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Message-ID: <31389asstr$994914605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: tmquin@NS_attglobal.net (Thomas M Quin)
Reply-To: tmquin@_NS_ibm.net
Subject: {ASSM} {ASS}Trick or Treat  -- Pt 2 (MFF/F, NC, bond, kidnap) 
Date: Thu, 12 Jul 2001 01:10:05 -0400
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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
*****************************************************************


 Trick or Treat - The "Doc's Orders" Halloween Special By Quin
==================================================


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.


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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