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Trick or Treat

Prologue The 13th Commandment

 Trick or Treat - The "Doc's Orders" Halloween Special By Quin
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Prologue: The 13th Commandment
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For Halloween this year, I thought I'd tell you a little morality tale
about the breaking of commandments. Oh, don't worry, old Charles
hasn't suddenly gone all religious or anything.  It's just that in
recent months I've been pondering the whole question of
"commandments."  It started when Doc sent me down south to pick up a
couple of new recruits that some freelancer had managed to saddle
himself with. Because this guy wasn't "one of us," Doc didn't want to
use one of our safe houses, so Kitten picked out a meeting place more
or less at random from a road map.

That was how I found myself marooned in a flea-bitten little roadside
motel in the ass-end of nowhere, waiting to be contacted.  The place
was so run down and dirty, even the roaches had moved out in disgust.
The TV looked like it had been an exhibit at the World's Fair, and the
reception was so bad you couldn't even tell if the program was in
English. One look at the bed told me that it had developed own little
ecosystem, so I decided against getting some shut eye.  Instead, I did
all the things you're supposed to do when you're a good little marine
and have time on your hands -- I stripped and cleaned my weapon,
checked my kit, and changed my socks.  After doing it for the fifth
time, though, it got a little wearing.  Another few hours of this, and
I was going to go crazy.

So I started to look around the room for a distraction.  The bad motel
room art took up a minute or two.  Then I spotted it, this little
brown book being used to prop up one edge of the bedside table.  The
book turned out to be a bible, placed there God knows how many years
ago by some well-meaning member of the Gideon Society.  To me, it was
a lifeline.  At first I read chapters at random, then I flicked to the
back to where they have the lists and the index of  "useful passages."
You know the sort of thing -- you look up your current problem in an
index, and it points you to a meaningful passage.  Problem was, there
didn't seem to be anything useful for my particular situation.  I
mean, they covered such things as "death of a close relative," but try
as I might, I couldn't find a single entry for "Bored shitless while
waiting for a shithead to deliver two bound and gagged, kidnapped
girls to you in a filthy motel room."  In the end, I settled on
reading the original top ten list -- the Ten Commandments.

Now, I don't think that the Gideon people had ever intended the
Commandments to be used as a checklist, but I have to admit it was
interesting to see just how many of the things I'd actually broken.
If kidnapping your neighbor's wife, brainwashing her, and getting her
to give you the blowjob of the century counts as "thou shalt not
commit adultery," then it seemed the only one I hadn't broken was
"thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's ox."  I was pleased about that.
It's one thing you can say about me -- I may kidnap my neighbor's
wife, I may sell his daughter into sexual slavery, but his livestock
is completely safe with me.

Anyway, it gave me something to think about while I waited for the
delivery.  Later, as I headed back towards Boston with two healthy
nineteen-year-old farm girls umpphing and struggling in the back of my
van, I continued to ponder those commandments.  When you're a kid you
have them hammered into your head almost as soon as you can think, but
these days they're getting more than a little dated and ten seems
rather a low number.  Of course we all know about the unofficial
commandments, such as the eleventh commandment  -- "Thou shall not get
caught."  That one should be the mantra of any presidential hopeful.
Twelve is a good one, too, but the commandment that our little story
tonight refers to is the dreaded thirteenth commandment, the one only
a really unlucky bastard breaks.  In fact, the thirteenth commandment
is so important, and the consequences of breaking it so dire, that
perhaps it should be promoted into the top ten.  That way, all the
kids in school would be taught it, and a lot of pain and suffering
(not to mention humiliation) could be avoided.

The thirteenth commandment?  It reads:  "Thou shalt not fuck with
Kitten."

Of course, fuck in this context means doing something that makes her
pissed with you.  I for one have fucked her the other way and found it
most enjoyable.  But I digress.  

Some Italian guy back in the Renaissance called vengeance "that most
Sicilian art."  If it is indeed an art form, then Kitten is its
mistress; you can wrong her and nothing immediate might happen, but
much later when you least expect it, yea, her wrath will descend upon
you with the fury of thrones and dominions.  Yep, you're right, I've
been reading too much bible recently.  So sue me.

Anyhow, on to our tale. . .

#################################################

It started at the end of August.  I was back at Doc's, recovering from
the "Devils and Disciples Affair," and my shoulder was healing nicely
under Kitten's expert care.  To be honest, though, I was still in a
bad way -- I didn't think I'd be able to go back to recruiting any
time soon, and Doc didn't seem inclined to push me on it.  As stock
went out to customers and nothing new turned up, however, Doc's little
complex rapidly turned into a ghost town.  In the end, he had Ken and
Evie come over from England to cover for me.  Just seeing them again
made me feel a whole lot better, and once they started work I could
afford to relax and recuperate.  It was the first real rest I'd had
for quite a while.

Unfortunately, I was the only one enjoying the down time.  Doc wasn't
doing that well; I could tell that the new wheelchair was bothering
him more than he was willing to let on.  I suppose he'd always been
such an active son of a bitch that the idea of taking it steady really
gnawed at him.  Carole-Anne clucked around him, of course, using her
recently imprinted medical knowledge as well as everything she'd
learned about passenger care over at Britannic Airways.  Still, he
wasn't an easy patient, and she had my sympathy.

Bad as we were, though, we had come out of it in one piece.  Others
hadn't been so lucky.  Red was dead, and Sandra Fisher was floating in
one of the conditioning tubes downstairs while Doc's machines fought
to restore her sanity.  The whole affair had been extremely costly,
both in lives and money, and it seemed to have been the latest in a
long string of disasters that had hit us that year.  The thing I
couldn't forget was that, with Sam's death and the unexpected demise
of Red, the organization had lost its two most senior recruiters.  All
of a sudden, I was Doc's number one hand, and the responsibility
scared me. 

In any case, Red's death had forced us to reorganize the whole
southwestern operation.  As my strength returned, I had expected to be
sent down there to sort things out.  Instead, Doc dropped his
bombshell over one of Kitten's breakfasts -- I was to go to LA and
supervise the set-up of a new regional office. 

I was so surprised that I nearly choked on my coffee.  If they knew
about us in the first place, most people would expect an outfit like
ours to keep an office in LA, since Hollywood acts as a magnet for all
the pretty girls in the world -- you only have to walk around the
place to know you've hit pussy motherlode.  Hell, even the girls
working at McDonalds tend to be knockouts.  For a white slavery ring
to have an office near Hollywood would seem obvious, like a hunter
staking out a waterhole.  Yet we didn't.  Why is a little complicated,
but I do know that in the early days it was hard to get recruits back
to Boston for processing.  I also think there was some other outfit
operating in LA at the time, and we'd decided to keep our distance.
Whatever the reason, it had denied us access to a rich feeding ground
for far too long.

That isn't to say that we didn't take from tinsel town.  Teresa, our
agent in San Francisco, has a number of casting and modeling agencies
among her legitimate businesses. Over the years she's become quite
adept at spotting those actresses whose careers were about to spiral
into freefall, or the sweet little wannabes whose acting peak would be
one line on "Baywatch."  Hollywood is so competitive and the girls
hungry for success that Teresa didn't even need to snatch them; she
simply arranged a "secret modeling assignment" and the girls delivered
themselves.  I think Teresa secretly liked to get the girls to help
arrange their own abductions.  Difficult boyfriends, the ones most
likely to ask questions, could be dealt with simply by hinting to the
girl that unattached women were preferred.  Troublesome parents could
be kept believing that their daughters were safe in LA, especially
once Teresa had gotten the girls to prewrite some letters home.  Best
of all, relationships in the movie industry are so superficial that no
one really noticed when the girls disappeared.  Even if someone did
notice, the porn and prostitution businesses were a much better
explanation -- or final destination, depending on your point of view
-- than white slavers.

Yes, over the years we had done well out of Teresa's little sideline.
Sometimes she would luck out and get some fading TV actress whom Doc
could sell on to the Arabs at greatly inflated prices.  It was ironic,
but doing one episode of  "Magnum PI" back in the eighties could
guarantee more money for a forty-year-old than we could get for her
nubile younger sister.  There's just something about fame that acts as
a status thing with some Arabs, and Doc was quick to seize on it.  And
if you bought yourself a starlet from Doc, then a collection of her
work on video was included in the package.  Just imagine -- you could
watch an old episode of  "The Hardy Boys" while the female lead was
busy sucking your cock.

However, good as Teresa's operation was, it just skimmed the surface.
There were thousands of girls in LA who would never get their one
minute of fame, those who would spend years as waitresses or sales
girls.  In many ways, life as a sex slave was easier and more
rewarding.  For the girls selling their ass on the strip, the ones
caught between an abusive "boyfriend" and a drug habit, being grabbed
by us might actually mean living to see another birthday. 

So the new office made sense, though I still didn't know why Doc
wanted to do it now.  I was even more surprised when he suggested I
take Kitten with me and "show her a good time."  Doc never took
vacations and therefore never saw why we should.  The suggestion that
we go to California on some kind of company junket seemed somehow
alien to him.  Then it dawned on me that what he really needed was a
rest from Kitten's constant mothering.  In a way, it was his own fault
-- she was his own creation, after all -- but I could see how her
loyalty imperative would go into overdrive while he was injured, and
her battles with Carole-Anne over just who did what were becoming
wearing.

So I agreed.  Hey, I'm not stupid -- the idea of spending some serious
time with the luscious Kitten while Doc picked up the tab was just
dandy with me. 

So we headed off to sunny California to found Doc's West.  Once we
arrived, we split work and play fifty-fifty and started to have a
really good time.  I bought a little red Mazda sports car for our
fledgling motor pool and gave it to Kitten to use, and while I was
busy scouting potential material and making contacts, she spent most
of her time out and about at fetish clothing stores and jewelers.  She
seemed a perfectly happy, if kinky, eighteen year old girl.  Needless
to say, the sex was absolutely incredible.

I had intended to do most of the work myself and let her get the most
from her vacation.  However, there was one area where her feminine eye
might prove invaluable; each regional office was supposed to include a
safe house tucked away somewhere in a quiet residential neighborhood
where we could go to ground if there was trouble.  And the quieter and
more conservative the neighborhood, the better; we didn't want to be
best buddies with the guy next door, we just needed somewhere to hide
out.  I thought house hunting would be the perfect job for Kitten
because she liked buying things and she understood our requirements,
and I agreed to rubber stamp her selection so she could literally buy
whatever she liked.  Armed with my guarantee, she headed out, full of
the joys of spring.  Unfortunately, she came back majorly pissed.

It took a lot of gentle massage and coaxing to get her to tell me the
story.  Seems that she'd decided to look at the middle-class suburbs
of LA, those sheltered little dormitory towns up in the less
fashionable hills east of the city.  It had seemed like a good idea at
the time.  The only problem was that to get there, she'd had to pass a
number of. . .er. . .interesting stores, and our Kitten was never one
to turn down good fetishwear.  Had she been wearing the little
semi-vanilla number she'd gone out in that morning, I doubt there
would have been a problem.  However, she'd stopped off at the Il
Bolero Dress Boutique on route, fallen in love with their merchandise,
and decided to wear one of their more, well, non-conventional
creations out of the store.

Kitten had turned up in the sheltered little community of Golden Peak
dressed in a tight, shiny, latex dress, black 4-inch-heeled patent
leather court shoes and a pair of Raybans.  To say that she freaked
the locals out of their tiny middle-class minds was an understatement.
The moment she walked into the Barrymore Real Estate office, open
warfare erupted; it seems that the three women in the realtor's office
had decided Kitten wasn't going to become part of their little
community if they had anything to say about it.  I have no doubts that
one look at Kitten in all her kinky glory had convinced them she was
some bimbo porn starlet, and they probably saw their property prices
falling then and there.  

Of course, they could have handled it more subtly and told her they
had nothing suitable, the SOP for realtors faced with undesirable
clients.  Instead, for reasons of their own they decided to ridicule
her.  I don't know why they did it -- maybe it was simple jealousy
that they didn't look as good as she did, or the petty
small-mindedness common to small communities, or maybe they just
figured that since they'd never see her again they could have some
fun. 

Whatever the reason, it was a big mistake.

But Kitten came first.  In order to calm her down, we made love right
then and there, with Kitten's rubber dress hiked up to give me access.
As usual, it was mind-stunning, and I drifted into that warm feeling
of apre-sex bliss with a smile on my face.  It took me a minute to
realize that little Kitten wasn't sharing in the feeling -- in fact,
she was looking up at me, tears in those beautiful eyes.

"M....master Charlie, would you h...help me get my own back with those
women?" she asked, snuggling deeper into my arms.  For a moment, she
was a kid again; I've never been able to deny her anything when she
turned on the cuteness factor, and this time was no exception.

"Of course, sweetie," I said, smiling at her. I imagined that we would
snatch the little cunts and sell them as service girls to a Chinese
brothel.

 It turned out that what she had in mind was a little more devious.

We didn't start straight away.  Instead, we finished up our business
and completed the vacation.  We finally bought our safe house in
another area but on Kitten's insistence we hired a house in Golden
Peaks through another realtor.  I actually think Doc was relieved when
I told him we'd be away another week or so -- it gave him more time to
adjust without Kitten clucking around.  In any case, he didn't object,
which gave us all the time we needed.

I admit that I'd expected Kitten's revenge to be quick and brutal
since that's her usual style, but this time she surprised me.   It
turned out that she wasn't in any great hurry -- she said later that
revenge was a dish best served cold and she wasn't about to blow
things by rushing in unprepared.  So we hung around in our rented
house discreetly watching our targets, mapping out their movements and
making our plans.

At twenty-one, Candy Freedman was our youngest victim.  She stood
about five nine, with long legs and a lithe dancer's body.  Her
Afro-American heritage was evident in light coffee-colored skin and
tightly curled hair, all of which went beautifully with her slender
neck, high cheekbones and elegantly sculpted face.  One good look and
we could both see a very immediate and very profitable method for
Kitten to get even with her.  

We followed Candy around for a while and quickly worked out her
schedule.  It seemed she was only a temp at the realtor's office,
working there two days a week; the rest of the time she was a student
at one of the local colleges.  Her family life seemed strained and her
workload prevented her from having a regular boyfriend, which made it
easy to map out her routine and find a suitable place to grab her.  We
put that idea on hold for awhile, however, since a girl disappearing
from a small town like Golden Peaks was bound to attract attention.
Instead, we decided to work on the others and leave Candy's abduction
until last.

Second on our list was Monica Stevens, one of the partners in the
realty company and in a way the person most responsible for what had
happened to Kitten.  Monica was thirty-four and married with two young
children.  Her husband, Frank, was standing for mayor this year on the
Republican ticket.  They seemed like your average suburban
middle-class couple, all caught up in appearances and careers.  It was
easy to see why she had reacted so badly to Kitten; physically, Monica
was nothing special, one of your typical thirtysomething soccer moms
that roamed the suburbs in herds.  At least she had kept her body
nice, and her face was relatively pretty surrounded by one of those
shag cuts that seem popular these days.  And she could power dress
like you wouldn't believe.  I wouldn't have minded fucking her if
there was nothing better on offer, but there was definitely something
cold and unpleasant about her, like the sensation you get from biting
on tinfoil.  Perhaps fucking hard-bodied nineteen-year-olds all the
time makes you overcritical.  In any case, I doubted we could sell
Monica for anything other than as a service girl.  

Kitten, however, had other plans.  She had borrowed Remus, one of
Teresa's male slaves, to keep pretty Monica under 24-hour
surveillance.  I didn't know what Kitten was thinking or expecting to
find, but it was clear that the outcome would be more complicated than
a mere abduction.

Last on our list was Penny Hunt.  Of the three, Penny was probably the
prettiest.  She wasn't as young and eager as Candy or as well-dressed
as Monica, but she was tall and slim with creamy porcelain skin and
fine features.  Add in long blonde hair and pale blue eyes, and you
had a woman who was simply stunning.  At first I had thought that she
was a natural for snatching -- if we picked the right time we could
probably get both her and Candy when they were alone together at the
office.  However, there was one tiny problem.

The problem was called June and she was eight years old.  Small and
slight, with blonde hair and blue eyes, she was a miniature version of
her mother, just cute as a button and the sort of kid who can steal
your heart in an instant.  Unfortunately, June posed a problem -- as a
standing order we were not allowed to take anyone caring for young
children.  I had thought that would be the end of it with regards to
Penny, but Kitten got this look in her eye.  It soon became clear that
Penny had been the chief culprit in the insult throwing that day.
Kitten might even have let the others go if it was the only way to get
a clear run at Penny, but Penny's ass was definitely on the line since
the moment she had stuck her pretty little patrician nose into
Kitten's business.

So Kitten started researching the family, paying special attention to
Penny's estranged husband Geoff.  She also started taking pictures of
June, sometimes through long lenses and sometimes close up with one of
those flat cameras that you could hide in your hand.  It soon became
evident that June's age was not going to save her mother as far as
Kitten was concerned -- in fact, June would play a pivotal role.

But that would come later.  We did Monica first.



Review This Story || Author: Quin
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