***************************************************************** STANDARD DISCLAIMER =================== The following piece of fiction is intended as ADULT entertainment and has been posted only to an appropriate group on the Internet. If it is found in any other place this is not the responsibility of the author. The author explicitly prohibits. 1) The posting of this story in an incomplete form. 2) The use of this story in a larger work without his express permission. 3) The use of this story on any CD, BBS or Website without the written permission of the author. This work is copyright TM Quin 1998. All characters in this story are fictitious, any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The author does not necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities detailed in this story, some of which are dangerous or illegal. Quin 1998 tmquin@ibm.net *****************************************************************
Trick or Treat - The "Doc's Orders" Halloween Special By Quin ================================================== Prologue: The 13th Commandment ============================ 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.
Trick or Treat - The "Doc's Orders" Halloween Special By Quin ================================================== Trick: The Humiliation of Monica Stevens =============================== I was sitting in the kitchen of the safe house, having a late night cup of chocolate. Living with Kitten had been an eye-opener, a little like being married but without the ring, collar or your choice of union symbolism. She had decided to go overly domestic, wearing sweaters and jeans rather than her usual kinky ensemble, and had her hair cut short and dyed blonde. As a test, we "bumped" into our targets on their way back from lunch one day. None of them gave the slightest hint of recognition -- certainly none of them realized that Kitten was the little rubber slut they'd had so much fun with. In the meantime, she kept the house almost surgically clean, vacuuming and mopping the floors every day and wiping down surfaces every hour on the hour. Despite the good habits instilled in me by the Marines, I'm still a big slob at heart, so as you can imagine there was some tension. It soon became clear, however, that Kitten's Mr. Clean act was being done for a purpose; she was doing her best to gain acceptance from the housewives who lived around us by aping them, taking their petty little middle-class suburban ways and reflecting them back en gros. Her house had to be cleaner, her clothes more preppy, her taste more stinted. As far as I could tell, it was working. In the two weeks we'd been here, she'd become a social dynamo, getting involved in all kinds of clubs and groups when she wasn't out tracking her targets. We made it clear from the outset that we were only here temporarily, (as part of a relocation package from my fictitious company) but there were already moves by some of our neighbors to persuade us to stay. I had to smile to myself -- if Kitten had gotten this kind of reception while in kinky mode, none of this would be necessary. . . Still musing, I walked over to the stove and pored myself another chocolate, then took another cup and poured a coffee. Remus was late, and that wasn't like him. Solid and dependable sort of summed him up -- white, about six two, well muscled, he had been a pro football player when Teresa took a shine to him. I heard that it took three men to recruit him. Of course, after Doc had worked his magic Remus was a pussy cat as well as a pussy licker. Now, I have to admit that male slaves always leave me feeling a little funny; I suppose it's because there are so few of them that I've never managed to get used to the idea. Also, I think part of my problem is that they're willing to suck another man's dick without a moment's hesitation if their mistress orders it. I realize that it's a screaming double standard -- almost all of Doc's female slaves are programmed to lick pussy, irrespective of their former sexual preference, and I don't normally give it a second thought. Like most guys, I really get off watching two beautiful women do each other. The fact that before programming the girls might not have wanted to suck slit never enters my mind -- to me, all women are bisexual and I've come to think of it as being natural. I suppose I should view Remus the same way and accept that bisexuality in male slaves is the norm, the same way I accept it in the females. Except, of course, that I'm not that well balanced. I waited about twenty minutes but he still didn't show. I poured the coffee away and started thinking about bed. Then, just as I was about to turn off the light, there came a knock on the door. I peered through the glass and found Remus grinning back at me like a cat who'd just found the cream. He seemed sort of flushed, almost as if he was turned on. It took me about a second to translate his reaction into the female slave terms I was familiar with -- he had found something that would please his mistress, something that had activated the low-level sexual thrill programmed into all Doc's slaves as positive reinforcement for pleasing their owner. I opened the door and let Remus in. "Hello, Master Charlie," he said, with his usual respect. "Is the Mistress accepting visitors?" "You're late," I scolded. The big man went white, almost as if someone had hit him. "Is the Mistress displeased that I am late?" he whispered. You could tell that he was Teresa's -- all of her slaves, male and female, were like that, grovelingly submissive, hanging on your every word like you were God. Teresa had the kind of ego that could take adoration and hero worship in her stride, but I found it kind of disturbing. I visit San Francisco quite often and on the few occasions that Teresa had lent me a female companion for the night I always came away feeling a little self-conscious. As a rule, once they were away from her they tended to act normally, since slaves are supposed to adjust to your needs. However, if she ever gave you complete control of one, then they treated you like they treated her. It was all very bizarre. Remus looked around hoping, to spot Kitten. "She's in the living room." I said. "Let's go." I often wondered what Kitten's new suburban friends would think if they could see her off duty. Once we'd settled down for the night and didn't have to worry about visitors, Kitten reverted back to her old kinky self. Well, perhaps she went a little further than usual. Almost as a reaction to dressing preppy all day, Kitten's evening wear looked like an explosion in a fetish factory. Tonight she was dressed in an amazing black patent leather corset. The thing was laced up tightly, giving her an hourglass shape and pushing her two firm tits nicely upwards. Black, front-laced patent thigh boots with a four inch heel adorned her legs and black leather gloves covered her arms. The whole thing screamed "Domme" and Remus, carefully conditioned to react to such images, behaved accordingly. He almost bent double as he approached the couch she was lounged across, all the time his eyes firmly glued to the floor like a man fearing to look upon the face of God. Ten feet away from her, he sank to his knees and actually touched his forehead to the floor. With a wink at me, Kitten deigned to notice him. "Yes?" she asked, her voice taking on a clipped English accent. "Mistress, this worthless slave wishes to report of the woman Monica," he said reverently. "You may report," she said, sounding remarkably like the Queen of England. He flushed again, and I could see that Kitten had noticed the new color. She flashed me a look and we both waited patiently for Remus to recover from the sexual charge. To say that he gave accurate reports was meaningless -- all of Doc's slaves are programmed to do their best, and they also have a perfect memory. Put the two together and you get an almost second-by-second description of events. After about one minute Kitten got bored. "This was the same routine as last night -- skip forward to the news you really want to tell me." He shuddered with pleasure. "If it pleases the Mistress," he murmured, smiling. "About eight o'clock pm, the woman Monica left for the gym as usual -- she was carrying her gym bag and headed off in that direction. One third of a mile later, however, she cut back down a parallel road and stopped outside 5107 Canyon Drive. The name on the mailbox is Cussack. There, she was met by a man in his early thirties who kissed her and then led her inside." "He kissed her outside the house?" Kitten asked. "Yes, Mistress. There are houses along only one side of Canyon Drive, so there is little chance they were seen." "Proceed." He bobbed his head. "A rigid trellis covered with ivy is bolted to the south wall. Using it, I was able to access the roof and reach the bedroom window. Once there, I was able to distinguish the couple in the midst of sexual foreplay followed by copulation." I smiled. Teresa often made her boys beg to fuck her, and the language they used would make a sailor blush. Remus being so correct about his sexual terminology was almost amusing. I looked up to find Kitten thinking. "You are to continue surveillance, with one addition," she said, tapping her cheek with a finger. "Should this couple meet again, you are to call me at once on the mobile phone." "Yes, Mistress." "Good," she purred. Leaning back, she opened her booted legs wide. "Now you may attend me. . ." Almost sobbing with joy, Remus moved closer and buried his face in Kitten's shaved pussy. ######################################### The next morning found me tailing Cussack while Kitten hit the computers. He surprised me -- instead of heading for LA, he drove towards Golden Peak's main shopping strip. When he slipped into the local gym I followed, figuring that he'd come in for a morning workout. It was only when I reached reception and saw all the pictures of him that I realized he was the owner. Still, all the publicity material made research easy. It turned out that Robert Cussack had once been a reasonable pitcher in the National League, back in the Eighties. He'd had one good season, one so-so season and then bombed out with a rotator cuff injury. After that, he'd taken his sort-of-celebrity status to a town small enough to be impressed and used it to build a successful business. His "health club" was the only place of its kind in town and attracted everyone from slimming housewives to wannabe jocks. Seeing the potential, I signed up for the family package and got a tour of the facilities. The place seemed kind of small and suffered from the problems a lot of downtown businesses have -- great location but no space. The area problem was so acute that Robert's office was really just a tiny cubicle at the back of the building. It had no real security, so once he was out on his rounds it would be easy to slip inside and look around. Back in the club's small store I bought some gym clothes, then booked a session. I wanted to blend in while I kept track of Robert's comings and goings. However, within minutes of starting my routine I was getting a lot of admiring glances from a group of young housewives using the exercise machines. When I looked back at them, they giggled and a couple of them flushed red. I noticed that Robert got his share of admiring looks when he passed by a little later. I started to wonder if that was it -- was Robert a lone alpha male surrounded by wimp husbands and horny young housewives? Was Monica just one of a number of bed warmers he selected from his club's female members? I hoped Kitten could tell me. At lunch I waited expectantly but Cussack made no move to contact Monica or any of the other women. When he settled down for the afternoon, I headed back to report. Kitten had had better luck, using a combination of computer power and the local grapevine. For a start she'd found out something that I hadn't even suspected -- Robert Cussack was married It's amazing what personal information people will put on the net these days. Using the web, Kitten had found out almost everything about Mrs. Susan Cussack, from her height, weight and date of birth to the names of her father and mother. There was even a photograph from her company web page. Susan was stunning, a cute little redhead with bright green eyes, full lips and a little button nose. In the photo she was wearing her hair in a tight bun and looking serious and professional. However, it was hard to keep that sparkle out of her eye, or disguise just how young she was. I checked her birthdate and did a fast calculation -- Mrs. Cussack was all of twenty-seven years old. Despite her tender age, she was listed as a junior partner in the PR firm where she worked. Kitten punched up another web page that showed me why. Daddy owned the company! Using more serious hacking techniques, Kitten had dug deeper; it turned out that the big house up on Canyon Drive was Susan's, and that she was the primary breadwinner in the family. For the life of me I couldn't see the attraction -- what was a young, rich, successful businesswoman doing with a washed up jock? More to the point, with a little redheaded hottie like this warming his bed, what was Robert Cussack doing cheating with someone like Monica? ################################################# It took almost two weeks of hacking, bugging and close surveillance before we pieced together some answers. It seemed that twice a week Monica would join some friends at the gym for step aerobics and weight training. In addition, she would join Robert for a more private workout once every two weeks. We discovered that Susan had a regular meeting in Seattle every second Tuesday; she would fly up in the afternoon and was never back before midnight. On those days Monica would kiss her children goodnight and tell her husband that she was going to do an extra session at the gym. Then she would go to join her lover. Their sex sessions started around eight and took exactly two hours, the same amount of time Monica normally spent at the gym. That left Robert with two hours to clean up any evidence before his wife got back. It was a sweet arrangement, and they could have probably continued for as long as they wanted. Except, of course, Kitten had other ideas. What I still couldn't figure out was why he would risk losing Susan to fuck around with Monica. I mean, I know that some guys can't keep their dicks in their pants, but still. . . It wasn't as if the two seemed to have much of a relationship outside of sex, or that there weren't prettier or more available women at the club. Something about it bothered me, and I felt we needed to get a better line on this relationship before we made our move. Naturally, Kitten was eager to start and she viewed the extra research as a waste of time. Still, it bugged me -- of all people, why fuck with the wife of the guy who might be elected mayor next week? It was then that a strange idea popped into my head, a really strange idea. I had Kitten check it out, hardly believing it could be that simple. I had naturally assumed that Robert was the instigator of the relationship, the one who decided if it started or stopped. That was why it had bugged me; why risk Susan for Monica? The answer was surprising -- he didn't have any choice. It seems that the gym predated his marriage. The house was hers, as were the cars and the boat, but the gym was all his. Despite the fact that he could live comfortably on his wife's income, he had continued to run his little business, almost as a last bastion of his self-esteem. The problem was the lack of space and the big should-I-stay-or-should-I-go question. Do you move to somewhere larger out of town and loose the walk in business or do you hope that you can manage with the space you have? It turned out there was another answer, one I hadn't noticed -- at the back of the gym was a vacant plot of municipal land, a plot that opened up the prospect of expanding his current premises. The previous council had turned down his offer to buy the land, but the upcoming election promised a change of political control. Control that would be in the hands of Frank Stevens. I could see how Robert could have become desperate -- he needed his business to expand and become successful if he was ever to become his wife's equal. It must have seemed obvious to befriend Monica as a way of getting to her husband. What he probably hadn't counted on was the price she would ask for that access. . . I looked up from the data on the computer screen and smiled. Now we could go. ##################################################### I yawned and looked out of the car window in the general direction of the Cussack house. The porch light and one of the bedroom lights were on but otherwise the place seemed quiet. As Remus had said, Canyon Drive had houses on only one side which allowed for an unobstructed view down the valley. The houses were built on a narrow artificial terrace dug out of the hillside, and the developer had obviously wanted to maximize his investment. As a result, all the houses had been built close together, then shielded from each other by dense shrubs and bushes. This meant there was little chance of the neighbors seeing anything suspicious. Of course, screaming and shouting would be another story. I glanced over at Remus, who was sketching something in a small notebook he always carried. It had taken a direct order from Kitten to persuade Remus to talk like a real live human being. She had pouted at first, but I'd insisted that she tell him. It had been tough -- being worshipped as a goddess has a certain attraction to Kitten, and adoration like Remus' can be awfully addictive. However, in the end I think he was starting to get to her, too. In any case, a "normal" Remus proved easier to live with and I had fewer problems working with him. Of course, he was still a little strange, but like most slaves the creative subroutine had kicked in. It turned out that Remus did hand tooled leather work as a hobby. Kitten's little patent leather ensemble had been his, a gift to his new mistress. We'd been talking about that and other things as we waited for Monica to appear. It hadn't taken much hacking to get Susan sent to Seattle a week early, and as expected the good news was passed back to Monica. Now we were waiting in a darkened car for the order to proceed. Remus nodded to himself, then held up the drawing so that I could see it in the weak light coming in from the window. "What do you think, Master Charlie?" I examined his sketch, and felt my eyebrows rise. "A leather wedding dress?" I asked. "White leather," Remus said dreamily, "with a corset-style bodice and a leather and silk train." He pointed out the details. "Exactly what the Mistress ordered." "And she wants this for when?" "The new year, she said. . ." He hesitated, frowning. "Um, I would have thought you'd have known the date of your own wedding." "Oh, I know we'll be getting married," I said blithely. "It's just the little details that haven't been worked out yet. Like when." Remus snorted. "Since when has a Mistress *not* had everything worked out from the moment she decides it?" He had a point. Doc builds quite exceptional women -- his submissives are incredible, and his dommes and switches could well be the most dangerous individuals on the planet. The thought that Kitten could have accepted my proposal without having worked out every tiny detail in a nanosecond was. . .well, unthinkable. I could see that Kitten and I would have to have a little talk. "Moe, this is Larry," Kitten's voice broke through my thoughts as it crackled out the radio. "Moe, come in." I grabbed the mic. "Go, Larry." "Moe, the pigeon is on its way to the coop." "Roger that, Larry. We'll bundle up the cock and wait for your call." I looked over at Remus. "Ready?" He nodded. "Then let's do it." Nothing could describe the look of surprise and horror on Robert Cussack's face. He had opened the door expecting to see Monica. What he found was two guys dressed in black and wearing ski masks. I raised the gun with the lazy action of a man who knows how to use it. "Back up nice and slow, keep your hands where I can see them," I ordered. "But--" Remus pushed him back into the house and shut the door behind us. Robert was obviously startled at being brushed aside like a leaf. He was used to being one of the stronger men in town, but compared to Remus or even Kitten he was just a cream puff. You see, everyone is at least twice as strong as they believe themselves to be. The nervous system contains limiters that stop us from using all of our strength so that we don't risk injuring ourselves. Normal people usually have no choice, the cutout is that strong, but under extreme stress or the effects of something like Angel Dust they can bypass it for a time. Doc's slaves can turn those limits on and off at will. Smiling behind the mask, Remus dragged the struggling man towards the kitchen. When we got there, we pushed Robert back against the counter. Before he could react, Remus grabbed his wrists and pinned his arms behind him. "W....what do you want?" Cussack stammered "This is a robbery, asshole. What do you think we want?" I growled. "Please -- my wife's jewelry is upstairs, there's a small strongbox in my office, the key is in the desk drawer," he babbled, sweating. "Please, don't hurt me--" I reached into the duffel bag I was carrying and pulled out a roll of duct tape. "You talk too much, asshole," I said conversationally. Reaching over, I grabbed a dishtowel from a hook on the wall and balled it up. "Open wide, pretty boy, and maybe we won't hurt you." His face went white at the gag. "N..no, please! I won't make a scene, just take what you want and leave." I brought the towel up to his mouth and he clamped his jaw closed defiantly. I grinned. "OK, if that's the way you wanna play it. Curley, why don't you start breaking the nice man's fingers?" I'd told Remus to act big and dumb. He'd run with the idea, though I admit that his performance owed a lot to "Of Mice and Men." "Gee, OK, Moe." He moved as if to alter his grip on the struggling man's hands. Cussack got the message and opened wide. I stuffed the towel in, then applied a few strips of the duct tape over his lips to keep it there. A search through the kitchen drawers revealed a few extra towels, and I tied one tightly over the top of the tape. That then left me with the problem of how to do a nipple test on a man. The only thing I could think of straight away was the scrotum -- I decided I wasn't *that* desperate. "Strip him!" I said in the coldest and most vicious sounding voice I could manage. Cussack's eyes widened and some sound emerged. I nodded, satisfied that the gag was strong enough for now. Stripping him wasn't difficult. In anticipation of his lover's arrival, he was naked underneath a black terrycloth bathrobe. Stripped of that, he was suddenly, embarrassingly naked. I passed Remus the duct tape and pointed my gun at Cussack while the slave taped his wrists and elbows, then glanced at my watch. It was almost time for Monica to show and I had a couple of things I needed to do first. Leaving Remus to finish tying Cussack, I slipped from the kitchen. Monica probably expected Cussack to meet her at the door and let her in. If I opened the door dressed like this she was likely to scream the neighborhood down, so I had to move fast. Reaching into my bag, I found the little note that Kitten had laser printed. It read : "Darling, I have a surprise for you. Meet me in the bedroom." I headed to the front door and opened it just enough to pin the note to the outside, then left it on the latch and raced upstairs to rifle through the dresser drawers. The idea had been to make it appear to be a robbery, and with the exception of a little tape and some rope I intended to make sure we left no trace of our presence. As I'd hoped, Susan had quite a silk scarf collection. There were more than enough to do a good job gagging poor Monica. I made a start while I was waiting, folding them into strips, tying knots in some, twisting other's into balls. The radio crackled in my ear. "Moe, this is Larry. The pigeon has reached the coop." "Roger that," I answered, "the cock is bundled. Keeping RT silence until we have the hen." And then: "Moe to Curley, hen's on her way, are you sure that the cock ain't going to crow?" "No problem, Moe." I smiled. Remus would keep Cussack quiet until Monica was upstairs. Kitten's voice came again. "Moe? She's going in." Leaving the scarves on the bed, I moved to the side of the door and drew my gun from its holster. It only took a few minutes until I heard her footfalls on the stair. "Honey?" she called. Miss Monica had a fairly nice voice, I decided -- boded well for future tongue work. "What's the big surprise? Honey?" The footfalls came closer still, then the bedroom door opened and she stepped inside. She paused there, confused by Robert's absence and clothes scattered around the floor. "Hone....umph?" I stepped out and grabbed her, my right hand covering her mouth and my left putting the gun to her temple. "Ummmphhh!" she howled into my hand. "Shush *honey*," I hissed. "Make one sound and I spread your brains all over the wall -- understand?" She nodded, her eyes wide and wild over my gloved hand. "Good. Now, I'm going to take my hand away. You scream, you die, understand?" Another nod. "Good." "What...?" she began before my hand flew back to cover her mouth. "Stupid bitch! Speak again and next time I shoot," I growled. "Now shut up and move over to the bed." Her eyes widened but she said nothing. However, she didn't move either -- just stood there, shivering with fright. In the end I had to drag her over to the bed myself. I forced her to sit down on the bed next to the small pile of scarves I'd prepared. "I was getting these ready for your boyfriend, but as you're here I'm sure he won't mind sharing." "Wha--" she began, then remembered my warning. She covered her mouth with her hand, eyes wide and panicked. I pulled the hammer back on the gun. "You wanna die, lady?" She shook her head. "Then shut the fuck up! Now take the balled up scarf and stuff it into that big mouth of yours." She hesitated. I sighed. "Listen, bitch, I have two ways of keeping you quiet," I said. "I'm gonna choose whichever is easiest. And trust me -- you don't want me to pick the other one." Hands trembling, she picked up the balled up scarf and stuffed it into her mouth. "That's good, now let's see if we can get the other one in there as well." She looked at the second ball and shook her head, mumbling a muffled nonsense. I pointed the gun at her. "Let's see, anyway, shall we? Humor me bitch, because the one way you come out of this alive is if you humor me." She picked up the second scarf and tried to force it in. At first it didn't want to go, but then I straightened my arm as if I was taking aim. She doubled her effort and finally forced it home. "Now pick up the knotted one. Put the knot in your mouth and tie the trailing ends behind your head." She started, but I was unimpressed. "Tighter, bitch! Do you think I'm joking?" Grunting, she pulled the scarf tight and knotted the ends behind her head with a solid workmanlike knot. I allowed myself to smile, "That's better. Keep doing what you're told and you might even make it out of this alive." Encouraged, she reached for the next scarf. I waved her off. "That's enough sweetheart, let's leave a few for macho man, OK?" She seemed relieved that we'd finished, a relief I shattered a moment later. "OK, sweets, time to tie you up. Now strip." Her eyes widened. "What's the matter?" I asked coldly, "gone deaf? I can tie you tighter without clothes. Now how would you rather we left you, tied up naked and alive or dead but dressed?" For a second she seemed to be trying to decide. Then, still trembling, she started to take off her jacket. At first she was reluctant, stripping slowly, but when she saw the bulge in my pants and realized that slow was more of a turn on she switched to high gear, quickly removing each piece until she was shivering in her underwear. "All of it sweetheart," I ordered. "If you're extra nice to me, then maybe I'll let you put your undies back on before we leave." I leered from behind the mask, leaving her in no doubt just what she'd have to do to be "extra nice" to me. By now she was barely able to stand, she was shaking so much. The hooks on her bra were a real problem, and for a time I thought I'd have to cut it off with my knife. Finally, however, she stood naked before me, one arm covering her breasts and one hand over her crotch. The gesture was useless in concealing the fact that she had a thick mat of dark brown pubic hair. I smiled -- knowing Kitten's preferences, it was unlikely she would keep it. "OK, now turn around and cross your wrists behind your back." She shivered and made a weak muffled sound. If I tied her, then she would have no way to cover herself. She made another muffled begging sound but in the end she had no choice. She swallowed, then turned her back to me. A second later she brought her arms behind her back as I'd asked. I quickly taped her wrists and elbows before she could change her mind. She couldn't get her elbows all the way together and so I added another band of tape to her forearms. As a test I spun her around, then reached down and parted her pussy lips, rubbing her little nub with my gloved finger. She struggled a little and made a muffled sound but the message was clear. I had taken ownership of her body and everything, even her most private places, were under my control. She looked at me doe-eyed, and a single silent tear rolled down one cheek. Smiling, I pushed her onto the bed, crossing her legs and taping her ankles and knees. Reaching down, I cupped her breast, rubbing and coaxing until the nipple hardened. She sobbed quietly but there was nothing more she could do. When the nipple was nice and erect, I squeezed it hard and twisted, listening to the muffled sounds that made it past her gag. I nodded -- the gag was OK. She gave me a tearful begging look I had no time for. I rolled her onto her belly, used her discarded pantyhose to hog-tie her wrists to her ankles, then stood back and watched. She squirmed and tried to get more comfortable and I helped her out a little by pulling her into the center of the bed. Close up, I had to admit that all of those work-outs seemed to have paid off. She had a good body for someone her age and as she fought her bonds her muscles rippled in a most delightful way. That reminded me of muscle boy -- it was almost time to go downstairs and play my next part in our little drama. First however I needed to complete our cover. No robber would take his fun until he's taken care of business. Leaving her to squirm and moan on the bed, I started to rifle through the room. Susan's jewel box came to hand quickly, as did his best watch and a couple of sets of cuff links. I made a big show of turning out the drawers and in the process I made a few embarrassing discoveries. Susan had a huge dildo hidden in her underwear drawer, one of those lifelike ones with veins and balls. It must have been at least eight inches long and almost three inches across. The thing looked a monster, and I showed it to Monica to get her reaction. By the way her eyes bulged, I guessed what she thought. Laughing, I dumped it on the night stand and continued searching. I piled the valuables next to the door and stopped to listen. The sound of searching continued downstairs so I still had a few moments. Returning to Monica, I cupped her breast and started to gently massage it. At first she stiffened, resisting my touch, but as her nipples hardened her body softened. I smiled -- Monica was one over-sexed bitch. If she hadn't been cheating on her husband she wouldn't even be here. Now, as the bound and gagged plaything of a masked intruder she was still responding to the slightest touch. What a slut. Just then, the sounds of searching downstairs stopped. It was time. Looking down at the naked woman, I cast a critical eye over her bonds. It was obvious she wasn't going anywhere. Slapping her ass and telling her to be good, I left her to squirm on the bed while I headed down to the kitchen. One of the problems we'd had planning this little operation had been what to do about Kitten. As the injured party, she wanted in on the kill but we were worried that knowing our group was two men and a woman would give our captives too much useful information to tell the police. At first, we had thought about pretending that Kitten was a man. She was strong enough and if she kept her mouth shut we thought we could get away with it. However, once we'd seen her in the burglar outfit we'd had to give up on that. She was simply too slight to be anything other than a girl. Fortunately, Kitten's access to the FBI's computers had given us an ingenious solution. It seemed there was a boy/girl team pulling strip and tape robberies up and down the west coast. Usually they worked alone but occasionally they hired in muscle, especially when they thought they might encounter resistance. Over the past week we had studied their MO, what they did, when and how. What they said, how they worked, the whole deal. Then we'd planned this little caper in their style. By the time we'd finished, anyone reading the case file for our little adventure would be convinced that the real dynamic duo had pulled the job. The only problem was that it seemed the woman had a little kink that she liked to indulge if she had time alone with a male victim. It was time to see just how crazy Kitten could be. I arrived in the kitchen to find my two partners emptying Robert's strongbox on the kitchen table. Bagging everything of value, they left the rest where it was. Robert looked on with hollow eyes -- the box had contained a lot of money, and when we took it we took his dreams as well. The guys were so intent that they didn't notice I was there at first. I gave a discreet cough. When Remus looked up, I said, "Curley I need your help upstairs. Larry, you can finish up down here, right?" Kitten nodded. "Sure, Moe." We made to leave, chatting about the fun we'd have with the woman upstairs. I looked for a reaction from Robert but he seemed stunned. I suppose I'd expected some muffled protest, an attempt to leap to her rescue, but he just sat impassively. That seemed to confirm his relationship with Monica. We left, but after a few seconds I sneaked back and watched from the darkened doorway as Kitten circled Cussack. Remus had tied him to a kitchen chair, taking special care to bind him with his legs wide open. As Kitten circled he tried to follow her with his eyes, twisting his neck around when she went behind him. There was a tangible feeling of fear in the room. It was obvious that being stripped and helpless had taken all of the fight out of him and now he was waiting, petrified, for her to make the next move. While she was behind him and he was most vulnerable she stopped and started to run her hands over his chest, then across to his muscular arms. On reflex he fought the bonds, muscles rippling but getting nowhere. There was no doubt that the man was strong, but right now he was so well tied he could hardly move. He was vulnerable, terribly vulnerable. She laughed -- it sounded crazy even to me, and at least I knew she was acting. She ran her hands over his impotent muscles again. "My, my what a big strong boy we have here.," she said mockingly. "What's the matter, big, strong boy? Feeling a little tied up at the moment?" Cussack glared. Kitten smiled and raised her gloved hand to his cheek. "What's the matter, big strong boy, ain't it the same fun when a girly has the upper hand?" she crooned. "I bet if you had me tied up like that, you'd do all sorts of things to my helpless body." There was an edge of madness in her voice that made my blood run cold. Cussack froze, realizing the horrible situation he was in. She reached down and grabbed his cock. At the first touch of the leather glove it started to harden despite his terror. Laughing, she encouraged it, working her hand up and down in long sensual strokes. Cussack groaned and his erection started to build. It soon became apparent that he was very well endowed. If his business folded he could always make a living in the porn industry. I started to see what Susan and Monica saw in him. Reaching up with her free hand, Kitten grabbed hold of his chin, forcing his head up so that he was looking straight at her. There was real fear in his wide eyes -- he'd probably never been this helpless in his life. Very slowly and deliberately, Kitten licked her lips with anticipation. "Would you touch me?" she whispered, while her hand kept up the steady strokes. "Would you, my big strong boy? Would you play with my poor helpless girly body like this?" He groaned, and I couldn't blame him. Kitten's hand jobs can be very stimulating and she was pulling out all the stops. Letting go of his erect cock, she reached up and wiped his precum on the side of his face. He moaned again. Grabbing the towel that covered his mouth, she pulled it down to his chin, leaving his taped lips clear. For a second she returned to his cock, keeping everything erect and hard. Then reaching up with both hands, she grabbed his head and kissed his gagged mouth above the thin band of cloth on the thick mask of tape. When her lips came away, a bright cherry imprint was left behind. "Would you rape me big bad boy? If I was helpless, would you force yourself into my tight, warm pussy and unload in me?" She grabbed his throbbing erection. "Mr. Happy likes that idea, doesn't he, big bad boy?" She smiled evilly. "You know, I think you would. . .and turnaround is such fair play." Smiling, she pulled a rubber out of her pocket. "Bet you thought a man couldn't be raped, didn't you, my big bad boy? Guess you were wrong." She gave a mad little laugh, then slipped the rubber onto his erect cock, rubbing it up and down a few times to make it really hard. She paused, then reached up and dropped her Lycra ski pants, revealing a tight pair of thin latex rubber panties underneath. She opened her legs wide, stretching the thin rubber membrane tightly over her shaved pussy. You could see everything, the hole, her pussy lips, even a small bulge where her nub was. A woman's pussy, in slick black rubber. The pants had been a compromise, however -- the robber we were aping did sometimes fuck her male victims and Kitten making an attempt on Robert would go a long way to establishing her MO. However, the problem was what to do with Kitten's distinctive Felix tattoo. We had considered covering it with body makeup but hadn't wanted to risk him rubbing away the makeup and seeing it. The panties would keep everything nicely covered and out of sight, as well as tickle Kitten's kinky side. She rolled her hips, as if to slide the panties down. Robert's eyes were bulging and a full eight inches of Mr. Happy was waving and twitching in the air. It was time for me to go on. I walked in. "Damn! Not a-fucking-gain!" I hissed. "You gonna rape the bastard, is that it? How many times do I have to tell you that it doesn't fucking work, you stupid bitch. He's a guy an' you can't rape a fucking guy! What's the fucking matter with you, ain't you worked it out yet? It ain't the same for a guy, they don't feel any of that shame shit, they like sex too much." Kitten glared at me--she was very convincing. "What the fuck am I to do then?" she spat, her voice full of a cold insane venom. "I have to make the bastards pay somehow!" "Oh, you want him to pay?" I laughed. "Why didn't you say so? I can show you how to make the fucker pay." I leaned out the kitchen door. "Hey Curley! Get the fuck in here." On cue, Remus shuffled through. "Yeah, Moe?" I nodded towards Robert. "Suck this poor bastard off for Larry, will you? I want you to show her how it's done." A strangled sound came from the chair. Yep, Bobbie boy quite liked the idea of a woman playing with him -- probably thought that a pretty robber forcing him to have sex with her was some kind of dirty fantasy. But having a guy suck him off? For an ex-jock like him, it was murder. He started making muffled screaming noises as Remus approached. I watched until the big man had knelt down, then grabbed Kitten by the arm and dragged her outside. As soon as we were out of sight, I hugged her. "Shit, that was amazing," I said in pure admiration. "Real Oscar material." She flashed me that cheeky Kitten smile. "Really? Was it really that good?" she asked coyly. I kissed her. "It was brilliant -- now it's time to prepare for the last act." Still smiling, we headed for the stairs. "So what's the story with this girl? She tries to rape helpless men?" I asked as we walked upstairs. "Yep -- the FBI behavioral sciences people believe that she was abused at some time, so she attempts to reproduce the crime, turning the tables on her attacker by using male robbery victims." "Wow," I said. "That is one seriously screwed up bitch." Kitten flashed me a dark look. "Err, sorry, I'm not quite so good at popping in and out of character as you are," I apologized. "Anyway, I think you convinced him you were a wacko. Do you think it will convince the Feds?" Kitten wrinkled her nose. "Oh yeah, the victims were so embarrassed they didn't want it publicized. It's one of those bits of info the FBI keeps to itself to eliminate copycats. Once they see this, we're cool." "Great. Ready for the main event?" Kitten nodded. We walked into the bedroom. Monica hadn't managed to get anywhere in the last few minutes. When she heard us enter she twisted around to face us. "Ummmm Ummm Heeee. Misssshh," she moaned from behind the gag. She was looking at Kitten, probably hoping to appeal to her woman to woman. If she thought she was going to get any sympathy, Kitten's next words killed that idea. "Cut the bitch's legs free," she spat, making it clear to Monica that she wasn't her favorite person. I'd made it clear to Kitten that she shouldn't say anything to Monica that would tell her what this really was about. After all, we still had unfinished business with the other two and little Monica would be free in a few hours. I could tell that Kitten was disappointed, but at least she would get the opportunity to make Monica suffer a little. I walked over to the bed and pulled out a flick knife. Monica's eyes widened and a small mewing sound managed to creep past her gag. However all I did was hold her steady while I cut the hog-tie and the little cuffs of tape that bound her legs together. In the meantime Kitten had reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a smaller bag. I could see her smiling though the mouth hole in her ski mask. It was party time. Smiling myself, I pulled Monica to her feet and pushed her in Kitten's direction. Kitten grabbed Monica's arm and started to drag the struggling woman towards the en suite bathroom. I think Monica thought that she was fighting on even terms -- on the surface, she was about the same size as Kitten and the girl wasn't armed. Old Monica probably thought that she could at least hold her own. She was wrong. It didn't take Kitten long to drag Monica the few feet to the bathroom door and push her inside. Monica, panting and umphing behind her gag, flashed me one last desperate look before the door closed. I went to work. We had two large coils of soft cotton clothesline to use up. I cut several long lengths, then started tying them to the underframe of the bed -- six at the bottom, two at the middle and three at the top. I had tied the ones at the bottom of the bed and was just starting on the middle set when the bathroom door opened and Kitten led Monica back into the room. All the fight was gone from the older woman -- she came as passively as a lamb, her tearstained face testament to whatever Kitten had done to her. Part of what had happened was obvious -- Monica's thick thatch of dark brown pubic hair had gone, and in its place was a bright pink, freshly shaved pussy. She noticed where I was looking and shivered, her face flushing red with humiliation. However, her pussy was not the only thing I noticed -- the woman's nipples were hard, *very* hard, standing out from her breasts like pencil erasers. Kitten had noticed, too. She reached over and gently rolled one between thumb and forefinger. Monica moaned, her whole body shivered and a strange look, part puzzlement, part arousal, flashed across her pretty face. I found suddenly that my cock was hard and pushing painfully against my pants. That aloofness or whatever it was that had made Monica appear less attractive was gone, and in its place was a strange submissive acceptance. It was an incredible turn on. Monica's eyes looked first towards the bed, then at my bulging crotch. The purpose of the ropes seemed obvious, though I don't think she realized how many sets there were. She trembled, sobbing a little, then sighed as if she'd accepted the part fate had written for her. She staggered slightly but didn't resist as Kitten led her towards the bed. Once there, she had her first surprise. Instead of forcing her onto the bed, Kitten made her kneel in front of it with her back to the frame. Moving forward, I used three of the ropes to temporarily tie her bound wrists and each of her ankles to the bed. She looked up confused -- instead of being tied lying down to the bed, she had been bound kneeling in front of it with her back pressed against the foot of the frame. Smiling at Kitten, I tossed her a short length of cord. First Kitten wrapped the cord around the woman's neck, then reaching down she removed the scarf that was gagging her and pulled the packing free. "P..please--" Monica started to beg, looking up at Kitten with needful eyes. "Shush," Kitten said. "That isn't why I took the gag off." For the second time that night, Kitten pulled her Lycra pants down and revealed the tight rubber panties. Tight and made from a very thin but strong rubber, the pants had a very special purpose. They were designed to provide a thin protective barrier, allowing a woman to receive oral sex without the risks inherent with direct contact. Now grabbing a large handful of Monica's shag haircut, Kitten forced the older woman's mouth onto her mound. Monica, at first confused, soon got the message when Kitten twisted the cord wrapped around the her neck. Slowly, she started to lap at Kitten's crotch through the tight rubber. Effective as the panties were, they dulled some of the sensation and it took a while for Kitten's moans to reach their usual pitch. By then I'd finished with the ropes and decided to help out. Walking up behind Kitten, I slid a hand under her top until I felt the warm silky smoothness of her rubber peep-hole bra. Her nipples were hard as bullets -- while one hand continued to play with her breasts, I used the other to rub her ass. I looked down on her masked face, noting the quivering of her lips and the look of lust in her eyes. Pulling her to me, I fixed my mouth on hers, my tongue matching the rhythm of my hand on her breast, which in turn matched her tiny pelvic thrusts. We continued like that for a few seconds, two tongues and a hand working in unison to pleasure my little partner/slave. Then with a tremble and a groan Kitten came, long and hard as always. For a second, her body sagged in my arms and she looked up at me with perfect love in her eyes. And any doubt I had about what we were doing disappeared in that moment. The moment Kitten had recovered, she was back to business. Pulling her pants up, she used the knotted scarf to cleave gag Monica, then smiled up at me. "If you can untie her legs, sweetheart, I'll fix her a glass of water." Nodding, I made a start. Monica seemed strangely submissive, almost as if she were enjoying herself. I admit to being puzzled, so after using some cord to hog-tie her ankles to her wrist again I headed to the bathroom. I found Kitten adding the contents of a small bottle to a glass of water. "You drugged her?" I asked. "When?" Kitten asked, looking confused. "When you were in here before?" Kitten chuckled. "Oh, no, silly. I just talked dirty to her and fingered her off." She grinned. "There's nothing like being forced to cum against your will to take the wind out of a bitch's sails. I told her what a whore she was to cum so easily, and for a girl at that! She had such a wonderful look of shame on her face. Didn't stop her from coming again, though. I told her that proved she was a slut, and then I shaved her pussy." She held the glass of "water" up to the light, admiring it. "That's all I did. She's such a slut, no chemical assistance was necessary," she concluded. I wasn't convinced. "What's that, then?" I demanded. She grinned wickedly. "Female sex hormone. We use genetically altered bacteria to make it in the lab. Add some to a slave's food and her little pussy starts to tingle. After a few minutes, she's so hot she'll fuck anything or anyone for as long as she can." I frowned. "I thought we agreed to minimal residual presence. What if they do a blood test?" She pouted. "Master Charlie, don't you trust me by now? In two hours it will be gone from her bloodstream." She shrugged. "And if they take a test before then, so what? They'll find abnormally high levels of a natural hormone. It isn't unusual for some elevation in hormone levels after a woman has sex." She flashed her evil smile. "And poor little Monica is going to have an awful lot of sex." ############################### Monica swallowed the water gratefully. I guess her mouth still tasted of rubber. Kitten then gagged her for the final time. Because we wanted them to be discovered much later, preferably by Susan Cussack, we did a better job with the gag this time -- on top of the knotted scarf we added another scarf and then a thick mask of white tape. As a finishing touch Kitten painted a pouty pair of fake lips on the tape with lip gloss. By the time she was finished Monica was squirming like she had ants in her pants. I looked up to find her watching me with a barely disguised look of lust in her eye. She stared down at my crotch, then thrust her own hips forward. "Ummpphhh?" she begged. Between Kitten and Monica, the room was full of the smell of hot pussy. I couldn't help but get hard. It hadn't escaped my notice that I was the only person in the room who hadn't gotten off tonight. Reaching into my pocket I found a rubber and drew it out. Monica actually nodded -- the little slut was so hot, she was almost begging. Just then Remus turned up with Cussack thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I groaned and put the rubber away -- back to business, dammit. Cussack didn't seem to have as much spunk as he had before. Certainly he'd stopped even attempting to struggle. For a second the two captives looked at each other. "Ummphhh!!!" Monica begged, wiggling her hips at him. After all, tied or not Robert was still a man and her needs were abnormally strong now. Robert ignored her, lost in his own misery. "My," Kitten said ingenuously, "you look thirsty. We'd better let him drink before we leave." There was something in her voice that made me suspicious. I looked up to find Monica trying unsuccessfully to hump one of the bedposts. Doc's little lab of sexual drugs probably had some male analog for what was currently making Monica try to fuck the furniture. I nodded and Kitten took off with a wicked grin on her face. Afterwards we replaced Robert's gag with a set of scarves and tape like the ones we had used on Monica. It was time for the end game. Robert gave us no trouble when we tied him spread eagle on the bed. In fact, his attention was completely consumed by his huge erection. Like I said, the man was astoundingly hung to begin with, and Kitten's little formula seemed to have magnified things. I started to worry that he might not have enough blood in his body to support such an erection. While Remus and I finished tying him down Kitten was working on the girl, tying her arms to her body and giving her a nice rope bra. When she was ready, Remus and I lifted Monica up and positioned her above Robert's huge cock. With Kitten holding the erection and providing guidance we lowered the girl, watching in fascination as her tight little pussy expanded to take the monster cock. Monica gave a muffled scream, then moaned and shivered as she sank onto Robert. For a second I worried that he might've hurt her, but within seconds she started humping the intruder with such enthusiasm that she almost fell off. A few well placed ropes fixed that -- two to bind her ankles and keep her legs apart, another two that came up to her narrow waist and tied like a belt around her middle. The lengths were carefully chosen so that she could move up and down but couldn't ease herself off his erection. Not that she was likely to do that -- Monica was humping like there was no tomorrow and her gagged moans and his groans filled the room, as did the heady aroma of her hot cunt. For a second we just watched as our two captives fucked each other. Then it was back to work. It took about an hour to clean everything up to our satisfaction. Among our haul was an expensive Nikon camera with half a roll of film still unused. While the others loaded up the car I went back and took some pictures. Monica froze with a look of horror on her face when the flash first went off. She shook her head and moaned, obviously trying to beg me not to take any pictures. But Robert was too lost in his own pleasure to even notice, and after a moment Monica started her humping motions again, moaning now in ecstacy. I moved in and snapped a close-up of her sweat-drenched face, her eyes rolled back in her head as she chased what looked like a monster orgasm. Yet more shots, this time capturing her tits as they bounced up and down. I moved on to Robert who realized what was going on for the first time. I think he suddenly understood the full horror of his possition. Those muscles of his came into action and the bed groaned under his onslaught. It got him nowhere but it pushed Monica into her first orgasm. This time she was too far gone to worry about photographs and I finished the film with shots of her squirming in ecstacy Then I took my leave, removing the notice from the front door as I went. It would have been fun to wait for Susan's homecoming and see her reaction, but we needed to get well clear before the police were called. As we drove away I looked over at Kitten, who was sitting deep in thought. "Satisfied?" I asked. "It's a start," she said. The next morning we discovered the outcome of our little adventure the suburban way. No hacking, no covert surveillance; we just sat back in bed, ate our breakfast and watched the drama unfold on TV. The nice thing about living in suburbia is that rather than going out and meeting the world in person you can stay at home and have it delivered to your door via cable. At first details had been sketchy -- "local businessman and female friend robbed and left bound and gagged in home" was how the local station reported it. A few details had emerged by the time we'd finished breakfast, but of course by then Kitten was horny. Smiling, she put the tray aside and opened her robe, revealing the tight little latex corset ensemble she'd slipped into last night. I kissed her long and deep, letting my tongue explore the familiar depths of her mouth. My hand drifted to her thigh, hers to my rapidly hardening cock. I ran my hands over her perfect, rubber-coated orbs, feeling her hard little nipples as they pushed against the thin latex. She moaned, then with a toss of her short blonde locks she went down on me, that wonderful mouth of hers taking my full length without gagging. Pulling back, she rolled her tongue around the head of my cock while one of her hands grabbed the base and started to move up and down the shaft. We rotated, my cock still in her mouth until my mouth was level with her pink shaved mound. Reaching down, I parted her delicate lips, letting my tongue circle her pussy once before I started to work on the nub. Then we traded, each licking a spot that roughly corresponded to the position of the other's tongue. I was close and Kitten in anticipation took my balls in her mouth, adding an exquisite sensation that wasn't adding to my arousal but was still extremely good. I had no way to match that directly, so instead I squeezed her ass, digging my nails into her flesh and moving down. I knew from previous experience that it was a sensation of pleasure and pain that left her gasping. We finished off in the "Monica position," me spread-eagled underneath while Kitten bobbed up and down on my cock, making enthusiastic fake gagged noises. She was wonderful, so tight, so incredibly skillful, and I lay there, too weak to move, just watching her tits as they bounced up and down and wondering if this had been Bobbie's view of Monica. At some stage I'd started thinking of him as "Bobbie" -- Robert seemed such a dignified name, and the way we'd left Bobbie was far from dignified. Needless to say, I stopped thinking soon after that, and came so hard I almost lost consciousness. It took us a while to recover. Mid-morning I mowed the lawn and Kitten baked. It was so suburban you could almost hear the music to "The Brady Bunch" playing in the background. At some stage I paused to empty the grasscatcher and heard the phone ring in the house. I grinned. The next time I stopped the mower the phone was ringing again. The local grapevine had started work. By lunchtime the TV had a few more facts. The female friend had been identified as "Monica Stevens, wife of mayoral candidate Frank Stevens." That afternoon I developed the film from the Nikon in the lab we'd built in the basement. The pictures of Monica and Bobbie were outstanding. I could see his muscles straining against the ropes, as well as the look of panic that told me he'd finally realized that if he didn't get free his wife would find them like this. By that point, Monica was too far gone to worry about a little thing like Susan Cussack. In the close-up of her gagged face you can see the unmistakable look of animal lust, empty of any thought but the need to fuck. The little pouty lips Kitten had painted on the tape gag made the woman look like she was compos mentis, but a close look at the eyes showed no one home. She had been a smart successful business woman, now she was just a fucking robot --- fucking Robert.. By the end of the day the grapevine knew all there was to know -- who was with who, and why, and (more importantly) how the couple had been found. That evening, using the grapevine and hacked police reports, we started to piece together what had happened after we left -- it seemed that Susan had come home tired from her long flight. Entering the house, she found the place trashed. Calling for Robert, she'd received no reply and fearing the worse used her cellphone to dial 911. It had taken her five minutes to build up enough courage to check upstairs and discover the couple. According to the town grapevine, the bound pair had turned to face her when she walked in and umpphed at her to untie them. Then, before the startled woman could move, Monica had started to ride Bobbie's cock again, right there in front of Susan. We don't know exactly what happened next. We know that Susan didn't free them immediately, leaving everything as it was until the police arrived. When asked why she claimed that she hadn't wanted to disturb any evidence. However, Monica's medical report told a different story. It mentioned a number of "welts and contusions, inflicted by the perpetrators in the course of the robbery." Which may be what Monica told the cops, but she was clean when we left her. I suspect that Susan took her revenge then and there, using some of the spare cord we'd left behind. The police turned up later, and for some reason they started taking photographs straight away, even before the pair were freed. Finally, the copulating couple were cut loose by a sympathetic cop, more photos taken, and they gave preliminary statements. Shortly afterwards Susan threw Robert out. It was his own stupid fault. After all, he did tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth, including every sordid detail about his relationship with Monica, while Susan was standing in the doorway. Stupid bastard. I mean, what was he thinking? There he was, bound to a bed with nothing to do but enjoy Monica's pussy and watch her tits bounce up and down. You would think that he'd use the time to start working on his alibi. There were any number of good reasons for Monica to visit and once the intruders broke in the couple were at their mercy. If it had been me, I'd have come up with a story so plausible and so heroic that Susan would have been in tears offering to do anything to make it better. As it was, he told the truth and his marriage ended ten seconds latter. Next morning the local papers were full of it, they even got some national coverage. Needless to say, it was a blow to Frank's mayoral ambitions. For the first few days he tried to bluff things out, putting various stories about while some of the facts where unclear. He hinted that his wife had been brutally gang-raped before being tied to Bobbie, talked of trauma, suggesting dark conspiracies, but eventually Robert's statement was leaked and the truth came out. Frank filed for a divorce, just like that -- he'd been running on a Christian morals platform and Monica had become too much of an embarrassment. Ain't that something? If things had been reversed and he'd been caught with his pants wrapped around his ankles and an intern wrapped around his cock, you can bet he'd expect her to stand by him. As it was, he dropped her like a hot potato, filing for divorce on the grounds of infidelity and looking for custody of the kids since Monica's "low moral standards made her unfit to raise our children." Yep, old Frank was definitely a politician -- a born bastard. Of course, none of this did him any good. Rumors started immediately that the marriage had been nothing more than a political alliance and an open relationship on both sides. As she was fighting for her kids, many expected Monica to start throwing dirt back, and she didn't disappoint. Even in the first few days several local women had been approached by her legal team to testify about Frank's previous adventures, and the locals were settling back to watch the show. It's ironic, but we created more of a scandal and political capital with a couple of hundred feet of clothes line and a roll of duct tape than Ken Starr managed with forty million dollars. I think Frank's party could see the writing on the wall and knew that they had damaged goods. They started to distance themselves almost immediately, and while it was too late to field another candidate I heard that they'd started canvassing some of the independents, looking for someone who would agree to back their program in exchange for some support. Frank lost. . .badly. Then, just when the scandal started to cool off and we could start thinking of phase two, the "National Enquirer" somehow got a copy of "the Monica photographs." Not mine -- the cops'. To say they were a sensation is an understatement -- in a couple of hours, scans of the pics were the hottest thing on the Internet. Monica found herself being hassled by more cameramen than the other Monica, and we sat back in horror as the quiet little town filled with press and camera crews. So much for a low profile operation -- it took weeks for everything to cool down. Just to add a little more pressure, Doc was finally starting to getting impatient, and the plans we'd so carefully worked out for the other two started coming apart at the seams. I suppose it was understandable -- after all, usually when we hit somewhere we move on straight away and the repercussions of our actions don't affect us. This time, however, it did. The first thing that happened was that Monica's partners in the real estate business started trying to ease her out. It seems that when the original partners first bought the franchise they let Monica come in as a full partner for some nominal amount. Back then, I suppose that having Councilman Stevens' wife as part of your business had a certain kudos. Now, of course, things were different. There was talk of them losing their franchise unless Monica left, and the other partners scrambled to find the money to buy her out. Monica, seeing the business as her only source of income, fought back. Stuck with either buying her out or forcing her out, the partners cut back -- associates that had generated the least income were let go, and existing staff were forced to double up. In other words, Candy was out of a job and Penny's position seemed in jeopardy. Then, just when things seemed like they couldn't get any worse, Doc called. We had to start sending some product back to him or return to Boston. Oh, he was nice about it, very nice for him. We had a week.
Trick or Treat - The "Doc's Orders" Halloween Special By Quin ================================================== Treat: Desperately Stealing Susan ======================== "Can we sit here?" Kitten asked the little redhead. Susan Munro (nee Cussack) looked up from her paper, flinching just a little. Her little table was the only one in the crowded coffee shop with any seats left, and we stood there with loaded trays and bags. We did our best to look innocuous -- I was dressed casually, and Kitten's tan sweater and jeans passed the housewife test. The woman relaxed a little, but just a little. "You're not reporters, are you?" she asked apprehensively. "I'm a building inspector," I said with a quick grin. "I write reports, if that counts?" She shook her head. "No, it doesn't," she said, allowing herself a small smile. "You can sit here if you like." We did, arranging our shopping bags near our feet. She returned to her paper and we went into some prearranged small talk, trivial married couple stuff guaranteed to make her phase us out. Once she was ignoring us, I took the time to look her over. Since we'd last seen her she'd cut her hair, replacing her long red tresses with a cute little bob cut. She seemed to have shrunk a little, too, and some of that power bitch self confidence seemed to be missing. I got the feeling she was trying to hide from the world, making herself look smaller and more mousy than she really was. Not that I could blame her -- the past few weeks hadn't been easy for her. Once the Monica photos hit the net, she'd been besieged by tabloid reporters as "the other woman." The fact that she was the wife and the injured party seemed to have been overlooked. It was Monica who had been the heroine for the tabloids, a middle-aged woman captured by criminals, bound and gagged and forced to make love to a captive stud. It was a story that hit their demographics dead center -- how many of their predominantly middle-class, middle-aged female audience didn't dream of that happening to them? Of being forced to fuck a younger man against their will, freeing them from the guilt of having an affair while giving them a well-hung stud to fuck? The tabloids had glorified Monica and when it had become clear that she and Bobbie had been having an affair for some time, they'd gone wild. I looked at Susan's face, noticing the weakness of the muscles and the rings around her eyes. I suppose it's one thing for your husband to have an affair with a younger woman, you can always argue to yourself that he's trying to fight against his own mortality or that she has her youth to offer him. When your husband cheats with an older woman, though, it's much harder to keep your self-esteem. I could tell she'd been hit hard. Her therapist's reports, copies of which had been obtained by a quick black bag job, showed that she was deeply unhappy, had low self-esteem and was borderline suicidal. In other words, she was perfect for us. We needed quick product, something to send back to Doc to keep him happy until we finished in Golden Peak. Going to L.A. and grabbing ourselves a couple of waitresses or some streetwalkers off the strip had at first seemed the best way to go. The real problem had been storage until we could ship them back east -- Doc's construction people still hadn't finished work on our L.A. facilities, something Doc would know. We realized that this was a sort of test. If he demanded product and we provided it, even under these difficult circumstances, it proved that we considered what we were doing was important enough to take risks for. If, on the other hand, we couldn't or wouldn't work around the problems, then we would be better off at home. Once we realized this, the amount of product we sent was no longer important. Even one new recruit would show that we intended to see things through. Enter Mrs. Susan Cussack. We continued our smalltalk. All we were doing was getting her used to the idea that we were here and making sure she accepted us as typical middle-class suburbanites. In short, we wanted her to think we were harmless. I glanced across the road at the young black woman standing at the corner. Her name was Sasay and she was a new addition to our team. She was a slave we had sold to a brothel in Vegas last year; it hadn't been hard to borrow her back, since none of the cathouses we sell to are willing to risk pissing off the organization and losing their supply. Doc's girl's are just too profitable. At the moment, she was acting as a lookout for Remus who was busy putting the next part of our plan into operation. Beep Beep Beeep. Reaching down, I took the pager from my belt and looked at the number 3773, the prearranged code we'd agreed to indicate that Remus was finished. Inside, I relaxed. If Susan had tried to leave before he was ready, we would have had to try and delay her and there was the risk that she'd make a scene. I looked up from the pager to find two pairs of quizzical eyes looking at me. "Oh, honey -- not the office *again*?" Kitten said in an exasperated voice. "'Fraid so, angel," I said, starting to stand. "But it's supposed to be your day off," she moaned. I nodded grimly. "Something I'll remind them of when I call in. Order us both another coffee, sweetheart, and I'll get back as soon as I can." I gave her a little peck on the cheek and got up, heading towards an open area near the door. Once I was out of earshot, I dug my mobile out of my pocket and hit speed dial. Remus answered, "Yes?" "Are we ready?" "Ready." "Call back in five minutes. You two know where to make the pickup, right?" "Yes, sir." I smiled. "Good man." With that, the line went dead, but I continued talking anyway, putting one finger in my ear as if to block out the conversations around me. Over at the table Kitten was talking to Susan. I saw them shake hands, obviously introducing themselves. I couldn't help but smile. Susan didn't know it yet, but she would soon know Kitten far better than she'd ever imagined. ######################## I hung out near the door for a while, waiting for the five minutes to count down while I kept an eye on the table. The five minute mark arrived and suddenly, Susan stiffened and reached for her purse. She pulled out a small flip phone and answered it. Phase two had just begun. I waited a while, long enough for her to get into the conversation proper, then headed back to the table. "Darling" I said cheerfully, "you'll be pleased to know that Henderson now realizes that it's--" "Shush," Kitten said, pointing at Susan. The redhead had stuck her finger in her ear and flashed me an irritated look. "No, I do understand, officer," she said, listening intently. "Yes, I can see how that could be the case. . .I'm sure my hus-- um, *Robert* would be in a better position to tell you that. Well, if you really think so. . ." "What?" I mouthed at Kitten. She ignored me and watched Susan instead. "OK, I'll come now. . .no, you're right, I want this case solved, too. No, it isn't any trouble -- I'm off work at the moment anyway. . .yes, OK. . .straight away, then. . .bye." She closed the phone and put it back in her bag, her eyes faraway. "I'm sorry if I interrupted you," I apologized. "I didn't see the phone--" She snapped back to earth. "Forget it." "Good news?" Kitten asked. Susan gave her a cautious look. "That was the L.A. county sheriffs' office. Apparently they caught a guy with some jewelry I had stolen," she said, her voice sounding a little stronger than it had. "They want me to come over and identify it, see if I remember seeing the guy hanging around." "Jeez, that's awful. Were you burgled?" I asked, a worried look on my face. "I mean, we were told this was a safe town." "Is anywhere safe?" she asked, the corners of her mouth quirking in a bitter little smile. "Anyhow, I have to go. It's been nice meeting you, Katherine. Perhaps we'll bump into each other again?" I could see that Kitten was barely suppressing a smile. "Count on it." Susan got up and left -- we stayed behind, lounging in our chairs. There was no need to rush off, since Sasay had started following Susan the moment the woman left the coffee shop. I made a point of ordering another cup and chatting with the waitress, giving Susan a full five minutes' head start before we left. Out in the parking lot we headed for our car, a sensible suburban Toyota Camry. I hopped in the passenger side, letting Kitten do the driving, and took out the phone again as we pulled out of the parking lot. While I selected a number from the speed dial menu, Kitten headed south, then cut west, intent on hitting the right spot before our target did. After a few minutes the pager went off again, indicating that Susan had reached the waypoint. I checked our position and assured myself that we would make the target zone in the next two minutes. Then I hit the send button on the cellphone. The number I was calling was listed as a pager and a few seconds later I heard the beep for the message. I entered 246 and pressed #. The gadget at the other end of the line was built around a standard Motorola pager unit. We call it an Immobilizer; once spliced into a car's electrical system, it allows you to turn the vehicle on or off from a distance. With a longer range than a remote control and completely undetectable to someone who doesn't know what to look for, it makes a very useful gadget. A few miles ahead of us, Susan's blue Beemer ragtop died immediately. I could imagine Susan trying to use the car's momentum to get on the soft shoulder. It would take her a few seconds -- the car was heavy without the power steering. All the time we were closing. A minute later we saw it in the distance. The car had pulled off the road and Susan was standing outside looking at it, obviously disgusted. She reached into her bag and pulled out her cellphone. Unfortunately for her, this section of road was currently a cellphone black spot thanks to a gadget we'd placed beside the road earlier. I could see her trying to get a signal as we got closer. I slipped a surgical glove onto my left hand and nodded. Kitten started to slow the car as I rolled down the window. "Having trouble?" I asked innocently. Susan stiffened and looked up from the phone, then relaxed as she recognized us. She smirked, holding up her mobile. "Seems I'm having a bad day," she announced. "The car just packed up, and now I can't get a signal on the phone. Is your phone working?" I fished it out of my pocket and pretended to study the screen. "It says no signal," I said. "We must be in a black spot." "Just my luck. It's a good thing you came along," she said, glancing up and down the empty road. "I could have been stuck here for hours." She kicked the nearest tire on her car with a look of irritation on her face. "So much for fucking German reliability!" Realizing what she'd said, she glanced over at us and flashed an embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry. It's just that a lot of things have gone wrong recently and I'm under a lot of stress." "Hey, don't worry about it. I'd have done a lot more than just kick a tire," I said in a soothing voice. She smiled back in gratitude. It made her look cute. Red had once told me if a woman gives you a cute look, she wants something. Sure enough, she said, "I don't suppose you could give me a lift to the next town?" flashing the cute little girl smile again. "Sure," I said, "but are you sure that it's dead? Sometimes it's just a blocked fuel line." She frowned. "It died completely, even the lights. I'd have thought it was the electrics." Smart girl! We'd obviously made a good choice. Natural redheads are a law to themselves in this business -- unlike blondes who have to be young and hard bodied, a redhead keeps her value quite well. Doc would definitely be happy with Susan. "Still, do you mind if I try?" I asked, getting out of the Camry. She shrugged, and rolled her eyes a little. She was probably thinking that this was typical male bullshit and that I thought once the car knew there was a man in charge, it would mysteriously start working. Still, she needed the lift and didn't want to piss us off. She handed me the keys. "Why not?" I took the keys in my right hand, being careful to keep the gloved hand out of sight. "Why don't you two girls chat while I check it out?" I said, flashing her my best "male knows best" smile. Somehow she resisted the impulse to roll her eyes again, and wandered over towards the Camry. Entering the car quickly and using only my gloved left hand to touch anything, I fiddled around for a few minutes while the girls exchanged smalltalk. I'd left the Camry's passenger door open and it didn't take long for Kitten to talk Susan into sitting in the front seat. Once she was distracted, I made a simple substitution, dropping the BMW's real keys into the empty ashtray and replacing them with a similar set. Then I admitted defeat. I got out and pantomimed locking up, slipping the glove off my hand in the process. I turned to see them watching expectantly. "I guess you're right. Can't get a peep from it." I handed her the keys. "I think we'd better take you to a garage." She nodded absentmindedly, probably thinking that she could have told me that ten minutes ago. I watched as she took the keys and dropped them in her purse with the rest of her stuff, didn't even look at 'em. Then she started to rise. "Oh, don't worry," I said. "I'll ride in the back -- it makes it easier for you two to talk." "No, that's--" she started, but before she could argue I slipped into the back seat. She shrugged, swung her pretty little legs inside and closed the door. I was happy when we started moving. We had chosen a quiet road but that didn't stop someone from driving by at the wrong moment -- fortunately, no one had come this way in the few minutes we'd been there. I let them chat for a few minutes, allowing Susan to get off guard and relaxed. While she was distracted I got ready. Three minutes up the road came the turnoff we'd been looking for, some sort of farm track or logging road that led into a small stand of trees. When Kitten turned off the highway I saw Susan stiffen. Apparently she finally realized she was alone in a car with two people she didn't really know. Of course, by then it was too late. She managed to say, "What do--" before I discharged the stungun into her pretty side. She jerked once and it was all over. The gun was police strength, able to debilitate someone her size for a good ten minutes. Sitting back, I picked up the phone and hit the speed dial, this time sending the Immobilizer the code 396#. Once the message was confirmed I reached into the dufflebag hidden behind Kitten's seat and pulled out a pair of gloves. It took us a few minutes to reach the treeline, during which time Susan barely moved. There was no one around to see, but even if there were I doubt they would've noticed anything odd. As we reached the trees, however, Susan started groaning a little. It didn't worry me -- up ahead was a small Mazda sports car with Sasay standing close by. The moment Kitten stopped the car I was out. It was important that we took maximum advantage of the stun charge; the gun was so powerful that I didn't want to risk giving Susan another jolt. We dragged her out of the car and leaned her against the hood. Kitten appeared, pulling a pair of black leather gloves onto her lovely hands, the dufflebag slung over one shoulder. First, we gagged Susan. As far as we knew there was no one around, but why take chances? Reaching into the bag, I found what I wanted -- the gag was one of Doc's specials, very uncomfortable but also very effective. It consisted of a large sponge rubber mouthpiece that was attached to a leather pad, the rear surface of which was made from a 2 inch thickness of high density rubber foam, the same stuff they use to make rubber seals for lab equipment. A thick strap with a roller buckle held the gag in place and a smaller chin strap held the jaw closed around the ball. Susan managed to resist the ball a little, but the size of it was the biggest problem. It was designed to be bigger than the biggest mouth, yet when compressed it would fill even the smallest oral cavity. In Susan's case she had a small mouth so it took some effort to get the ball in place. The padded front works on a similar principle. I pulled the main strap extra hard, watching the padding compress and conform to the shape of the girl's lips. As the air was expelled the rubber sealed itself in place, stopping any sound from leaking out around the edges. I fastened the buckle tight, then threaded a padlock through it. Finally I did up the chin strap. Then we waited. It took her another five minutes or so to recover. "Ummmm." I nodded, satisfied. The gag was very effective, even compared to Doc's other gags -- the sound that emerged was actually made in her throat and was so weak you had to strain to hear. Her eyes bulged as she fought the gag reflex. Her hands clawed at the gag but when her hands touched the lock she knew it was over. "Ummpph?" she moaned. "Strip," I ordered, pointing at a plastic bag Sasay was holding open. "Put your clothes in here, underwear too." "Ummp--" she started, then realized it was pointless. She shook her head instead, her eyes full of anger and defiance. "Fine," I said, "Have it your way." I raised the stun gun. "Ummmm!!!" she shook her head, taking two steps back before she bumped into Kitten. She looked around and flashed Kitten a look of pure hate. My girl responded by grabbing the older woman's arms and holding them in a vise-like grip. I approached with the stun gun. Susan shook her head, eyes wild with fright. "I gave you a choice," I said. "You wanted to do it the hard way." Her eyes widened and she shivered. Then, silently, she nodded, looking down at the ground. "Want to play ball now?" I asked. She nodded again and Kitten let go. For a second I thought Susan would bolt, but I think she realized her situation was hopeless. Slowly she removed her clothes, starting with the jacket and skirt. Unlike Monica she didn't hesitate with the undies, taking them off quickly and placing them in the bag. She had a tiny triangle of auburn fur between her legs, the slightly paler skin indicating a liking for small thong bikinis. She made no attempt to shield herself, realizing that between the three of us we could take whatever we wanted. Soon she was naked and shivering. October isn't that warm, even in southern Cal. She was covered in goosebumps and her nipples had started to harden. Time to move on to the next stage. With Kitten holding her arms I buckled a wide padded posture collar around her pretty throat. It stopped her moving her head and further reduced her sounds. Once it was locked in place, I attached a short chain to act as a leash and dragged her back to the car. Seating her inside, I fished out her Filofax and opened it to a blank page, then took a piece of paper and a pen from my pocket and handed them to her. "Copy this exactly into the Filofax," I ordered. "Oh, and try to get it right the first time. Otherwise, we'll keep doing this as long as it takes. Fuck it up and it starts getting painful, understand?" She sighed, then nodded. She then glanced at the sheet of paper, and I could see her eyes widen. It was a suicide note. In simple but fairly hysterical language, it said that she couldn't take all of the press harassment and had decided to end it all. The note was in her usual style, copied in part from a previous note, a Xerox of which we'd been lucky to find in her therapist's files. She looked up and shook her head, eyes wild with fear. I let my face soften a little. "Don't worry," I told her, "we just want to make sure that the people looking for you look somewhere else." She shook her head again, obviously not convinced. "OK," I said. Reaching into the dufflebag I pulled out the spare Immobilizer. It's a little black box a few inches square with a keyswitch on one side and a ponytail of different colored wires coming from the other. Several of the wires have wicked looking crocodile clips on the ends. I paused a few seconds as if I was sorting out the right leads, then looked up to see Susan's wide terrified eyes. The thing looked terrifying and she didn't know what it was used for. I sighed. "I had hoped you'd be sensible and we wouldn't have to use this. It's called The Box. The Stazi -- the old East German secret police -- developed it in the eighties." I held up the first wire and opened the jaws of the clip. "This one goes on your right nipple," I dug out a second wire, "this one goes on your left." Taking the longest wire, I held in front of her wide eyes and opened the clip. "And this one goes on your little clit. The Box works by sending small, high intensity bursts of electricity into all those sensitive little places. The pulses are so short that the body doesn't have time to adapt and produce endorphins. As a result, the pain remains constant. It's a bloody terrible gadget. After a few minutes the nervous system is so traumatized that you lose bowel and bladder control and mess yourself. I've seen a man reduced to almost a vegetable in less than an hour. I figure four or five minutes while I have a smoke should do you." Putting the Immobilizer down, I pulled a pair of cuffs from the bag and went to grab her wrist. She shook her head wildly, grabbing the pen and writing. I managed to suppress a smile. Only a fool relies on physical torture, but how was she supposed to know that? It took two attempts to get the note just so, but in the end I was satisfied. I dragged her to her feet and made her turn her back to me. A couple of turns of duct tape around wrists and elbows held her for now, but that was only for convenience. Reaching into the dufflebag I pulled out a leather single sleeve and with Sasay's help I managed to get it up Susan's arms and attach it to a buckle at the back of the collar. Then we spent a few minutes methodically tightening all the straps until her arms were completely bound. Next up came a chastity belt arrangement that buckled around her pretty hips and held a thin dildo in her ass and a large vibrating dildo in her little cunt. She moaned and wiggled a little as we put it in, but she now knew the price of resistance. I caught her looking wide-eyed at the Immobilizer a few times -- I figured she wouldn't give us any more hassle. Once the belt was tight and locked firmly in place we fastened the bottom of the single glove to it using a strap. Her upper body was now almost completely immobilized and it was time to turn our attention to her legs. I sat her in the car again as I applied the leather leg binder and tightened the straps. She just sat shivering while we made her completely helpless. Next I opened her purse and removed her little pocketbook. Without a word I handed the billfold to Sasay. Then I reached over and undid the gag. She immediately started with, "Please, let me go! I--" I slapped her, not hard, just enough to get her attention. "No speaking unless it's to answer questions. We're not talking for your benefit. Understand?" She nodded. "OK. I want the PIN number for this card." I held up the first of her large collection of bank, credit and charge cards. She gave the number, glancing back and forth between us and the Immobilizer. We moved on to the next card, working our way through them all, sometimes going back to previous cards or asking for the numbers in a reverse order. She didn't attempt any deceit -- she couldn't afford to. I got the PIN for her cellphone and confirmed that it worked. Then we were almost ready. She blinked when I pulled the leather hood out of the bag. I don't think she even knew what it was for until I hooked it under her chin and started to roll it over her face. She struggled a little, especially when I forced the two little tubes up her nostrils. By then of course it was too late, she was too well bound and the collar held her head in place. Still, it was a struggle to get the mask tightly laced up. I stood back and looked at her critically. Her face was now completely covered with leather, with only her mouth and small rings around her eyes visible. "P...please take it off," she begged. I fixed that by putting the gag back in place and fastening it tight. Now only her eyes were visible and they widened in horror a few minutes later when Kitten reentered the clearing. The transformation was incredible. In the little red wig we'd prepared and wearing Susan's clothes, she could fool most people even close up. I managed to suppress my astonishment and sound casual. "Hi, Susan," I said. "You all set?" "I'm almost ready," Kitten said. The voice was close, real close -- a combination of a good memory and excellent pitch made Kitten an incredible mimic. I think most people would think it was Susan's voice, and it would certainly pass over the phone. I tested her, asking for dates, phone numbers, social security numbers PIN codes and account numbers. The answers were perfect, she even managed to affect the sound of polite boredom that Susan had used earlier. I looked over at Susan, seeing her wide green eyes peering out from behind the hood. Kitten made out that she had noticed the girl for the first time and strutted over in Susan's heels. "Who's this?" she purred in Susan's voice. "Oh, she's nobody Susan," I said, "just a slavegirl." Kitten gave Susan's pout. "She must be somebody," she said running her gloved hand over Susan's masked cheek. "No, she's no one," I said dismissively. "She has no name, no freedom, no identity, not even a face." A tear appeared in Susan's eye. Kitten flashed Susan a perfect imitation of the girl's own smile. "Hello, nobody," she said in Susan's voice. "I 'm Susan Munro, I was born on the twenty sixth of August 1971 in a small town called Fredricksville, Vermont. My father's name is Mark and my mother's name is Janet. They're divorced now. I was married to a guy called Robert for a while but it didn't work out." I grinned in appreciation. "Nice as this is, hon, I'm afraid we have business to attend to. I've got to put our little slave away and you have to go visit mommy." At the sound of her mother's name Susan's eyes widened again and a small sound emerged from behind the gag. Bending over, I slung the captive girl over my shoulder and carried her around to the trunk where Sasay was waiting. Then it happened. Just as we were about to put her inside, a phone started ringing. It took me a moment to realize that it was Susan's. I was tempted to leave it unanswered and dump the girl in the trunk, but Kitten signaled me to stop. I stood Susan on her feet and settled back to watch the fun. Kitten walked a few feet way so that she could lean on the Mazda's hood, then took out Susan's phone and answered it. "Hello? Oh, hello, Daddy," she said in Susan's voice. The real Susan's eyes widened and she made a little umpph noise. It didn't carry more than a few feet. Kitten smiled. "No, I'm actually feeling much better. Yes. . .no, I thought I'd visit Mommy. . .oh, Dad, you shouldn't say that! I would have thought you two could be civil by now. . .yes, I know I always say that, I do it because you always ignore me. . .yes, I do. . .no, that's fine. . .thanks for checking on me. . .no, I really do feel better. . .no, really." She gave me a huge wink. "OK. . .talk to you later. Bye." She closed the phone. "Sorry about that," she cooed. "It was my father -- he calls *all the time*." I covered Susan's despairing eyes with a leather blindfold and put her in the Camry's trunk. A quick strap linking the bottom of the leg binder to the belt hogtied her. She was so well wrapped up now, there was no way she could attract any attention. Satisfied, I bent down and turned her vibrator on low. After all, the girl needed some entertainment. Back at the main road we found Remus waiting with the Beemer. He'd been hiding in the bushes by the side of the road, waiting for us to leave with Susan. Afterwards he'd removed our cellular jammer and the Immobilizer and driven to join us. We did a quick reorganization -- the two slaves took the Mazda back to their motel, I drove the Camry back towards town, and Kitten turned the Beemer towards the coast and Highway One. Tomorrow, somewhere just outside of San Francisco, depression would overcome "Susan" and after torching her car she would jump to her death in the ocean. We had picked a point where we knew the current would take a body out to sea, so the absence of a corpse wouldn't seem suspicious. Once this was done, Kitten would fly back to LA where Sasay would pick her up. It was necessary for our operation but it still left me with no Kitten tonight. Still, I was sure that Susan would be able, if not exactly willing, to fill Kitten's shoes as Kitten was filling hers. ############################################# I returned to a typical suburban fall evening. Husbands painting decks before the winter, wives tending gardens, kids riding bikes or playing ball. What none of them knew was that I had a captive girl in my trunk. I liked that, it appealed to my sense of humor. Some guy waved as I drove by and asked how I was doing. I waved back and said fine. I had no idea who he was -- he and his wife had come over when we first moved in. She was a pretty little blonde who I found myself assessing as a recruit, and he was nothing special, just an office jock with one of those names like Brad or Greg that don't seem to mean anything. He went back to painting and I hit the button to open my garage door and drove inside. We had one of those big two-door garages that could take two cars and still have room for a workbench. At the moment we had a lot of space since we only had one car. The place had two windows, one over the workbench and one at the back. In anticipation of having "guests," we had blocked off the workbench window and covered the back window with frosted glass. Being the paranoid bastard that I am, I did a quick sweep of the house before getting the slave out of the car. Naturally, it was no big surprise to find that J. Edgar Hoover, Joe Friday and Lt. Columbo weren't waiting in ambush, but I disconnected the power to the garage door opener just in case before I opened the trunk. As I lifted the hatch, the smell of hot pussy that wafted out of the car was almost overpowering. Susan seemed to be a juicy little bitch. She gave a small moan and rocked her crotch in my direction, athough it was hard to tell if she was doing it as an invitation or because that was the only movement she could make. Freeing the hog-tie, I eased her out of the trunk, sitting her on the rear fender as I replaced the leg binder with a pair of padded cuffs and a 15-inch hobble chain. I slammed the trunk lid closed and we stood there in the silence. I say silence, but there was actually quite a lot of noise, lawn mowers, cars, kids whooping and screaming, all of it finding its way through the thin aluminum of the garage door. It was the sound of normality and the real world that was so different from the nightmare she was in. Just a few hours ago she had been a young, pretty (if somewhat troubled ) business woman in charge of her own destiny. Now she was standing bound gagged and naked in some guy's garage, her identity stolen, her fate in the hands of others. She screamed, or at least tried to, but the sound that came out was more like a sigh. I placed my hand on her naked breast. She stiffened and gave a grunt of protest. "They can't help you," I said, "they don't even know that you're here." I tapped the padded front of her gag. "And I don't think either of us will be telling them, do you?" She moaned in frustration. "You just left their world, sweet thing, and entered mine. You are nothing, just a thing to be used when and how I see fit. Eventually, you'll be sold. That's your life from now on. Susan Munro's life ends in suicide tomorrow, after which no one will be looking for her. Your life as a slave begins here with the understanding that I own your body and decide what happens to it." Some of the kids outside came closer to the garage door and she screamed again, still with no effect. Picking up the bag, I led her over to the workbench. Two lengths of rope were all it took to bind her legs open with her cunt near the edge. I opened the crotch section of the chastity belt and pulled the vibrator free. Up near her head was the blocked window through which the sounds of suburbia filtered. We were close enough to hear my neighbor talking with someone about the importance of hiring the right landscaper. Susan gave another muffled scream. Blindfolded, her hearing must have been quite acute, and rescue seemed so frustratingly close. Dropping my pants, I took my erection and, after giving it a couple of extra strokes to ensure that it was fully hard, rolled a rubber on to it. This would probably seem a little small to her after Bobbie, but it wasn't as if she had any choice. I parted her pussy lips and thrust in, receiving another muffled scream as reward. Bobbie or no Bobbie, she was still wonderfully tight, and even though her body went rigid her hungry cunt accepted me straight away, gripping my cock and squeezing it hard. I wanted to see her eyes. Reaching up, I removed the blindfold. She blinked and looked around as far as the collar allowed. I watched as her green eyes widened. She knew she was in a garage but the place seemed so ordinary that I think she was stunned. After all, she was dressed in a fetish bondage ensemble that seemed more in keeping with someone's private dungeon. To be tied to someone's garage workbench and fucked was probably not what she expected. I thrust in again, and her concentration turned to her pussy and my hands as they played with her naked breasts. The bitch was going to come, I'd decided that, even if I had to adjust my stroke and keep things up all night. I wanted her to come here and now as a helpless slave slut being raped in a guy's garage with rescue literally a few feet away. After a minute I felt her body respond despite herself, felt the heat rising. She had stopped her futile efforts to scream and was now making muffled grunting sounds as I thrust in. Her nipples were hard and as I pressed on I felt the shivers run through her body. I could tell she was fighting, trying to avoid the orgasm I was building for her. In the end, though, she had no choice about this or anything else. As she crested she abandoned any attempt at resistance, allowing the sensation to overcome her. There came a final muffled scream, and her eyes filled with tears as she climaxed. Afterwards I came myself, filling the rubber as she wriggled underneath me. I pulled out, but continued to play with her breasts and pussy lips as we listened to my neighbor who was still talking just twenty away. "What a great way to spend an autumn afternoon," I said, content. I looked into her green eyes, and thought I saw a look of acceptance, or maybe just resignation in them. Oh, she still didn't like it, but the thing that marks a realist is the ability to accept a bad situation and move on. And who knows, maybe on some deep, dark level in her soul, she even agreed with me. I liked to think so, anyway. "Congratulations, bitch," I whispered, almost tender. "You belong to me now."
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