Message-ID: <30560asstr$991458602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
Return-Path: <tmquin@ns_attglobal.net>
From: tmquin@NS_attglobal.net (Thomas M Quin)
X-Original-Message-ID: <3b182d55.854137@news3.attglobal.net>
Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} Vanishing Point Part 2 (M/ff, B and D, Kidnap)
Date: Sat, 2 Jun 2001 01:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2001/30560>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: RuiJorge, gill-bates
*****************************************************************
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 authors 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 and timidt 2000
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.
Timid and Quin 2000
timidt@hotmail.com tmquin@attglobal.net
*****************************************************************
Vanishing Point : Part 2 (Ben)
========================
I sank the eight ball with a practiced precision. Ok, so maybe
it was a little flashy, but multiple cushion shots are still
legal even if Randy couldn't believe it. I watched as the big
man ran his fingers through his beard, obviously deep in
thought. That ball had put me two frames ahead and it hadn't
escaped Randy's attention that one more frame would win me the
game and the $700 on the table.
His friends had noticed, too -- after all, most of the money on
the table was theirs. The big, bald, dumb looking one -- the
guy I'd christened "Curly"-- seemed to be thinking and that was
always a bad sign.
Randy grunted and started to move the balls back onto the
table. As loser he got to break first so I leaned lazily on my
stick and took a long sip from my bottle of beer. He took his
time racking up, probably trying to get his act together. I
used the time to check out the rest of the bar.
My old buddy Turk was behind the bar as usual, serving drinks
and exchanging smalltalk with the locals. One thing you can say
for Turk, he may have been out of the service for a while but
he never lost his touch. He sensed I was looking at him and
cast a subtle glance in my direction. I gave him my "cocky kid"
smile. I think it makes me look a little like Tom Cruise. Turk
reckons it makes me look constipated.
Naturally, I prefer my interpretation.
It must have been market day -- the bar was wall to wall hicks,
and the muted murmur of conversation never got very far from
football, hunting or pesticide. I scanned my way through the
women. Most were junior redneck girlfriends, hanging on to the
arms of their men while checking out every other guy as a
possible trade up. Almost to a girl they dressed in "trailer
trash sexpot" -- short leather skirts or pants, tight jeans and
halter tops. They all looked like they had Daisy Duke as a
fashion guru.
There were exceptions, of course, like the two girls sat at the
corner table who I had marked down as slumming college kids.
They'd obviously tried to look like part of the trailer trash
elite, but the tasteful makeup and gleaming orthodontic work
screamed "Suburban Middle Class" to anyone whose family tree
branched. I gave the blonde, the one I'd nicknamed "Blousey,"
the once-over. She'd done her research -- she had her hair
swept back in the regulation ponytail, wore her plaid shirt
tied up to reveal her middle and of course covered her ass with
a short-short leather miniskirt. She almost blended in, or at
least did so well enough that the good ol' boys hadn't made her
as a stranger yet. Her little brunette friend had done a good
job too -- I glanced over the tight blue jeans tucked into the
top of a pair of brown knee-length medium heeled boots and the
plaid shirt that covered this one's belly. Yup, they had done
pretty good for city girls. I watched them as they checked out
the local talent.
The little brunette was nervous. I kind of liked that. I
decided to nickname her "Timid." She gave the guys at the bar a
quick glance, flushed with embarrassment, then covered her face
with her hand. Blousey on the other hand was looking each of
the guys over and making smartass comments, feeling safe in the
knowledge that the noise of the bar would hide them.
Eventually, their attention turned to me. I gave them my best
"Cruise" smile and waited. Timid flushed red and hid her face.
Blousey made a few comments then asked Timid how big she
thought my cock was.
I smiled at her, then measured out eight inches with my hands.
Blousey flushed, said "Oh, my God" to her friend and did a
reasonable "Timid" impression. I smiled. That would teach them
not to talk in front of someone who could lip read.
"Ok, ya up."
I blinked, jerked back to the task at hand. It had been Randy's
turn to break, and by rights he should have cleared the table.
I glanced down and saw that Randy had taken solids, somehow
managing to leave more than half of his balls on the green.
Schmuck. I examined the table and selected my first ball,
sinking it and screwing the white ball back on a perfect line
for my second ball.
I walked around the table. I had been planning to let Randy
pull back a frame just to keep the game running a little
longer. Now, however, I'd decided to change my game to one
involving the two little college girls. A plan was already
forming, one that would secure their services as bed warmers
tonight.
I reached the end of the table and turned.
"Hey, haven't I seen you before some place?"
I blinked and looked over at the table where Randy's buddies
were sitting. Curly, was leaning forward in his seat, looking
at me intently as if trying to remember. I ignored him but
inside I was smiling. Curly was late, in fact almost a whole
frame late. I had expected the sudden recollections to start
about the moment they'd realized I was going to beat Randy.
I took my shot, potted another ball and then shifted position
again. As I walked around the table I glanced at Randy's three
friends. For a group of guys with four hundred bucks on the
line they seemed awfully relaxed. Still, why should they worry?
They already knew they'd be leaving with the money irrespective
of who won.
Or so they thought.
I come to the Vanishing Point two or three times a year on
business. In addition, I occasionally visit Turk just to catch
up on things. In that time I'd seen the four stooges take down
quite a few hapless truckers and traveling salesmen. It was a
scam, a small time con, though the four of them seemed to view
it only as a harmless way to make a little extra beer money.
Randy, the local Pool Piranha, would challenge some luckless
stranger to a game. He would initially play badly, encouraging
the stranger to take them up on the suggestion of a small side
bet. Then, of course Randy would play a LOT better and the
money would be theirs. I have to admit that they were smart,
though. If the stranger proved to be too good, Curly would
start swearing that he'd seen him somewhere before. By the time
he won the last frame Curly would be certain that their mark
was "that pool hustler I saw out Ogden way." At which point all
four would all miraculously remember, call their poor victim a
dirty hustler and "confiscate" the money so that "thieves don't
prosper."
The poor stranger, far from home and surrounded by the
foursome's friends, usually just licked his wounds and left.
The fact that I'd seen this thing happen a good half dozen
times suggested that they pulled the con every few weeks.
Well, tonight they were in for a surprise.
I potted another ball. Then, as I walked around the table, I
gave Turk the high sign. I knew he would've seen it even in the
crowded bar. When your life depends completely on the rest of
your team, you keep a background check going on them even when
you're occupied.
"I'm sure I've seen you somewhere," Curly said.
"Sure you have," I said, smiling and adding a nod for good
measure.
"Huh?" Curly stammered. He wasn't smart, probably couldn't
think his way out of a paper bag. He had a script that he stuck
to slavishly but all of a sudden someone had decided to change
the play without telling him. For almost a minute he stood
there confused, with his mouth open and no idea what to do
next.
I decided to help him out. "You buy drinks at the bar right?" I
asked, smiling.
"Yeah?" Curly said, puzzled.
"Well then, you've probably looked at old Turk's trophy wall
while you were waiting?" I said, pointing to the wall next to
the bar where Turk kept the photos and memorabilia from fifteen
years of Navy service. "That's where you saw me, in one of the
pictures. Me and Turk were in the same outfit."
"Y. . .you were a Navy Seal?" Curly asked, flashing Randy a
worried look. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Randy checking
on his other two friends, "Larry" and "Moe." Moe's eyes were
wide. I sensed that he was the weak link here -- if he folded,
I figured the rest would follow.
"Sure was," I agreed. "Old Turk here was my Gunnery Sergeant."
I watched the four twitch as they suddenly realized that Turk
was standing behind them. Of course, they hadn't heard him
coming. Ol' Turk had lost none of his touch.
Turk smiled. "Yeah, and you were one awful Seal, Bennie," he
drawled. "How many Iraqis did you get that time?"
"Four," I said modestly, "with my bare hands."
Turk gave a disgusted snort. "See," he said to the nervous
little group, "fucking pathetic. A real deal Seal should have
handled odds of ten to one. They were only fucking towel heads,
for fuck sake."
"It wasn't my fault," I moaned. "We ran out of targets just as
I'd built up a really decent blood lust." By now Moe was
physically shaking, and Curly was starting to think that
four-to-one odds didn't seem so good any more. Of all of them I
think only Randy would have risked it, but Turk being there
changed the picture. Ol' Turk could have kicked all their asses
and still had time to serve customers.
"Where were we?" I asked.
"Forget it," Randy said grudgingly, "you're gonna beat me
anyway. Take it, money's yours."
"You sure?" I asked, mock surprised. "I mean, hey, at least
finish the game."
Randy scowled. "We gotta be somewhere else. Right?"
"Oh yeah!" Moe agreed, his neck bouncing like one of those
plastic dogs you see in the back window of a car. Pathetic.
"Great game, man, hell of a show."
"Well, if you're sure?" I said picking up the money.
Randy flashed me a dirty look. "Yeah, we're sure. Let's go."
With Randy leading, they hurried out. Turk watched them leave,
one side of his mouth twitching up in that half-assed grin I
knew so well. "Might keep 'um out of here for a while, anyway,"
he said as we headed to the bar.
"Why didn't you just kick them out?" I asked.
Turk shrugged. "To be honest, they aren't worth the hassle. Now
what can I get you?"
I glanced over at the table with the two little college girls.
Blousey was flashing me a come hither look. I figured if I
poured enough liquor into the two of them, I might just have a
double header on my hands. I was about to order three drinks
and go over and introduce myself when she staggered through the
doors.
Now, she was in trouble, any fool could see that. It was
written in the agonized look on her face, the way she clutched
her arms, hugging herself and shuddering. I watched,
momentarily forgetting about the college quim as she stumbled
towards the bar and ordered a drink. Yup, definitely trouble.
Not that trouble was much of a stranger to "The Vanishing
Point." I've known a lot of places where people say that if
you've come looking for trouble, you've come to the right
place. Well, the Vanishing Point was the only one that Trouble
had printed on his business cards as his home address.
So Miss T stood there, holding on to the edge of the bar as if
her life depended on it and shivering while Turk mixed her
drink. I didn't know what her story was, but anyone could see
she was a class act. Unlike our two college girls, though, she
hadn't attempted to hide it -- I did a fast surface check,
starting at the immaculately coifed honey brown hair, passing
over the Hermes scarf tied tightly at her throat and continuing
over her expensive navy blue suit to her stylish Gucci pumps. A
quick calculation brought the cost of the whole outfit to
nearly four thousand dollars, more than many of the locals
would spend on a truck.
She picked up her drink and headed to a table. I checked out
the regulars. Every eye in the place was on her. I doubted that
she could have attracted more attention if she'd come from
Mars.
That alone should have warned me off. I mean, the locals would
be talking about this for months, she was just too damned
visible. The smart move would have been to buy a couple of
drinks for my college girls and leave her to whatever shit she
was in.
Yeah, but by that stage I *had* to know her story.
.....................................................
"Hi," I said, "mind if I sit here?"
She blinked and looked puzzled for a moment, I don't think she
even noticed the drink I put down in front of her. For a second
there was a stunned silence while she tried to figure out what
to say.
At last she found her voice. "Of course. And how are you?" she
said with a small smile. It was an odd thing to say, like we
were old friends of some kind. Still, an invitation is an
invitation, so I smiled and sat down. She blinked again, and I
wondered if this was a good move after all. She had that look
about her, a look I'd seen hundreds of times during my stint as
a paramedic. It was the look that people got when their whole
world suddenly and unexpectedly collapsed. It was the look a
driver gave when he failed a breath test after a fatal
accident, the look in the eyes of a mother when you tell her
that her child was dead.
I looked deeper into her stunned eyes, the eyes surrounded by a
ring of smudged mascara where she had almost but not quite
cried, and saw the look of pain and betrayal.
And something just clicked. I knew I had to have her, despite
the risks, despite everything, because I knew somehow that
without my help, tonight was going to be her last.
She cleared her throat. "My name's Elizabeth. What's yours?"
Her voice had a sing-song quality, like that of a small child.
I smiled and humored her.
"Drink up first," I said. Like an automaton, she complied, the
drink obviously burning her throat from the way she grimaced
around the glass. I waited, but there was no other sign she was
coming out of it. She seemed trapped in some kind of nightmare
"Tea Party Barbie" mode.
She put the empty glass down and smiled inanely. "Do you come
here often?" she asked, her eyes showing no sign that she even
knew where she was. Instead of answering, I pushed my own drink
into her hand. She didn't drink this one, just held it in her
hand, smiling that pathetic smile while her eyes glazed like
marbles. I suppose I should have counted my blessings and led
her out of the bar while she was still a big dumb Barbie doll.
Hell, some guys use roofies to get precisely the effect I'd
been given for free. However, I needed to know.
I signaled Turk to bring two more drinks and settled back to
work out what to do next.
.....................................................
Turk frowned. "Shit, you really can find 'em Bennie," he
muttered as he leaned over to put our drinks on the table.
"What the fuck is wrong with her?"
"Shock," I said, looking at Elizabeth. "Watch." I moved my
finger across the field of view of her unblinking eyes. They
didn't even twitch.
"You think she's had an accident?" he asked, casting a worried
look at the door.
"Could be," I said. "One thing is clear, though. She's losing
what cognitive function she does have. Move next to her."
"Why?" he asked, puzzled.
"Because I'm about to hit her and I don't want any of your
customers to notice and charge over here like Prince Valiant."
Turk snorted. "You don't know my customers," he said, but all
the same he stepped into line, blocking the woman from the rest
of the room.
Leaning over the table, I slapped her, hard.
For a second nothing happened. I was almost ready to do it
again when she blinked. "I. . .I'm sorry," she stuttered, my
palmprint standing out on her cheek like a birthmark. "I need
to get out of here. I--" She tried to stand but I reached out
and grabbed her arm. Turk nodded and went back to the bar.
"What's wrong," I asked, squeezing her arm.
She shook her head. "No. . .nothing, really?" she said, framing
it like a question. Almost as if she wanted me to challenge
her.
I didn't disappoint. "Elizabeth, I saw the look on your face
when you came in here," I said, keeping my voice low and
soothing. "I was a paramedic for three years, I've seen a lot
of people who looked like that, and I can promise you that all
of them had something seriously wrong."
"I. . .I can't talk about it. I just can't," she said, close to
tears. She was lying of course -- the one thing she needed to
do more that anything was talk about it.
"I think you do," I said. "Look, I can see you're upset, but if
you need to talk I'm here. Whatever you say won't shock me, I
promise."
She gave me an almost pathetic look of gratitude and downed the
drink I'd put in her hand. Then she looked around the room at
the leering faces of the men and the curious, envious looks of
the women. While she was distracted, Turk arrived with another
set of refills. I don't think she even noticed, just turned,
picked up a random glass and tossed it back. At this rate, she
was going to pass out before anything else could happen to her.
"I really must be going," she said, veering into that surburban
hostess attitude again. She started to stand but her legs
wouldn't take the weight. With a surprised grunt, she collapsed
back into her chair.
"Wow," I said, "take it easy there!" For a second she just sat
there, confused. "Look," I added, trying to sound as friendly
as possible, "you would probably feel better if you talk about
it."
She stared at me, and a shiver ran through her. And then, as if
the shiver had unlocked something, she started telling the
story in a flat, emotionless way, almost like she was talking
about someone else. She explained in a breathless stream about
her career, her husband, the faithless sister. I think that
hurt her worst of all. If she had caught a friend with her
husband, even her best friend, it wouldn't have hurt so badly.
There was something else going on with her sister, some kind of
competitiveness that went way beyond sibling rivalry.
The sister's name was Ruth and she lived hand to mouth doing a
number of office temp and bar maid jobs. According to
Elizabeth, Ruth had no drive, no ambition and just drifted
through life. The most recent chance Ruth had had at full-time
employment had been courtesy of Elizabeth, at a job she'd made
for Ruth at Elizabeth's firm. Apparently, Ruth had been working
less than a month when she decided to chuck it in and go
backpacking in Nepal. Personally, I sided with Ruth on that
one, but of course I nodded and tutted at the required moments.
Elizabeth started to calm down as she talked, and settled down
to tell the rest of her story.
It was hard to see what Elizabeth disliked most about Ruth; the
fact that she didn't need the security of a job and the little
hubby at home, or that she had so much fun doing it. There was
certainly a quiet envy at times, maybe a wish to be as wild and
free from responsibility as her sister.
I was still thinking about that when she shifted tack.
"You never told me your name," she said, her voice suddenly
full of an unspoken interest. The hostess strikes again.
"Bernard Lemay," I said, offering my hand, "but my friends call
me Ben. I never cared much for Bernie."
"Elizabeth," she said taking my hand. I noticed the lack of a
surname but said nothing. She'd already said far more than
she'd intended, I let her keep the illusion of anonymity a
little longer.
"Yes," I said, "you told me earlier. So what do people call
you? Liz? Beth? Lisa?"
Boy, was that the wrong thing to say. "They call me Elizabeth,"
she said coldly. "I've never cared much for contractions."
I bit down on my original reply and shook her hand. "Pleased to
meet you again, Elizabeth," I said, smiling. All this pompous
"Elizabeth" shit had to go. She was a Liz, definitely a Liz. I
was going to change her name real soon, whether she liked it or
not.
She tilted her head and gave a thoughtful frown. "Bernard
Lemay. . .sounds very French."
"That's right," I said, "my family was originally French
Canadian, but my grandparents moved down to Maine during the
1930's."
"Maine? You're a long way from home, then."
I laughed, "The Navy was my home for many years, and after that
I was a paramedic for a while. These days I travel, buy and
sell, you know?"
Her eyebrows arched. "Really? What kind of things do you buy
and sell?"
I fought down a smile, "Things that are undervalued in one
place but have a higher value elsewhere," I answered vaguely.
"I pick them up, clean them up a little, make them look like
they're worth their true value, and then sell them to
discerning individuals who can appreciate their beauty."
She nodded as if understanding. "So you deal in antiques," she
said.
This time I had to laugh. "No, no," I said, "not really
antiques. I doubt my customers would want anything that old. If
you really need a word to describe them, then I prefer
'Desirables.' I deal in desirables, things whose value is
unseen by the people that have them at the moment."
She smiled and took another drink. "Desirables, I think I like
that!" she said. "Do you make much money from desirables?"
"Enough," I said, "but the real thrill for me is the hunt.
Spotting the under-appreciated, securing it, giving it a
makeover and then selling it to someone who will truly care for
it. You understand?"
Elizabeth nodded. "Must be fun being your own master, being
able to just drive away from your worries. I envy you."
I looked at her for a moment. In a sense she was telling the
truth, just as she had about her sister. Part of Elizabeth
wanted to be free of her responsibilities, to not have to worry
about taking decisions. However, that very idea also terrified
her -- the loss of control, the idea of spontaneity scaring
her, crippling her. She was a butterfly hiding in a chrysalis
because she feared the daylight.
And I knew at that moment that despite the risks I had to
rescue her.
I watched as she finished her fourth drink of the night. She
didn't realize it but on a prearranged signal Turk had switched
me to plain Diet Coke so by that stage she was far drunker that
I was. At that moment Turk appeared with yet another refill.
"Oh, no. . .I couldn't. I've had far too much already," she
said, slurring a bit.
I squeezed her hand, "One for the road, maybe?"
She gave me a drunken smile. "I'm was thinking of staying at
that motel down the road. Yes, I guess one last drink is okay.
. .but I need the ladies room?"
"Look, I was about to go to the little boy's room. I'll show
you where the ladies is, if you like. You can leave your jacket
and purse here -- Turk will watch them for us."
She managed to stand up this time, somewhat unsteadily, and I
led her towards the ladies. On route we almost bumped into
Blousey and Timid as they left. Blousey looked at me, then over
at the staggering Liz and sneered. Her look was plain enough --
_you chose *her* when you could have had me?_ She turned up her
little patrician nose and headed towards the doors. I
suppressed a smile and gave a nod of recognition to Blousey's
male escort. I hoped that she and Timid had come out tonight
looking for sex because one way or another they were going to
be getting a lot tonight, whether they liked it or not. Timid
gave me a little grin as she followed her friend. I couldn't
help but smile -- I had a feeling I'd be seeing the two of them
again.
After dropping Liz off at the ladies' head, I ducked into the
mens' and headed for a cubicle. Once the door was safely
latched, I opened my wallet and took out the two little foil
packets I had stored inside. Condoms, right? Well, they
certainly looked like condoms and how may guys have a couple of
rubbers in their wallet just in case they get lucky? I once got
arrested after a bar brawl and one of the cops actually played
with those packets while I sat there. It was probably the
longest thirty minutes of my life.
In fact, I had carefully opened the 2 condom packets, replaced
the rubbers and resealed them. Now, alone in the cubicle, I
opened them and took out the contents. The first packet held 2
medium length plastic cable ties which had been rolled into a
coil about one and a half inches wide and then sealed with wax.
The resulting circle was about as wide as a rolled up condom
and fitted easily in the packet.
The second packet held a longer plastic tie, probably three
feet long which had also been spun into a coil and covered with
wax. This was an elementary capture kit, easily concealed and
not as conspicuous as carrying handcuffs or tape around with
you.
Breaking off the wax, I put the ties in my pockets, did my
business and left, heading back to the table. Like most women,
it took Liz a little longer to finish. By the time she came
out, I could tell our fun and games were over. She had gone
into the head with a kind of quizzical look in her eye. I think
she was trying to decide if she wanted revenge on her husband
enough to sleep with me. It looked like she'd made her
decision, and that I wasn't getting lucky that night.
Or so *she* thought.
I smiled and drank up.
"M.....my car is outside..... the Merc..." She began.
I shook my head, "Neither of us are in a fit condition to drive
sweetheart. The motel's not that far away. Have you checked in
yet?"
She shook her head.
Better and better I thought, the less to tie her to the area
the better. Smiling I offered my arm, "I have a room there
myself. Allow me to escort you back."
**************************************************
To contact the Author Please remove the _NS_
from the return address.
************************************************
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+