Trick or Treat

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                                     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
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 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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