a dozen good causes. I'd
seen her type before, proto-career women trapped in the home by an
unplanned early baby, trying to regain the freedom and power they'd
lost through volunteer work. I've often felt that such people are a
little pathetic, yet strangely enough I found that I liked Sandra. I
wasn't sure if it was her helplessness or if it was some fellow
feeling because she was about my age. Whatever it was, I regretted
not being able to tell her the truth, about Doc, about my work and
most of all about what was likely to happen to her family when he
arrived. Still, I pushed such unpleasant thoughts out of the way and
got on with business.
First up came the calls. I'd made a list of everyone we needed to
call, verifying the numbers she gave me before we dialed in case she
tried to slip the local police number in there. I was relieved to see
that she wasn't trying anything, but still it paid to be sure.
Pulling her chair over to the kitchen phone, I bent down and whispered
in her ear, "We're going to make some calls now. This is how it works
-- I'll dial, and when someone answers you'll say that it's Sandra
Fisher calling and that you can't stop to talk because you have a
doctor's appointment. You will tell them that the girls woke up with
a fever and a rash this morning and that as a result you're all
staying at home today and not accepting visitors. Do not chit-chat,
and do not deviate. Just deliver the message, explain that you are in
a hurry, and say good-bye. Clear?"
She nodded. I felt sure the idea of a child's illness would keep most
of the busybody PTA crowd away, as well as explain the absences from
work and school. As an excuse it had the advantage of being
consistent with little chance of conflicting stories attracting
attention.
"One last word of warning?" I murmured so that Becky wouldn't hear.
"You may be thinking that you could raise the alarm with a friend and
that they could call the police." She shook her head silently.
"Well, in case you have, let me explain what will happen. I figure
the soonest a patrol car can get here is three minutes. That's
assuming that they're actually in the neighborhood and that your
friend understands the message and passes it on straight away." I let
a coldness slip into my voice. "Now, in three minutes we can be long
gone, but first I'll take a knife and make sure no one will be able to
look at your daughter again without screaming."
She trembled.
"Do we understand each other Sandra?" I said. "All you have to do is
play along and everything will be all right. Fuck with me, and I take
it out on Becky. Do you understand?"
"Y. . .yes."
I dialed the first number.
She made the phone calls with no trouble; one to work, one to Becky's
school and another to the special school Amy attended. Then we went
through the people who might have called for one reason or another,
leaving answering machine messages in a number of cases for later.
Then I gave both of them a small drink. Sandra didn't protest when I
shoved the penis gag back into her mouth. Becky gave me more trouble,
but I was ready for her -- I used a new towel and fresh tape and took
the time to gag her properly. When I was finished, she was silenced
even better than before.
I left them for a few minutes and did another fast recon through the
ground floor. I needed to deal with Myra soon and wanted to keep her
presence secret. I did contemplate taking Sandra and Becky down to
the basement, but it offered too many opportunities. In the end, I
settled for the utility room, a small windowless space with a washer
and dryer, next to the kitchen. I pulled the chairs with their
struggling contents inside, standing them back to back so that they
couldn't see each other. Next, I checked the bonds and found them
tight. To be sure, I locked the cuffs and Sandra's gag in place with
little padlocks. I wasn't worried about Sandra because I knew how
effective Doc's gags were, but I did the nipple test on Becky to be
sure. She seemed a little loud, so I smoothed the tape over her mouth
and ensured a good seal. The next time was better. I took the added
precaution of turning on the dryer. Bangs and strange noises are
common when you dry clothes and the sound covered their gagged moans.
Satisfied that they were safely put away, I went to deal with Myra.
Myra had been more than a little subdued since the shooting, probably
because of the shock. In any case she gave me no trouble, so I let
her use the downstairs john and cleaned her up a little. She was
still wearing the remains of her fetish costume and I couldn't see how
I could change that. Still, a pair of Sandra's clean panties from the
utility room made her feel better. I replaced the gag and tied her
tightly to the radiator once more, though this time I found her some
cushions.
Rummaging through the kitchen, I rounded up a cold breakfast. After
I'd eaten, I put the rest on a tray and called JoJo downstairs.
"Here's some food for you and the girl," I explained. "Keep her
upstairs for now." I stepped back and gave her a good once-over.
Becky and JoJo seemed about the same size. "If you get the
opportunity, go into the other daughter's room and see if you can find
a change of clothes. Maybe you two could play dress-up or something."
I didn't expect visitors this early but someone could call later, and
if JoJo could answer the door with a plausible excuse about being a
relative or a babysitter, she could head off some unfortunate
questions. Of course, this meant she had to lose the latex and
leather ensemble. I then explained that I was going out for awhile
and that she should make sure that the house looked quiet and empty
while I was gone.
This proved to be a lot of orders, and JoJo was visibly flushed by the
time I'd finished. I smiled and patted her ass, telling her to get
upstairs and look after Amy. If she did a good job, she'd get an
equally good fucking later.
After JoJo was gone, I made sure the answering machine was set up in
case anyone called. I didn't want the alarm raised by some busybody
who couldn't get a response to a call. Satisfied that I'd covered all
the angles, I headed out through the back, locking the door behind me.
There was an alley at the end of the back yard, and I vaulted the wall
into it. It was best if no one saw me around the Fisher's.
As I headed off towards the store I wondered what we would do about
the Fishers. If it was up to me I'd leave them alone; after all, they
knew nothing about us or our business. I must confess that I liked
Sandra, and little Amy was a peach. We could just leave them tied up
as I'd said. It would be a mystery for the local police and an
exciting story for Becky to tell her friends at school. Of course,
the final decision was Doc's. A cold feeling ran down my spine;
knowing him, we'd end up recruiting the whole family. I shuddered,
thinking of them mindlessly servicing tired business men, or worse;
I'd heard that mother-daughter acts are quite popular in Bangkok this
year. . .
As I neared the shops I thought of Sam. He'd been Doc's agent in New
York for the past seventeen years, and was one of the most senior
people in the organization. Despite that, he'd been conned into
accepting a commission from the gruesome twosome at the bar. Well, I
suppose we all get old. My first job was to warn him, however, since
Doc's liking for compartmentalization can leave his people very
exposed if things go wrong. At this moment, the only link our Yuppie
friends had to Doc was Sam -- I only hoped he'd been careful. OK, so
I admit that it had also crossed my mind that he could provide backup,
but it was now much less of a concern. With no sign of Toby or his
masters for several hours, I was starting to think I'd gotten things
under control. Now, all I had to do was wait for Doc to show up.
Doc is a little like the devil. He can assess the exact price you put
on your soul, and buy it from you. They say we all have our price;
Doc works by meeting that price, buying someone's absolute loyalty.
Of course, this only works if a person has high moral integrity in the
first place, otherwise they might just welch on the deal. So Doc is
very choosy about _who_ he buys. I always find it ironic that a group
of people who will steal someone's daughter and sell her as a slave
are all people whose word you can trust absolutely.
Since Sam once told me his story, I think it'll illustrate what I
mean. When he was eighteen, Sam had married his childhood sweetheart,
Connie. She was seventeen at the time they had been each others only
partners. It was a match made in heaven -- they were perfect
together. I can't think of any couple more happy. They settled down,
raised kids, Sam built a business and everything seemed perfect. The
only problem was that Sam was sexually dominant, into bondage games
and S&M, and Connie just wasn't interested. So for twenty years he
buried his dark desires and got on with his life. Gradually, the
tension grew and one day over a beer he mentioned it to Doc, whom he'd
met in the army. Doc had smiled that devil smile of his and made a
bid for Sam's soul. He needed an agent for his organization, a
contact in the Big Apple with a clean criminal record and a business
to use as a cover. In return, he would give Sam what he'd always
wanted -- a pain slut who would welcome his dark side. Sam was
shocked at first, and even mused over the idea of turning Doc in, but
gradually Doc's poison started working on his conscience. He started
to think, why not? He had enough money that he could keep a mistress
without depriving his family. Hell, he would get even more if he
worked for Doc.
Then one day, he saw her on a bus. She was twenty years his junior,
and as it was the early eighties I suppose she had that preppy
big-haired Farrah Fawcett look. Sam realized he wanted her. . .
And the deal was struck.
That was seventeen years ago, and Sam has kept the same slave ever
since. Slaves evolve over time, even the fuck toys. They get their
own interests and tastes. Of course, underneath they are still
slaves, but the interesting things is that they're also real people
with real interests. Alison, Sam's slave, is now a well-respected
expert on early Coptic manuscripts. She runs her own business and for
three weeks in four runs her own life. For the last seventeen years,
however, that fourth week has been Sam's, and during that time she is
his devoted slave as he inflicts sweet pain on her willing body.
Musing over Sam's story, I realized I was approaching the local
shopping area. Whatever happened to the Fishers, I knew I couldn't
use their phone since the phone company records would link them with
whoever I called, so I was happy to see that the shops had a number of
public phones. I was also pleased at the range of shops and that
there was both a druggist and a hardware store nearby. That should
speed things up.
But first the phone. . .
For one week a month, Sam was in Manhattan "on business," which meant
that he was whipping Alison's sweet behind or torturing her pussy.
The rest of the time he was at home or playing golf, with one of his
sons running his legitimate business. I wondered which week this was.
"Hello?" An older woman's voice answered.
"Hello, Mrs. Turner?" I replied. "My name is Charles Kyle. I don't
know if you remember me -- I'm a friend of your husband's." In the
background I heard a girl's voice, probably the daughter, asking about
something. I listened as Connie shooed her away. I don't think
Connie ever knew what Sam and I did, although she knew he had some
extra source of income and that I was involved somewhere. She'd been
discreet and dutiful, but it was obvious she didn't want her children
involved. "I was wondering if I could talk to him?"
I heard a muffled sob. "I'm s-sorry Mr. Kyle, I. . .I suppose you
haven't heard. I'm afraid my husband is dead."
"Dead?" A chill went down my spine. "When? How?"
"The police found his body last night. He'd been on a business trip
to Manhattan. They say it was street crime."
I leaned back against the clear partition of the phone booth,
overcome by a sudden wave of guilt. "Oh, God, no. Oh, Connie, I am
so sorry!"
I said, earnest. "I've known Sam for the past eight years, and we
meet whenever I'm in New York. I don't know -- is there anything I
can do?"
There was a pause. "My husband spoke of you often, and said that you
were a very loyal young man," she said softly.
"He did?"
"Yes. Mr. Kyle, I must ask you to break a confidence that I am sure
my husband asked you to keep. It's about the other woman."
I was silent.
There was a sniffing sound that was almost a chuckle. "Come now, Mr.
Kyle. You must realize that I knew," she said. "I was married to my
husband for thirty seven years, and I knew him better than I knew
myself." I heard the pain in that voice, and something more, a need
that I couldn't refuse.
"Yes?" I said, suddenly feeling very tired. "The other woman."
"He's been seeing her every month for the past seventeen years?"
"Yes."
"And he does things with her. Things he and I couldn't do."
"Please," I begged. "Don't do this. Leave it alone."
"Did they have children?" she said, insistent.
"No. No, theirs wasn't that kind of relationship."
She seemed a little relieved but said, "Then she's alone."
"Yes."
"Ah. I'm lucky, you see. I have the children. They're here now,
keeping me company. It must be very terrible, being alone."
"I suppose so," said.
"Please, Mr. Kyle, if you should speak with that woman, have her call
me. I want to meet her, perhaps have her stay with us a few days. .
." I heard Connie trail off, trying to collect herself. "She and my
husband shared so much. I wouldn't want her to be alone, not now."
Despite everything, I found myself crying. Sam had been right about
Connie. She was one in a million. "I'll do that, yes," I said, "God
bless you, Connie."
I heard a sob then, and moved to hang up when she said, "Wait, Mr.
Kyle? How can I reach you for the memorial service."
"I travel. Don't worry -- I'll know when to come."
I hung up the phone, my knuckles white on the handset. So Sam was
killed last night. I wondered if it was before or after my visit to
the club. I had no doubt they were connected. Sam had been Military
Intelligence, and according to Doc he'd been the last man out of
Saigon. I doubt a man like that would let himself get mugged. I
started to ring Doc but then got to thinking. If Sam had been with
Alison then she could be in danger. Quickly, I dialed her number.
The receiver was lifted. "Hello, Alison?" I said.
"Ah! My dear Charles." I have never been so happy to hear Doc's
voice in my life. "So glad you could join us."
"Doc, Sam's dead."
"I know, dear boy. Why do you think we're here?" he replied. "Poor
Alison is so distressed, I was forced to give her a sedative. Now,
about my shipment -- have you disposed of it as we agreed?"
I closed my eyes. "Well, no. You see--"
I was shocked when he said, "Good show! I was a little concerned that
you had. Good to see you're thinking on your feet. Now, where are
you?"
Someone who didn't know him would think Doc wasn't all that upset
about Sam -- I suppose it's one of those British reserve things. But
I knew him, and knew that specific clipped tone meant he _was_ upset,
and would be looking for payback at the first opportunity. Pushing
those thoughts away fo the moment, I gave him the address in a
prearranged code, shifting grid reference to give the town, the order
the street name appeared in the local phone book and the house number.
If anyone was listening in, they wouldn't have the faintest idea where
I was.
"Business or residential?" he asked.
"Residential."
"Any residuals?" Meaning any residents.
"Some," I admitted.
"Well, I suppose it can't be helped. Inside two hours."
I hung up, feeling relieved. The ball was back in Doc's court.
After all that, I decided to do some shopping. Being a cockeyed
optimist, I worked on the assumption that Doc would decide to let the
Fishers go. In that case we couldn't leave such obvious clues as the
custom cuffs and gag behind, so I bought fresh bondage supplies from
the hardware store. Though I wanted to keep Amy out of it, I bought
enough to tie her, too, and a little extra in case of unexpected
guests. Then I went into the drugstore for some surgical tape and on
a whim bought one of those cheap disposable cameras, just in case any
opportunities arose.
Satisfied, I headed back to the house. I made sure no one saw me slip
into the alley, then hop over the fence and in through the back door.
When I opened the utility room, I was greeted with quite a sight.
Somehow, Becky had managed to turn her chair a full 180 degrees AND
cause it to fall at an angle. When I opened the door, Sandra's cuffed
hands were just inches from her daughter's taped lips. They "looked"
my way and I could smell the fear in the room. Even if they had
managed to get Becky's gag off, I doubted it would have done much
good. Still, this provided me with an excuse to have some fun.
"You know," I said, leaning in the doorway, "I think someone is going
to have to pay a forfeit."
Becky started trembling as the impact of what I'd said to her hit
home. I pulled the chairs back into the kitchen, unplugged the phone
and drew the blinds. In the center of the room was an island counter
with its own spotlights. I turned them on, turning the empty island
into a kind of mini stage. Racing upstairs, I recovered the mask from
JoJo. She had changed into a tight polo neck sweater and a short
leather miniskirt. I has to smile -- this must be as provocative as
Becky's wardrobe got, and JoJo would have little choice but to pick
the sluttiest items she could find. Personal slaves adapt their
clothing styles to their owners' preferences, but simple fuck toys
like JoJo are programmed to go for the lowest common denominator:
heels, boots, leather, latex. The uniform of the slut.
"Very nice," I said encouragingly. "Where's the girl?"
"Asleep in her room, Master," JoJo said suggestively. I could tell
what she wanted but right now I was busy.
"Later," I said.
JoJo looked disappointed. "Whatever you want, Master. But please,
master, do I have your permission to orgasm once before then?"
I grinned at the request. Like most slaves, JoJo couldn't orgasm
without permission. "Well. . .okay, since you did such a good job
with Amy."
JoJo burst into a smile, and took out a large vibrating dildo.
"Where did you get that from?" I asked, puzzled. I was pretty sure
we hadn't brought one with us.
"Oh, I found it in the bottom of the girl's underwear drawer," JoJo
said happily.
So little Becky had a secret after all. This was too good an
opportunity to miss. I held out my hand meaningfully.
"Oh, master!" JoJo pouted.
"Now, JoJo, we both know that you can finger yourself with no
trouble," I said reasonably. "So give me the dildo."
She handed it over like she was losing an old friend.
"That's a good girl," I said, approving. "As a reward, you can orgasm
five times."
JoJo's eyes sparkled at the 'reward.' As a slave she could never give
herself an orgasm as powerful as being fucked by her owner, but five
would keep her satisfied for now. Smiling, I pocketed the dildo and
stepped closer, sliding the flat of my hand over the crotch area of
JoJo's leather miniskirt. The girl cooed. Already massively turned
on, her body trembled at the additional sensation of my hand, and the
smell of hot pussy filled the air. Even so, she seemed very
disappointed when I ordered her back to Amy's room for her reward,
slapping her on that tight little butt as a parting shot. Sometimes,
this job is worth it.
Pulling on the mask, I headed back downstairs, where I found both
women struggling and mewing. I think they'd realized they were in
trouble, but not exactly what kind of trouble they were in. I could
remember seeing an old curtain rail in the utility room. Collecting
it, I found it was thin and whippy and would make an excellent switch.
To test it, I whipped it hard against the counter, listening to the
swish as it swiped through the air. Immediately the women fell
silent. I turned the radio on and tuned it to a rock channel.
Satisfied we had suitable music, I pulled Sandra's blindfold off and
cut her free of the chair. As I pulled her close, she struggled a
little and looked at me with big doe-like eyes as I unfastened the
lock that held the cuffs together. The rest of her body was free, but
the cuffs were still locked to her wrists and the gag was padlocked in
place.
"Forfeit time," I announced. She looked down at her bound daughter
then at the curtain rod and tried to say something. I reached down,
snatching off Becky's blindfold. Sandra was looking at the rod with
increasing alarm, then shot a furtive glance at the back door.
"It's locked," I said. "And I still have the gun."
She had started to say something unintelligible when a suitable song
began. Throwing myself into the chair she'd been bound to only
minutes before, I pantomimed making myself comfortable. Then I smiled
up at the helpless woman and flexed the rod.
"You both misbehaved and tried to escape. That was bad. Now, your
forfeit is, I want you to strip for me, Sandra. Gyrate to the music,
removing each piece of clothing in a slow, sexy way."
A yelp emerged from behind the gag which I chose to ignore. "Well?
What are you waiting for?" I purred.
More unintelligible sounds emerged from behind the gag and she and
Becky exchanged glances. I was sitting only feet away from the
daughter, and it would take no effort to just reach over and whip her.
Sandra seemed to realize this, or at least imagine what could happen.
Slowly, the humiliation burning on her cheeks, she started to move to
the beat. Hesitantly at first, to the point where I threatened to
whip the parts of her body she didn't move, but later with more
feeling, she started to strip.
The jacket came first. At my insistence she slid it part way down her
shoulders several times before I finally had her discard it. Next
came the blouse. I made her open each button in turn and wiggle her
ass at me as she did so. I noticed a little tear trickle down her
cheek, and made the humiliation worse by having her thrust her chest
towards me as she unzipped the skirt. Then I had her caress her
breasts as the skirt slipped down her gyrating hips. Now she was in
her underwear, a satin peach-colored bra, panty and garter belt set.
She hesitated when I demanded that she take off the bra, but I was sat
next to the helpless Becky, and Sandra was too good a mother to
disobey. The bra came off, revealing a surprisingly nice set of
boobs.
Now that she was topless, all sorts of possibilities emerged. I had
her caress her tits playfully, squeezing the nipples hard and rolling
them between thumb and fingers. By now, her face was wet with her own
tears as the shame and humiliation hit home. To do this was bad
enough, but to demean herself in front of her daughter. . . Sandra
sobbed and I was forced to remind her that she was supposed to be
sexy. I made her pull her panties into her slit and thrust her crotch
at my face. It would have been easy to pull her close and just fuck
her, of course -- I doubt she would have resisted and risk me turning
on Becky, but by then I'd seen enough. I had her discard the panties,
then telling her to face the counter, I recuffed her hands behind her,
led her to the chair and bound her to it using cord I'd bought at the
hardware store.
She struggled for a second, and mother and daughter exchanged a brief
gagged conversation. Now it was Becky's turn.
The moment I started cutting the tape that bound Becky to the chair,
Sandra knew what was going to happen. "Ummpphh?" she moaned weakly,
pleading with her eyes. She was a good mother, after all, and she had
just humiliated herself in front of me, believing that it would spare
her daughter.
Silly cunt.
I turned to face her. "What did you think I was going to do, Sandra?"
I asked, grinning through the mask. "I told you at the beginning that
all you had to do was sit back and relax, and it would soon be over.
It was you who decided to try and escape. Now you have to pay for
that."
I pulled Becky close so that I could unfasten her wrists. Unlike her
mother, whose gag was locked in place, Becky could remove hers easily
now that her hands were free. Pulling her close, I looked into her
young. fear-filled eyes. In a low voice so as not to alarm mommy. I
said, "I bet this thing is getting a little uncomfortable, isn't it,
Becky?" I ran a finger over her taped lips. She nodded miserably.
"Well, that _is_ a little unfortunate. You see, we're going to make
sure you and momma stay nice and quiet until we leave. After all, we
wouldn't want to disturb the neighbors, now, would we?" She looked at
me with big, helpless eyes. "Anyway, you might be tempted to take it
off, now that your hands are free. Well, don't, because you'll pay
the next forfeit with that pretty little pussy of yours. Do I make
myself clear?" She nodded. "Good girl. Now dance."
Strangely, Becky seemed to take to this fairly easily and I wondered
if she'd done this before, perhaps for a boyfriend or a few extra
bucks? It was hard to say these days, since kids in clubs wear
fashions and make moves that were the sole domain of pole dancers in
my day. Still, she wiggled her little tush when ordered and could
even do a reasonable bump and grind. Gradually the school uniform
disappeared, to be replaced by a lacy little bra and panty number.
That didn't last long. Like her mother, I had her remove the bra
slowly and fondle her breasts in front of me. By now she was sobbing,
but her fear of the rod kept her ass moving in time to the music. I
had her stick her ass almost in her mother's face as she wiggled out
of the panties. Sandra's look of disgust and Becky's eyes, wide and
fearful above her taped mouth, were an instant turn on.
Now they were both naked, the family resemblance was even more
apparent. Mother and daughter -- the thought caught my imagination,
kindling ideas that had been lurking there since I'd picked up Beth.
I know that I said I preferred the young nubile Beth to her older
mother, even if it was Jane who jilted me, but that also implied that
I needed to make a choice since I could only take one or the other.
Gradually, I had come to realize that I could do better than that.
Now that her kids were grown up, Jane was vulnerable again, and while
I had no intention of keeping her, the idea of having mother and
daughter as my personal slaves had its attractions. On the way to New
York I'd been planning things to do with my new slaves. Of course, it
hadn't escaped my attention that I could try some of the ideas out on
Sandra and Becky.
As Becky writhed in front of her mother, I assessed my options.
Getting them to do a little lesbian scene was obvious, but I decided
to start small. Perhaps I'd get the girl to stroke her mother's tits
and work her way up to fingering the helpless woman. I began to
regret not being able to ungag Becky and have her lick Sandra's slit.
Still, there were countless possibilities. I daydreamed a little as
the girl continued to dance and when it happened it came as a complete
surprise.
At first I didn't notice, Becky's bouncy little tits having 100% of my
attention. Then in the distance I heard it, a persistent ringing that
seemed out of place in the song track that was playing.
The front door bell.
Ordinarily it wouldn't be a problem. The gags were tight enough to
ensure that neither woman could be heard out front. Sandra was tied
to a chair so she couldn't do anything, but Becky. . .
The girl was smart. She realized the possibility a few seconds before
my brain registered the danger and she took maximum advantage. In an
instant she was at the kitchen door, showing the type of speed that
had won her all those sports medals. Had the door been open, it would
have been all over, but she had to stop to open it and that delay
allowed me to gain a little ground. I almost reached her when she
finally got it open and slipped into the hall. I followed in hot
pursuit.
The next few breathless seconds are burned into my memory. Becky,
naked but for gag and cuffs, was in full flight. Up ahead was the
front door, the imposing silhouette of a man framed in the frosted
glass panel. Next to the door were two smaller plain glass windows.
I realized it was only a matter of time before he peered through those
windows -- how may times have you done something like that when you
don't get a response from the bell? If he looked in, it would all be
over. I was also aware that JoJo was halfway down the stairs,
following the standard orders I'd given her in case of persistent
visitors. But Becky was fast and supercharged on adrenaline and fear.
There was no way I could close the gap before she reached the door.
There was the possibility that I could reach her before she got the
man's attention, but that was slim. I took a desperate gamble and
dived at her legs. If I missed, she had a clear run to the door and
I'd probably either have to kill the guy or spend the next twenty
years inside.
Strangely, I think the size of her lead finally worked in my favor.
She was confident enough to slow a little and tear the tape from her
mouth. Desperately, I dived forward and heard her grunt of surprise
as I impacted with her back. The door of the family room was open and
some trick of my momentum that I hadn't consciously planned caused us
to fall into the room. Fortunately, there was no furniture nearby,
and though we landed heavily there was less noise than I'd expected.
We were winded for a second, so neither of us reacted when JoJo
reached in and calmly closed the door. She was already opening the
front door when Becky recovered. By that time, though, I had the
sense of mind to crawl on top of her, so escape was impossible. I was
still winded, however, and it gave her enough time to spit out the
sodden towel. She took a deep breath and got ready to let rip with a
scream.
There was no time to be subtle. I drove my fist solidly into her
solar plexus, driving out all that hard-fought-for air in an explosive
rush. Becky went from being a hard-bodied athlete to a rag doll in an
instant. After that, it was easy to replace the towel -- I even had
time to refasten the cuffs, all while the chairman of the PTA was a
few feet away from us, telling JoJo just what he expected Sandra to do
before the next meeting.
Becky recovered from the punch surprisingly fast, but by then it was
too late. She was pinned immobile by my weight, and my hand was
covering her mouth and the towel gag. Slowly, I got my own wind back,
wishing the guy would just hurry up and leave. He sounded like a
typical PTA leader -- loud and pompous. I had no doubt that Sandra
could hear him in the kitchen. Her gag was too tight for her screams
to be heard out here, but I started to worry about the bonds,
especially those tying her to the chair. If she knocked something
over or managed to get to somewhere he could see her, all of this
would be for nothing.
Finally, the windbag left. A few minutes later, when I was sure he
was gone, I dragged Becky back to the kitchen. Sandra looked up
hopefully as I opened the door and pushed her daughter inside. I
think the silly bitch had really believed they were about to be
rescued. I smiled an evil little smile, and the woman looked down and
trembled a little. She _knew_ they were in trouble.
I dragged the girl over to my bag of provisions and dug around inside.
She groaned when I pulled out a new roll of duct tape. Stupid slut,
did she really think I'd leave her free after that? I'd been
intending to strengthen the gag, anyway, and had come prepared. Out
came the towel, to be replaced by this strange leather-covered sponge
thing apparently used to polish cars. It was a tight fit, much larger
than the towel, but as they say, if it doesn't fit force it. Finally
it was in so tightly that I doubt she could remove it without the use
of her hands. I wasn't going to find out; a thick layer of tape held
it firmly in place. I used a bandage on top, squeezing her mouth
closed around the sponge. A nipple test produced barely a whisper,
although the pained look in her eyes showed it was far from
comfortable. It served her right. And if she didn't like that, she
definitely wouldn't like what was next. I strengthened her bonds by
taping her elbows tightly together. She struggled a little and moaned
her discomfort but I was satisfied. Not only was her movement greatly
restricted, but her tits were thrust out nicely. I fondled them for a
while, enjoying her tiny sounds of indignation. Her traitorous
nipples had hardened on their own, giving me plenty to play with. I
continued to play until she was starting to get a little breathless,
then I pushed her down on the island.
When I seized an ankle, I was very surprised to hear Sandra start
screaming. Of course, the sound wasn't very loud but it still came as
a shock. Becky was crying and Sandra kept shaking her head and
pleading with her eyes. For a while I was puzzled, then I realized
how it looked -- here I was, pushing Becky onto the counter and
spreading her legs. Sandra naturally assumed that I was about to fuck
the girl. I could see how they could make that mistake.
I suppose I could have defused the situation by explaining what I was
going to do, but to be honest they were pissing me off. So instead I
threatened to take the rod to Becky if she didn't stop struggling.
The girl stopped, face tight with fear as I tied some cord around her
left ankle to the sound of her mother's frantic mewings in the
background. I think they finally realized she was in no danger when I
tied the cord to the other ankle -- the short length of the cord would
have made rape very difficult, although it did make an excellent
hobble. Becky's athletic feats were over for the moment. I ran some
rope around her neck and tied it off to the sink, then turned to
Mommy.
Sandra had been a good little girl, but I had dark plans for her
daughter and needed to keep her occupied for a time. It would be
interesting to see how she'd react to what I was about to do. With a
smile, I pulled the chair and the struggling woman back into the
utility room. I'd tied her ankles to the chair legs but had left most
of her body free -- now she'd see why. First, I taped her elbows like
I'd done with Becky and was pleased to see that I got a similar
response. Then I tied her wrists to the bar at the back of the chair.
I'd left some slack and I think that puzzled her. Then, I tied a
length of cord around her middle then passed the free end between her
legs. I don't think she had any idea what I was doing. She seemed
really confused when I tied some knots in the cord near her naked
pussy. She must have had a sheltered life, but she soon got the point
when I pulled the cord tight. The utility room had a pulley
arrangement for an indoor drying line and I ran the rest of the cord
through it. It was simple to pull the cord tight, forcing Sandra to
lift her ass off the chair or be cut in two.
Her body strained as I tied off the loose end to the drier. Now she
could see some of my devilish plan. The cord went between her ass
cheeks, then passed though her mound, pressing the knots I'd tied hard
against her clit. She was forced to arch her back and hold her ass
off the chair or the pressure would become too much. She whimpered
under the stress, but I still wasn't finished. Telling her to shut
her eyes. I sealed them closed with surgical tape, effectively
blindfolding her. She "looked" around, disoriented, trying to figure
out what I'd do next and shivering with a strange mixture of fear and
desire.
Stepping back, I looked at the taut, helpless woman moaning as she
tried in vain to find a comfortable position. Next were a couple of
clothes pins from the line, quickly clipped onto her erect little
nipples. She wailed and tried to shake them loose but that only
caused the knots to rub against her crotch. In a couple of seconds
she was breathless and the little room was filled with the smell of
hot pussy. As a final touch I turned on the drier. Its noise would
drown her cries and deafen her to sounds from outside, and its
vibrations were transmitted by the rope to the knots pressing on her
sensitive clit. By the time I turned to leave she was already moaning
and bucking the rope. I smiled to myself. She would be more than
ready by the time I returned.
I returned to the daughter who was trying to find a comfortable
position on the island. I cut the rope around her neck and pulled her
close. She looked up at me, white with fear. I let my hand wander
down to the thick thatch of fur covering her pussy. Almost all of
Doc's girls are shaved; these days, I'm not used to girls with pubic
hair. I ran my fingers lightly through it, letting her get a little
of the sensation before playing with her clit in earnest. She sighed
and her breath became ragged.
"You know Becky, I did warn you what would happen to you if you
touched the gag?" I murmured.
She stiffened.
"I mean I did make it clear and all?" I asked, my voice sounding
puzzled. "I mean there was no room for confusion?"
Sobbing into the gag, she shook her head, though I couldn't tell if
this was in answer to the question or her begging for mercy.
"You knew that your little pussy was on the line if you disobeyed, but
you did it anyway," I scolded her. "Now, there are only a couple of
ways I can interpret that -- either you want it real bad, or you're
not taking me fucking seriously!" I felt her body shiver as I shouted
the last word directly into her ear, then continued in a more normal
tone, "Question is, which is it? You hot for a fucking, bitch?"
She shook her head.
"Then I think you're not taking me seriously. I think we'd better
correct that right here and now."
She moaned. I reached into my pocket and withdrew the dildo. "My
friend found this in your drawer."
Becky stiffened, a look of fear and embarrassment spreading over her
face. "I think this answers the virgin question, don't you think?" I
said.
She nodded miserably.
"I could just fuck you here and now. I know I'd enjoy it, and you
might, too. The alternative is this."
Without warning I swung the curtain rod, catching her perfectly
between the legs. She staggered, the pain glowing in her eyes. The
scream was swallowed by the new gag and only a faint mewing emerged.
For a second I thought she would faint but instead she cringed,
pulling her legs together and starting to cry in earnest.
I waited for her to calm down, then hit her with the whammy. "There
are another 29 of those to go," I murmured. "If you cross your legs,
I'll tie them open and give you another ten for your trouble." I
paused, letting her consider the situation. Genitals have so many
nerve endings, the pain must have been unimaginable. "Of course, I
could fuck you instead. . ."
"Ummph. Mhhph?" she moaned behind the gag. She nodded
energetically, but I noticed her eyes were looking at the ground.
"Personally, I'd rather whip you," I said clinically. "I think it
teaches the right kind of lesson, but who knows? Perhaps you could
persuade me otherwise."
It took a couple of moments for her to figure out that I wanted her to
beg me to fuck her. The gag was there for the duration so if she
wanted to avoid the whip she was going to have to beg some other way.
Slowly, she started to grind her hips against my thigh, making sexy
little mewing noises behind her gag. She gave me bedroom eyes, or at
least what a teenager thinks are bedroom eyes. I encouraged her and
she responded by sliding her body down mine, making sure her firm
young tits pressed against my chest. Her nipples were hard, I
noticed, and her breathing came in gasps again. She slid up and down
a couple of times, wiggling her hips suggestively, then she did that
little thing of tilting her head down and then looking up with big
eyes. For a sixteen-year-old, she sure knew how to push a guy's
buttons.
It took some effort, but in the end I shook my head. "No I don't
think so."
A look of disappointment and dread flashed across her face. She
started trembling again.
"You know," I said conversationally, "it can't be easy being big
sister to a girl like Amy. I bet you've had to give up a lot of
things over the years. I suppose you've always played second fiddle
to her for your mom's attention too."
She nodded, a puzzled look replacing the dread.
"Yes sir, looking after a sister with special needs. All those little
sacrifices. I bet there were times when you just wished she'd go
away."
She shook her head, fear again in her eyes. Fear for Amy and where
this conversation might be leading.
I reached down and rubbed her swollen little clit. "You know, growing
up the way you did, there have got to have been a number of things you
didn't get to do because you were her sister. You know, good things
you missed out on just because Amy was your sister?" I smiled down at
her confused face. "Well, if you ever felt that life was unfair, just
remember that fate's a funny thing. I'm not going to fuck you or whip
your pussy. You see, for once you're going to miss out on something
bad, just because Amy is your sister."
The tension drained out of her like water from a sieve. Silently, the
girl began to cry.
I decided it was time to separate mommy and Becky, just to keep them
out of mischief. Using some more tape, I blindfolded Becky. Happy to
have escaped the whipping, she proved most cooperative. Leaving her
on the island, I closed the utility room door on the bucking, moaning
Sandra and quickly cleaned up the room. Satisfied that everything
would appear normal to someone looking in, I hoisted Becky over my
shoulder and took her upstairs. Had we met Amy, I had a good excuse
worked out about about Becky and I playing a game, but luckily the
little girl was still napping.
In her room, I bound Becky spread eagle to her bed. The minute she
was on the bed she started struggling, seeing what this allowed me to
do. I'd reassured her in the kitchen that I wasn't going to fuck her,
but I knew she didn't really trust me. Or maybe she was looking
forward to it? Teenaged girls can get some pretty strange ideas in
their heads. In any case, the new cord I'd bought from the hardware
store proved more than a match for her, and soon she was helplessly
spreadeagled on the white sheets. Her fine athletic body was mine to
play with, so I did for a while. Her breasts were small but pert,
nipples a dark chocolatey brown. Of course I _had_ to do a nipple
test to check the gag was still secure, and it only seemed right to
rub them better afterwards.
Looking down at her taped eyes, I realized I could have a little more
fun. I deliberately undid my belt and zipper, allowing her
imagination to take full effect. Blindfolded, she could guess what
was about to happen, but I had something more devious in mind.
I signaled JoJo to come over. Pointing at the helpless girl, I
whispered, "You will pleasure this slave with your mouth. She is to
be kept on the edge but not allowed to cum. Is that clear?"
JoJo nodded obediently. It was a common request that formed part of
her training. Becky gave a muffled squeal at the first touch of
JoJo's tongue, but soon she was groaning into her gag and attempting
to force her cunt into the slave's face. Periodically JoJo would
switch her attention to breasts or thighs, allowing the sensation to
diminish a little. In just a few minutes Becky began to experience
the sweet agony she would be in for the next few hours.
I looked at my watch and wondered where Doc was. I was starting to
feel jumpy as the day moved on and the chance of visitors increased.
Silently, I crossed the room and stood by the side of the window.
Outside, kids were coming home from school, and the room gradually
filled with their squeals and shouts. I knew Becky could hear them
but I doubted she could do anything even if she wasn't gagged.
Looking again, I saw a number of older kids dressed in the same
uniform that Becky had worn this morning. I glanced back. Becky
tugged desperately against the ropes, arching her back and trying to
force her damp pussy further into JoJo's mouth. I looked into the
streets, wondering what her schoolmates would think if they could see
her like this.
Then I smiled. I had intended to take photos, after all. Maybe I
should shoot them both up with the rest of Doc's will suppresser and
have them act out a lesbian scene for me. Finally, I shook my head --
it was tempting, but all I really wanted to do was leave them alone
and get out of here. I listened again to Becky's strangled moans and
felt a rumble in my pants. Well, perhaps that wasn't all I wanted.
Satisfied that the teenager was under control, I went downstairs. I
recovered Sandra from the utility room by cutting the crotch rope and
dragging the chair into the living room. I figured we might have
callers soon and I wanted to change the message on the answering
machine to discourage personal visits. As I started to set up, I took
a good look at her for the first time. Sandra was still quite young,
early to mid thirties, so she must have been very young when she had
Becky. Her figure had recovered well from two children and the sight
of her bound naked to a chair was doing wonderful things to my dick.
Gently, I reached out and stroked my gloved hand over her exposed
nipple. She stiffened, a faint tremble fluttering through her breast.
The nipples hardened immediately and she groaned. Then, bending down,
she rubbed her gagged mouth against my hand.
This suited me fine. She could hardly record a new message with a gag
in her mouth. Still, I made it sound like I was doing her a favor.
"OK, I'll take it out, but it goes back when *I* say," I growled.
"Try anything stupid and you won't be the only one to suffer,
understand?"
She nodded, so I removed the gag but left it dangling around her neck.
She licked her dry lips. "Where's Becky?"
"Upstairs, keeping my friend company," I said. "I decided it was a
good idea to separate you, after last time."
She licked her lips again. "Why did you make us strip?" she asked
nervously. There was a tension in the air, a nervousness that I found
a great turn-on. Working for Doc, I can have my pick of young pussy.
These days, most of the girls I fuck are half my age. But there was
something about seeing an older woman helpless like this that did
something to me. Perhaps it was because she could have been the girl
I dated in high school.. Perhaps, surrounded by plenty, my palate had
got a little jaded. Perhaps a change is as good as a rest.
I leaned in and kissed her neck. She flinched a little. "You tell
me," I said as I continued to nibble the nape. She gasped a little
and I watched as her nipples started to harden.
"Do...do you intend to. . .rape us?" she gasped. I moved up to her
ear, flicking my tongue against the lobe, feeling the heat radiating
from her naked body. It amused me -- mother and daughter, both turned
on and helpless. I decided to play some more.
"Haven't decided," I said, teasing. "Though that daughter of yours is
quite a temptation. It's been a while since I've had pussy as fresh
as that."
I watched her stiffen, her worse fears confirmed. I expected her to
get indignant, but as I brought my hand up to caress her breast I felt
her body tremble. "Y. . .you can have me, but please leave my
daughter alone."
"What do you mean, _have_ you?" I asked, gently stroking her inner
thigh. Blindfolded by the tape, she was unable to predict when and
where I'd touch next. As I brushed against her belly I got an
involuntary moan and her body stiffened. I gently ran my gloved
fingers through her bush and found it wet. "So damp, so soon. What
was it you were saying?"
She fought to focus, "I. . .oh. . .I'll fuck you willingly. . .just
leave her alone. Please?" The last word was a plea, but for what I
wasn't sure. Was it the mother protecting her young or a horny woman
being teased to distraction? I meant to find out.
"And suppose I don't like it willingly?" I asked, rolling one of her
nipples in my gloved fingers. She gasped and sucked in a huge breath,
intent on getting her offer out before she lost her will completely.
"Then I'll do whatever you want, resist, not resist. I'll sign a
statement saying I'm doing it willingly. That it's not rape. You
could use it in court if they catch you. . .oh. . ._please._"
I took one of her breasts in one hand, fingered her exposed pussy with
the other. "Let me tell you what I think. I think you want to be
fucked. You may think you're selflessly sacrificing yourself for your
daughter, but you want it don't you?"
She gasped, but wouldn't say anything.
"All you have to do is ask. To make it simple, I promise not to rape
your daughter no matter what your decision. If you want it, just ask.
If not, just say no." I realized that I'd placed her in a dilemma;
before, she could always rationalize her needs by saying that she'd
surrendered to save her daughter. Now she had to face the truth.
"Please. . .?" she moaned. I upped the tempo on my teasing.
"All you have to say is please fuck me."
She threw her head back, head rolling on her shoulders. "Please. .
.fuck. . .me."
Bingo. I'd been intent in having at least one of these cunts beg me
to fuck her before Doc got here. So the winner had been Sandra. Of
course, I'd make her pay a high price for it, and I always had her
daughter for seconds.
Cutting Sandra free of the chair, I laid her on the couch. Her hands
were still bound and the gag hung round her neck in easy reach. I
started where I'd left off, teasing and nibbling here and there. Her
skin was hot and salty and I took my tongue on the grand tour. Her
hardened nipples, still so sensitive after the clothes pins, seemed
especially vulnerable. I spent a while sucking and licking while she
squirmed and begged. Then I moved lower, attacking spots at random
and watching her increasing arousal. She was wiggling with
anticipation when my tongue first danced over her clit. She sucked in
a deep breath and for a second I readied myself in case she was about
to scream, but at my next touch she let out a powerful moan. I knew
at that moment that she was mine. Her body trembled as it betrayed
her mind, then her mind was washed away in a buildup of pure pleasure,
probably the first pleasure she'd gotten from a man in a long, long
time.
I whispered things in her ear, things she had to say if she wanted me
to continue. They were horrible degrading things, things members of
the PTA never say, and she repeated them happily, willing to sound
like a whore if it got her a little closer to that orgasm. I got her
to shout them, unconcerned about the neighbors. "Oh please, Master,
fuck this whore!" wasn't quite the same as "Help, murder!" after
all. When I thought she was ready, I slipped on a rubber and pushed
my way in.
It was. . .different. Eight years of young, tight pussy can spoil a
man, and of course she hadn't been taught those little Thai whore
tricks that Doc's girls know. Still, she had a certain enthusiasm,
following my lead and screaming obscenities as I fucked her brains
out. She came three times, each more powerful than the last, before I
let myself come in her cunt, filling the rubber until I thought it
would burst. Different, but definitely good.
As we lay there afterwards, gasping, I thought about Doc again and
wondered where the hell he was. If he wasn't here in half an hour, I
figured I'd look in on young Becky. Of course, I'd promised her
mother I wouldn't rape her, but I had no doubts that the girl would be
out of her mind by now, willing to beg anyone or anything to fuck her.
And if she begs, then it's hardly rape. I grinned and looked down at
Sandra, still clutching me as she panted in satisfaction.
Who knows, I might even let her watch. . .
Doc's Orders by Quin
==================
Chapter 6 "The Devil and Ms Fisher"
====================================
Someone knocked on the door. I stiffened at the noise -- now was the
prime time for visitors, both expected and unexpected. Sandra gasped
as I moved off her, but she was all screamed out. She didn't even try
to resist as I gagged her with a practiced motion.
I went to the window and glanced outside, expecting to see some nosy
neighbor or maybe a school friend of Becky's. Instead, there was
Kitten in a pair of white overalls and a baseball cap rocking on her
heels. Quickly I went into the hall and opened the door.
She smiled. "Someone order an exterminator?"
"Cute," I said. "You took your time."
"An hour and twenty minutes, including picking up this nifty
disguise," she said, moving through the house like a whirlwind.
"Yeah, OK," I said, getting down to business, "One in here, one in
there, two upstairs. The younger kid's got some kind of problem,
seems to have a mental age of five or six. We've kept them
blindfolded since we got here except for the kid. We've left her free
and we wore masks around her. Where's Doc?"
"Be here in about an hour. He didn't trust my helicopter flying."
"You fly choppers?"
She shrugged. "Doesn't everybody?"
I shook my head. Smug bitch.
Meanwhile, Kitten went into the living room and checked on Sandra,
noting her damp pussy and the discarded rubber. "We have been busy,
haven't we?" Reaching over the woman's body, she tightened Sandra's
gag, then pulled out a pair of handcuffs from a overall pocket. The
cuffs were used to secure the helpless woman's feet.
We checked quickly on Myra, then I led Kitten upstairs. Inside the
oldest girl's bedroom, JoJo's face was covered in Becky's juices.
Becky herself was begging for release behind her gag.
"My, you *have* been busy," Kitten said, impressed. "Planning a
double header, were you? Mother and daughter?"
"Whatever happened to _Master?_" I moaned. "You called me Master
yesterday."
Kitten looked at me, and actually blushed. "You're sweet, Charlie,
but we both know it's just a courtesy title. Doc is my only master.
Besides, since yesterday *you* have been my slave in waiting, and I
figure until that's resolved, it makes us equal."
Leaving me to splutter over that, she climbed onto the bed and removed
the bandage and tape from Becky's lips, pulling the sodden sponge
free. "Hello, slave," she said crisply.
"W. . .who are you," Becky gasped.
"You may call me Mistress, and the only thing that you need to know
right now is that I decide when or if you cum."
"Oh pleeeeease. . ." Becky begged. At that moment, she would have
sold her soul to cum and Kitten knew it. Smiling an evil feline
smile, Kitten played with her victim.
"You call that begging?" she scoffed. "If you want to cum, I'm sure
you can do better than that."
"Please. . .please, oh please, let me cum." I winced a little at
lost opportunities. The girl was so needful; if Kitten had been just
a little later, Becky would've begged me to fuck her.
As it was, she was begging Kitten. "Please what?" Kitten demanded.
"P. . .please, Mistress. L. . .let me cum!"
"Better," Kitten said, nodding. Reaching into her pocket she pulled
out another of Doc's gags which she forced into the girl's unresisting
mouth, then padlocked it in place. She turned to JoJo. "Finish her
off, then untie her and help her downstairs. She isn't to remove the
blindfold. Understand?"
"Yes Mistress."
"Good girl." Kitten turned to me, "Right. Let's get this thing under
control, shall we?" She stripped out of the overalls to reveal a
nicely tailored business suit. Even after Sandra, I found myself
getting hard again. I suppose I've liked a woman who can power dress
since the Marines.
We started to clean up, disposing of anything that linked us to the
place. Ray, another recruiter I'd worked with from time to time,
appeared at the door with a large tank on wheels. It had a giant
roach on the side and I figured it was part of their exterminator
cover.
"What's this?" I asked, tapping on the tank.
"Slave transporter, so we can take them out without being spotted,"
Kitten said from behind me. "Give me a hand." Between us, we took
the lid off and she showed me the padded interior. There was just
about enough room for a body inside.
It took some effort, but eventually we managed to cram Myra into the
tank. I watched as Ray wheeled her to the van, then took Kitten to
one side. "Look, can't we just leave the rest of them tied up or
something? Do we HAVE to recruit them?"
She arched one perfect eyebrow. "Do I see a twinge of conscience?
The suggestion that you might just let two prime recruits go?"
I looked uncomfortable. "Well. . ."
"These people are a security risk, Charlie. You must see that. I
admit I feel sorry for the little girl, but I'm afraid your two naked
playmates have got to go."
By now, JoJo was leading Becky downstairs. The girl seemed drained
and unresisting. JoJo had already fastened Becky's hands behind her
with the leather cuffs, so after forcing her down onto the couch with
her mother we only needed to cuff her ankles. The two Fisher women
squirmed, aware of each other's presence. The smell of sweat and damp
pussy clung to naked flesh, making it very clear what had happened to
each of them.
Then Doc arrived. Compared to the whirlwind that was Kitten, he
appeared almost subtly, dressed in a business suit with an overcoat,
this silver hair and beard impeccably groomed. He looked for all the
world like someone's rich grandfather. "Ah, Charles, my boy," he
said, almost cheerfully.
I winced. A whole day of maintaining cover, blown like that.
Silently I indicated the two naked women tied on the couch.
"Ah, yes, this must be the delightful Ms. Sandra Fisher and her
daughter Rebecca." He said it as if they had just been introduced at
the Queen's garden party. The girls wiggled a little and Sandra tried
to say something.
Doc looked up at me in disapproval. "Charles, where are your manners?
Free these young ladies at once. Kitten, I assume that there are
suitable clothes somewhere in the house?" She nodded. "Then please
get some, straight away."
I looked at Kitten but she just shrugged as she headed upstairs on her
errand. I helped Doc free the Fishers.
Sandra blinked against the sudden burst of light after her blindfold
was removed for the first time in hours. Seeing Doc, she tried to
cover herself.
He held up a hand. "Please, my dear young lady, do not trouble
yourself. I can assure you that you have nothing to be ashamed of."
Somehow, this conforted her. "Wh. . .who are you?" she choked.
He tsked. "Mouth a little dry? Charles, get these two young ladies a
drink."
I ducked into the kitchen, locating some cans of pop in the
refrigerator, and brought them back with me. Sandra and Becky took
them eagerly, gulping at the cold drinks.
Doc smiled over them in avuncular mode. "Now, down to business. My
friends call me Doc, and I'm sorry to say that this young ruffian
works for me. So you see, any inconvenience that he has caused you is
entirely my fault. Please accept my apologies."
They both frowned, eyeing Doc doubtfully, but perked up when Kitten
appeared a few minutes later with some clothes. Despite the fact that
I'd seen them both naked (hell, I made them strip in the first place),
Doc made me look away as they got dressed. Sandra was starting to
feel a little more secure with her clothes on, a feeling Doc shattered
a moment latter.
"Rebecca my dear, please go with my assistant here and do as she
says," he instructed Becky. "She will need your help with your
sister."
Sandra sat bolt upright. "Amy! My God, where's Amy?"
"Upstairs asleep," I told her. "She's having a little nap."
Doc smiled. "Indeed. Now, Sandra, we must take your daughters away
for a while. Not long, I assure you. While they are gone I'm sure
that I can count on your complete cooperation."
"If I don't you'll hurt my girls!" Sandra wailed, close to hysteria
now.
"Nonsense." Doc gave her a hard look, a look that scares even me. "I
won't lie to you, Sandra. I could take your daughters and ensure that
they spend the rest of their lives giving blow jobs in a Mexican
brothel. It is perfectly possible for me and my associates to erase
your family without trace and ensure that no one will ever look for
you. I could do all that and worse, but I won't. The reason that
your daughters must leave is that I am expecting a group of armed men
to attack this house later tonight. Those men have been told to kill
everyone inside and to hunt down any survivors. I believe that I have
taken all necessary precautions, but why risk your daughter's lives?
Two of my men will transport them to your sister's in Maine and leave
them with her."
Sandra was stunned.
"You see, Sandra, the reason my young friend was forced to detain you
this morning is that he and the two young ladies were running for
their lives," Doc explained. "These men have already killed an
associate of mine, a friend for over thirty years, a faithful husband,
a loving grandfather. A man who served your country well through some
of its darkest hours. When you get to my age, it seems that you spend
most of your days attending funerals. Usually you can look back and
say that at least the chap had a good innings, but in this case my
friend had a good few overs left to play. I feel a righteous
indignation that can only be soothed by a most terrible revenge. Ah,
here's the tea. Kitten, will you be mother?"
Kitten poured the tea and I watched Sandra's face. Thirty minutes ago
she'd been tied up on a couch getting (I hope) the best fucking of her
life. Now she was trying to come to terms with this. "So. . .who
are you?" she asked. "The government?
"It would be safe to say that we have all worked for your government
from time to time, but not at the moment. At least not in an
_official_ capacity," Doc said, winking. "In this case, it is my
belief that your government will find itself well served by our modest
efforts here today."
"But these men--"
"I would like you to stay and assist us in this matter," Doc said,
overriding her. "If you wish, there is still time to take you to your
sister's with the children. However, if you stay, then my
organization is willing to pay you the sum of one hundred and thirty
seven thousand, seven hundred and thirty one dollars. In case you are
not aware of it, that is the outstanding balance on the mortgage for
this house."
"But how--"
"I know a lot about you, Sandra." Doc smiled at her. "I know about
your husband Gerard, how the stress of raising a child with Amy's
special needs broke up your marriage. I even spoke with Dr. Linz not
an hour ago about young Amy's condition. I realize that since the
divorce you have been making caretaker payments on the mortgage,
paying the interest only, and I realize that even that takes nearly
two thirds of your available income. What I offer is a way out of the
poverty trap for you and your daughters. All you have to do is assist
my associates and keep quiet about ALL that happened here today."
"And the men?"
The smile turned cold. "We intend to kill them, Sandra. Make no
mistake, if you stay you will be an accessory to that act. Punishable
by the full weight of the law."
I could see her considering his offer, but the result was a foregone
conclusion. If what Doc said was true, she and her daughters would be
out on the streets within a year. He was offering her a way out and
all he wanted in return was a part of her soul.
She looked up, and swallowed. "What do you want me to do?"
.... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . .
Sandra moaned into her gag as I thrust in. This time there was even
more of a thrill, probably because we both realized this could be our
last fuck ever. It hadn't been easy for Sandra to allow herself to be
tied up again, especially knowing the dangers. It would mean that she
would be almost completely helpless when it happened.
Doc had explained his plans and made his preparations but now it was
down to us.
I thrust in again. She was definitely making the best of a bad job in
any case. They say danger is an aphrodisiac and Sandra was certainly
hot tonight. She was on her second orgasm and I was building nicely
towards mine when I suddenly saw her lust-filled eyes open with alarm.
Then I heard a click next to my ear.
"So, Charles, isn't it? I must say you fellows take your work
seriously. Do you just walk around tying up every woman you meet?"
The Yuppie's voice was still as irritating as ever.
"S. . .something like that," I said, and came. After all, there was
no point in wasting it.
"Put your hands on your head and stand up." He tried to sound bored,
like he did this sort of thing every day, but it came out as a nervous
whine. His eyes became fixed on the naked woman and I knew that I
could take him then and there. But that wasn't in the plan. With
some regrets I stood and put my hands on my head as directed. He
nodded me towards the kitchen, then he reached down and dragged Sandra
to her feet.
"I must say you led us quite a chase," he said equitably. "Toby will
be so glad we found you. When he gets out of the hospital, that is."
"How is Toby?" I asked, keeping my voice friendly, as if we were
chatting about an old college buddy.
"As well as a man with two crushed legs can be."
"Ouch. I hope you'll tell him it was nothing personal," I said. By
now we were in the hall. As arranged, Sandra kept falling back,
forcing him to keep pushing her forward. I moved a little ahead. The
idiot was a banker, not a gunman, and I hoped he didn't realize what
we were doing. His eyes kept sliding over Sandra's naked body, down
her flanks to her freshly shaved pussy. I saw the bulge in his
trousers, evidence of his distraction. Sandra, bless her heart,
wiggled her hips as she walked, dragging his attention back to her
crotch with every move. I glanced at her and caught the look in her
eye. There was fear there, and the faint suggestion of panic, but
there was also a grim determination holding everything in check. I
began to feel more confident.
"How did you find us, by the way?" I asked, still sounding chatty.
"You must realize that my people will be here soon."
He laughed. "Oh, I don't think so. Want to know why?" He pushed me
forwards, giving me an extra impetus that carried me even further from
him. The Yuppie Bitch Queen and two men stood in the kitchen. Sat in
a chair, hands cuffed and mouth taped over, was Alison.
"Shit!" I said, appalled.
The Yuppie smiled. "Your message was still on her machine when we
arrived. She hadn't made it home, you see, because we decided to have
a chat with her first." He tilted her face up and I could see the
bruises. "As you can tell, she wasn't very cooperative. If you
hadn't called the silly bitch, we wouldn't have found you."
I gritted my teeth together. "All right. What do you want?"
"Joanne, and especially that little tart Myra. I've got to pay that
little bitch back."
"Then what?"
He shrugged. "No witnesses, nothing to connect us with any of this."
He turned to the goons. "You two look for them."
They found JoJo bound and gagged in the den and pushed her through to
the kitchen. The Yuppie Bitch Queen licked her lips. "I don't
suppose we have time for a quickie, do we, darling? Joanne has such a
wonderful technique -- it would be a shame to miss out."
The Yuppie chuckled indulgently. "Perhaps later, after I've dealt
with Myra." He looked Sandra over, lips pursed in consideration.
"Tell me, _Charles,_ how well does your new toy suck dick?"
"Not still painful then?" I asked innocently.
He scowled, ignoring me. "Don't worry. I'm sure we'll find out, as I
think we and the ladies will have a bit of a party before we leave.
Unfortunately, as you ruined our last one, you won't be invited."
"I could go and get the beer?" I offered. Through the kitchen door,
I could see the two goons dragging Myra downstairs. She was kicking
and making gagged noises from beneath a pillowcase I'd used as a hood.
"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what all this is about?" I
asked, stalling for time.
"Like in the movies?" Yuppie Man shook his head. "Real life isn't
like that, I'm afraid. All you need to know is that you fucked with
the wrong people, and now you're going to pay."
Myra was pushed into the room. Being blindfolded, she staggered a
bit, finally coming to rest against the far wall. One of the goons
walked over and pulled off the pillowcase. They were expecting Myra,
so of course they were disappointed.
"Peekaboo," Kitten said.
The goon was stunned. A second later, he was dead. Kitten's hand
flew up, the heel striking the man's nose at a lethally precise angle.
On cue, Sandra threw herself to one side, crushing the Yuppie's gun
arm against the door frame. Desperately, he tried to push the naked
woman away. Realizing that she was literally fighting for her life,
Sandra held. He hit her with his free hand and in return I hit him,
hard. Meanwhile, the second goon was so confused having seen "Myra"
turn out to be another woman, and that woman then kill his partner,
that he froze for a long moment. Just about the time he started
thinking again, Ken opened the garage door and shot him with a
silenced 38.
"What the--" the Yuppie Bitch Queen started to say, but Ken shoved the
barrel of his gun into her mouth. She whimpered and kept quiet, while
I started freeing the women.
Doc came in all smiles, as if he were some theatrical producer after a
first night. "My dear children, what a wonderful success! Sandra, my
dear, a wonderful performance, Kitten as outstanding as ever. And
Alison--" He went over to where Alison was rubbing her wrists. "My
dear we couldn't have done it without you. The risk involved--"
"They killed Sam, Doc," she said, her tone flat and lifeless. "My
Sam. What was I supposed to do after that? If they killed me, so
what?"
Doc's tone harded a little. "Now, don't start talking like that. Sam
wouldn't like it." I knew why -- it was a common syndrome with slaves
dedicated to one master that they frequently became listless, even
suicidal, when the man died.
I looked over at the pain slave, suddenly inspired. "Alison, I spoke
to Connie. She'd like to meet you, perhaps have you over to stay--"
Alison blinked. "Connie? Really?"
"She told me so herself. I think she really wants to meet you. And
that way, you could meet Sam's kids, too."
This seemed to cheer her somewhat, especially the idea of meeting
Sam's kids for the first time. I didn't say anything, but Sam's
eldest was about Alison's age and shared some of his father's
"interests." Perhaps there were some possibilities there. Doc gave
me an approving look.
In the meantime, Kitten had started handcuffing the Yuppie couple.
JoJo put the kettle on for tea, and Ken and his partner Ray were
outside seeing if there were any more baddies out there. A few
minutes later, Sandra was wearing clothes again and the "Exterminator"
had dealt with the dead bodies. The Yuppie couple, however, were the
center of attention, taped to kitchen chairs.
"Okay, we're cool, and we have these two wackos tied up," I jerked a
thumb at the Yuppies. "Now, can someone please tell me what in the
wide world of sports is going on here?"
Doc gave Sandra a funny look, then said, "It all started a couple of
months ago, when you were in London. Sam came to me with a
commission. Apparently, a woman named Myra McTaggart who worked for a
well known New York bank had been found with her fingers in the till.
As I explained before, she had blackmailed the bank into dropping the
issue by threatening to damage their reputation. Sam said that the
bank's directors wanted a special revenge, and could we process her
straight away?"
"You told me this before," I said. "And the story has more holes than
the Titanic."
"Just so, but Sam had received his request from an excellent source, a
VP of the bank." Doc looked at the Yuppie. "And said VP was about to
marry the bank president's daughter." Doc glanced at the Yuppie Bitch
Queen.
"So we picked Myra up, and of course we were _very_ interested in
discovering just where she had hidden the money. She seemed strangely
reluctant to talk, despite Kitten's persuasions. While we were
pondering this, Sam got a second request. Apparently Myra's PA was
asking unfortunate questions and threatening to go to the police.
Obviously she couldn't remain at liberty. So of course we picked her
up, too. Even before she arrived at my place, however, this strange
request about a weird lesbian show had been passed to Sam. When I
received it, my curiousity was piqued and I had Sam do some checking.
Of course, when I actually saw the girl, my suspicions were
confirmed."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because, Charles, Joanne is my goddaughter."
My mind boggled. Who in their right mind would make Doc their kid's
godfather?
It must have been on my face, because Doc explained, "You see, I met
her grandfather whilst I was working on a project call MKULTRA, just
after the war. He was in military intelligence, like Sam.
"Years later, when Joanne was born he came to me and asked if I could
help her. You see, she had learning problems and he thought our
research might offer the possibility of a cure. I helped her, of
course, and over the years we've kept in touch, so when she was
delivered to my place it was really a bit of a shock. We discussed
matters amongst ourselves and realized what must have really happened.
You see, Myra had suspected that the Bank was being used to do illegal
fund transfers, and had started an investigation. She gave Joanne the
job of researching the banks files to find an audit trail. They
discovered that whoever was doing all of this must be on the board, as
only they had the authority for certain transfers. Myra needed the
help of the bank's president in order to get the power she needed to
audit further. As the president was hard to reach, she decided to go
via his daughter and told her the whole story. The daughter agreed to
help, but the price was most unusual. It turns out that the daughter
was not quite the pure maiden she led most people to believe, and
there would be a sexual price Myra would have to pay to get to her
father. Myra refused, and even made the mistake of suggesting that
Daddy would not be pleased when he found out about his precious's
little peccadillos.
"Up until then, Myra had been discreet about her investigation. Then
suddenly, our man gets word on what she's doing. He sets up a chain
of evidence, a classic embezzlement scheme pointing to Myra, to cover
the deficiencies in the books. Then he had us pick her up."
"Why not just kill her?"
He tut-tutted. "Charles, dear boy, this is an unstarched white collar
criminal; he can't stand up for himself, much less do his own dirty
work. He realized that if Myra disappeared, the blame would be placed
on her. He moved in the kinds of circles most our clients do and had
heard whispers about my operation. Besides, Myra was hunting him; it
had become personal. The advantage of using us to do his dirty work
for him is that afterwards, he and his lover could use her as their
personal toy." He shrugged. "In short, it was about power -- his
ability to take hers away. I think he moved on impluse and it was
only later after Myra had been picked up that he realized that the
real threat was Joanne.
"By the time Joanne and I worked this out, Myra was in a critical
condition. If we took it further, she would be permanently destroyed.
So we decided to keep her disoriented and teach her a few tricks. We
had a plan, but it would require Joanne to do a number of unsavory
things." He gave his goddaughter a sympathetic look. "We tried, but
she simply couldn't do it. So finally she agreed to the creation of a
shell personality, something temporary that would sit on top of her
own persona for a few days and would be able to do what was needed.
And that's how JoJo was born. She was given a special set of
instructions and keyed to you personally."
I scratched my head. "Then why did you have me treat her as hostile?"
He smiled. "Myra was, dear boy. Remember, these people had never met
one of my slaves before. If you treated JoJo differently, they may
have started to pay her more attention."
I nodded. As always, Doc had thought of everything.
He continued, "My plan was to deliver the slaves as agreed and to
catch our VP in the act, so to speak. Unfortunately, two things went
wrong. First, our VP got word that Sam was asking questions. He
realized that if he killed Sam, the girls and whoever delivered them,
there would be nothing to connect any of this together. So he hired
some muscle from one of the more disreputable executive protection
agencies and had the time of the party moved forward. He and his
lover planned a night of the long knives, to get you all on the same
night. They picked Sam up while you were on the road and we didn't
know he was dead until it was too late.
"The second thing to go wrong was that you arrived too early. I'd
made arrangements to have some of our people there for backup. A
couple of slaves had been prepared to be found in a compromising
position with our VP. All was set, but then you went in early. . ."
I winced. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"It had to look natural. He wasn't to suspect until it was too late.
We had thought he would come alone, that we could take him stick him
in bed with a couple of whores and threaten to send the pictures to
his prospective father-in-law." He looked over at the Bitch Queen,
and a corner of his mouth quirked. "Of course, we never thought that
his fiancee would turn out to be such a shameless hedonist. I was
shocked when I realized -- after all, they are such a good family.
"When things went wrong, all I could think about was that you'd kill
the slaves as we'd agreed. Then I discovered Sam was dead and it
became very personal." Doc turned grim. "When you called, I was with
Alison. I realized immediately that if they didn't have you, we still
stood a chance. Alison agreed to be bait. You see, to protect his
family Sam never used his own ID when in New York. He worked from a
small office and none of his clients knew his real name. As they
killed him before you slipped through their fingers, the police report
suggested that they made no attempt to get any information from him.
It seemed reasonable therefore that once they lost you, the only link
they'd have would be the office. I arranged that Alison would go over
and deliberately get caught, if you like. Then, when they went to her
place to follow up, they would find the message I had you record."
It all fit together. "So Myra and Joanne are going to be
deprogrammed?"
"Joanne is, of course." He sighed. "I would have liked to have kept
Myra, but Joanne is attached to her, so I suppose we'll have to fix
her."
"How will you explain her being away for so long?"
"That's simple," Kitten said, perkily. "We usually make them think
that they've been abducted by aliens."
I stared at her. "Aliens? Them? Who's _Them?_"
Doc rolled his eyes. "I'm afraid our little Kitten is becoming a bit
of a practical joker. I'll explain later."
Just then, Ray and Ken came back. Ken looked grim. "They had a van
around the side. Two guys. We disposed of them," he reported.
"Very good, dear boy." Doc tapped his chin thoughtfully. "You had
better use the van to dispose of the bodies. Remember, use the crack
powder sparingly, just enough to leave a trace. We want the police to
find a drug connection, but don't leave enough to make them too
suspicious. After all, they're not stupid, just slow."
JoJo handed out the tea as the guys started to clean up the stains on
the kitchen floor. Doc turned to Sandra. "So, my dear, you know a
little more about us now," he said calmly.
"Y. . .you're white slavers?" she asked, still trying to come to
terms with it all.
Doc looked shocked. "I assure you, madam, we have no color
preferences. Besides, 'White Slaver' is such a Victorian term. It
conjures images of virtuous white women at the mercy of dirty Arabs.
Oh, no, we're nothing like that."
A look of horror spread across her face. "My God -- you have my
daughters--"
Doc shook his head. "Your sister in Maine has your daughters, flown
there by private plane. I think Amy will be thrilled. Has she ever
flown in a small plane before?"
Sandra shook her head, still horrified.
"Wonderful child, Amy. Dr. Linz and I spoke about her case at
length. She has Prosov's Syndrome, I believe?"
"Yes, but--"
"Brilliant man, Prosov," Doc mused. "Told really wonderful dirty
jokes. Stalin had him purged, you know. Too independent." He
paused. "Sandra, my organization has lost a valued member and a good
friend. While no one can replace Sam, his death has left an opening
in our corporate structure that I feel you can fill."
"Me? Kidnap girls and--" She stalled, then swallowed hard and stared
at him. I had to admire her guts. "How do you think I could do
something like that? I'm a mother--"
Doc smiled. "I think you can do it precisely because you are a mother
and because you want the best for your daughters. The house is yours
as we agreed, the bank will confirm that the mortgage has been paid.
That is payment for your work tonight and for keeping silent on the
things that happened today. Remember, as far as the courts are
concerned you are an accessory to two murders, so keeping things quiet
is in all our interests." Her jaw tightened, but she didn't say
anything. "If you accept my offer, we will set you up in a business
of your choosing. Real Estate seems promising -- we will buy you a
franchise which will make you the senior partner. As it grows, it
will generate more than enough income to keep Amy and Rebecca in
private school and pay for college. You'll also have enough free time
to look after our other business. Don't worry -- we will train you
and provide suitable staff."
"I. . .but--"
He held up a hand. "Please, you haven't heard the most substantial
part of my offer. You see, I knew Prosov quite well. We collaborated
before his government intervened, as we were both interested in the
same things -- the structures of the mind and the mechanics of
learning. I can offer you something no one else can ever offer you."
He leaned closer, his voice low and luring. "I can cure Amy. I can
get her mental age back to her physical age in less than six months.
Push her IQ back to normal and perhaps beyond."
Sandra's mouth worked silently. It had to be the biggest temptation
she'd ever faced. "They said it's incurable. . ." she said
hesitantly.
Doc laughed. "They also said that man would never fly, that the Earth
was flat, that if a man traveled at over thirty miles an hour air
pressure would crush him," he said, chuckling. "Here, I'll prove it
to you. Kitten?" He waved her over. "Sandra, do you perchance have
a calculator? Ah, good -- would you get it, please."
Still disbelieving, Sandra dug a small solar-powered calculator out of
a kitchen drawer. "Now what?"
"It's quite simple. Think of a sum, any sum, as many numbers as you
like, then tell it to Kitten."
Sandra gave Kitten a look that barely hinted at hope. "What's 273,159
divided by. . .I don't know. . .123?"
"2220 point 804 how many decimals did you want?" Kitten said smugly.
Sandra tried it three more times. In all cases the limiting factor
was her calculator as Kitten gave more decimals than she could verify.
Doc patted Kitten approvingly. "This is a relatively simple trick.
Kitten also has a perfect memory, perfect pitch....."
"I'm just generally perfect," Kitten said with a cheerful little
shrug. For once, she even appeared to be a normal eighteen year old
kid, reveling in the attention.
Doc flashed Sandra a dark look. "Six months -- that's just enough
time for you to set up your business. If you can't see an improvement
before then, you can keep the business with my blessing and forget
about us. If Amy improves, then you work for me. Believe me, your
conscience is not as big a problem as you believe."
She chewed on her lip. "And what if Amy improves and I don't work for
you? What if I cheat?"
"Oh, you won't. If I really thought you were the type of person who
would run out on a deal, then I wouldn't be making you the offer.
Believe me, my dear lady, we are not monsters and we are not cheats.
Our line of work requires courage and honesty."
Sandra stared at us, her face reflecting the conflict she obviously
felt. White slavers, murderers. . .and the saviors of her daughter.
"Agreed, then?" Doc pressed.
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and nodded. "Agreed."
He clapped his hands. "Excellent! And now, I must ask you to do one
ceremonial duty to celebrate our new arrangement."
He handed Sandra a padded gag and pointed as the Yuppie Bitch Queen.
YBQ saw what was coming and tried to move her head away, but Kitten
stopped her.
"Gag that slave," Doc ordered.
Sandra reached forward and pushed the penis mouthpiece into the
Queen's mouth, then tightened the straps.
A cheer went up and a deal was made.
And it only cost one soul.
THE END
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