Chapter 3 "New Beginnings and Loose Ends"
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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.