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.