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Message-ID: <42174asstr$1051611003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Samarkand" <sam_arkand@hotmail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 28 Apr 2003 20:42:39 EDT
Subject: {ASSM} Private Dancer (M/f, nc, abduction)
Date: Tue, 29 Apr 2003 06:10:03 -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

   This is another from my hoard of previously-posted stories.  It's rather 
a long one, so be warned!

   A note about the inspirations for this story: the writer who inspired me
to write in the "abduction fantasy" genre was Tom Quinn.  Specifically, his
"Captured Caroline".  The obsessive attention to detail I'm prone to stems
directly from imitating his style, and a weakness for Tom Clancyesque
prose. This particular tale was an attempt to recapture the fascination of
"Caroline's" early chapters.

   ****

   Private Dancer by Samarkand



   A cheerful Mexican woman vacuums the carpet outside my cubicle.  Since I
often work late, I frequently have the chance to admire her busty figure.
The frumpy jacket and slacks worn by the building janitorial staff do
little to hide her voluptuous hourglass figure.  I mentally redress her in
a black leather corset, thigh-high stockings, and a huge red ballgag to
match her pouty lips.  I don't forget the leather straps, either.  Two at
elbows and wrists to thrust her impressive teats outward.  Two more at
ankle and knee to leave her teetering in her six-inch stiletto heels.  Oh,
yes--a studded chastity belt to keep in the massive rubber dildos torturing
her pussy and rectum.  A soundtrack of grunts and tearful squeals
accompanies the porno movie in my imagination.

   I turn back to the webpage displayed on my computer monitor.  The online
catalogue of SecurSafe offers everything an American needs for home
protection.  Actually, it's a store for wannabe Rambos.  I might use pepper
spray to subdue a mugger, but driving off a burglar with a blowgun is
pretty unlikely.  And why would a person interested in "defending his
castle" need with a voice disguiser or a replica of a Japanese katana? 
What interests me, though, are the stun guns.  SecurSafe offers a range of
devices capable of scrambling the human nervous system.  Much easier to get
than chloroform or ether.  I could order a stun gun, add in a pair of
leg-irons and hinged handcuffs, and have an instant rape kit Fed-Exed to me
by Monday.  I relish the fantasy of surprising my Latin beauty behind the
building and carrying her off into a life of sexual slavery.

   Not that I'd be stupid enough to try it.  That trick only works in the
stories I download off the Internet.  A chica like her would probably cream
my pasty Caucasian ass in about five seconds.  The prospect of spending
years in prison on sexual assault and kidnapping charges doesn't appeal to
me at all.  With my luck, I'd end up sharing a cell with a biker who has a
taste for fresh meat.  Shutting down my desktop, I wave goodbye to my
never-to-be slavegirl on the way to the elevators.  She favors me with a
pleasant smile before the doors close.  Hmmm--something promising there. 
Maybe I should surprise her with a bagel with cream cheese instead of a
kidnapping.  Practising my rusty Spanish over friendly conversation is a
better means of attracting female companionship.  At least my poor language
skills will cover up my tongue-tied way with the opposite sex

   It's the money that's inspired these perverted ideas..  In abduction
stories, the kidnapper is always winning the lottery like Mr.  Clegg in
_The Collector_.  The sudden windfall is put to use buying a secluded
country estate which the dastardly villain can stock with a harem of
kidnapped beauties.  In my case the wealth comes from my Internet trading
account.  I sock away my salary in mutual funds like any responsible
middle-class drone.  However, I've also played the markets since online
brokerages became popular.  I was a reasonably successful daytrader...until
last month.  Christ, who knew those three stocks would go through the roof?
My biotech pick announced an FDA-approved cure for colon cancer, the tech
company developed a revolutionary network switching program, and that
penny-stock mining concern discovered gold in Borneo.  Those shares of
mine--along with others in their respective fields--shot up higher than a
junkie in the Golden Triangle.  I can't believe I'm worth a half-million on
paper.

   I pause outside for a moment.  The stairs of the subway stop are visible
up the street; I usually catch a train back to my apartment on the north
side of the city.  Yet a certain recklessness possesses me.  Christ, I'm
wealthier than I've ever been.  Why should I plod back to my three and a
half like nothing's happened?  On impulse, I walk south towards the
red-light district.  The facades of the stores change from upscale chain
boutiques to barred windows surmounted by garish neon signs.  The clothing
displayed in the storefront are kinky leather and sexy lingerie. 
Shrinkwrapped magazines crowd the racks, airbrushed erotic displays peeking
out from behind the thin plastic.  One sex-shop proudly offers a marital
aid that makes my own average attributes seem lilliputan.

   Several hookers call out offers for a "party" as I pass by.  One look at
the gaunt faces under their make-up convinces me to refuse their offers. 
Catching AIDS--or a knife in the balls--during a quickie blowjob is more
adventure than I care for.  What draws me are the strip clubs lining the
street.  At each entrance is a man hawking the charms of his
establishment's dancers like a carnival barker roping in the rubes for the
freak show.  The sleazy charm of their pitches reminds me of the joints I
used to visit with my college buddies.  What the hell--I can certainly
afford one night of naughty fun.  Picking one at random, I climb up a
narrow set of stairs towards a burly thug sitting on a stool on the
landing. He relieves me of a seven-dollar cover charge before allowing me
inside.  The loud rock music blaring from the speaker system stuns me for a
second.  The dark interior of the club is filled with smoke, dim lights,
and the shadowy forms of the dancers.  Lust surges through me upon seeing
scantily-clad women writhing on stage or in the laps of the patrons.

   A waitress dressed in a white spandex top and leather jeans ambles over
once I find a table in the back.  She acknowledges my orders for a Michelob
with a grunt and a curt flip of her pony-tail.  The beer's warm in the
glass when it arrives.  Lounging back, I watch the dancers go through their
paces.  There isn't much technique in their moves.  This place is strictly
assembly-line titillation: bumping and grinding to a three song set while
stripping down to their g-strings.  Some of them are a little more
enthusiastic.  One statuesque redhead polishes the brass pole with her
crotch.  A petite Asian woman has the coquettish-schoolgirl act down pat.
For most of them, it's just coming attractions for the real action at the
table dances.

   After a while, the procession of silicone-enhanced beauty blurs so much
that I can't tell the difference between them.  Probably the second beer
I'm nursing helps dull my senses.  I've never held my alcohol very well. 
That's why, I think, I didn't notice her at first.  When I do pay
attention, though, it's as if a truckload of Viagra has been squirted into
my veins.  My jaw drops as I gaze upon the astounding beauty on stage.  Her
sheer white bodystocking outlines every curve of her lithe body.  I slowly
trace the toned lines of her shapely calves and thighs.  Impossibly long,
they rise up to her nicely flared hips and rock-solid ass encased in her
skintight garment.  I bet she could crack walnuts with those cheeks.  There
isn't a single excess ounce of body fat on her body.  Though not huge, her
breasts are ripe mounds that are in complete harmony with the proportions
of her form.

   It's her face that fascinates me.  She has those sweet features that
remind me of my old high-school girlfriend.  Her rosy lips smile enticingly
at the men leering at her from the darkness.  Her pert nose lends a girlish
air to her oval face.  Though I can't see them through the smoke, I bet her
eyes are a light brown that match the hair tumbling down to between her
shoulder blades.  The spotlight picks up hightlights of golden-blonde among
her lush mane.  She's the perfect girl next door every man dreams.  Her
innocence beauty is a striking contrast to the seamy atmosphere of the
club. Yet I percieve her discomfort even as she peels off her bodystocking.
She projects the wanton desire of the other dancers, but her expression is
a fragile mask.  I hate this, she seems to be thinking.  Why am I here? 
Why am I doing this in front of these men?

   I think that's the exact moment when I thought of making her my slave.

   ****

   The stun gun rests lightly in the palm of my hand.  Shaped like a pistol
grip, the device sports two metal prongs at one end.  A tiny arc of
lightning courses between the contacts when I trigger the test circuit. 
Amazing, the power of this little hunk of black plastic and circuitry can
deliver on a single nine-volt battery.  My dancer would barely feel the
electrodes prick the nape of her neck before 200,000 volts of phased
electric current rips through her nervous system.  She would stiffen in my
grasp, my hand clapped over her mouth, as her muscles are overstimulated by
the stun gun's blast.  Then she would fall to the grimy alley floor.  She
would be completely helpless while I stuff her hogtied form into the trunk
of my car.  She would recover just as the engine starts, but all too late
for it to matter.

   I've called in sick because I'm terrified of my evil desires.  It's been
a week since I visited the club, and the urge to enslave that beautiful
dancer has grown into an obsession.  At work, I can't concentrate because
of the vivid dreams plaguing my sleep.  She gyrates lavisciously within one
of those go-go dancer cages.  Her legs flex under the strain of the
six-inch heels padlocked to her ankles.  Hands chained behind her back, she
shakes her hips and ass and tits to satisfy my desires.  Yet what exites me
is the humiliated expression on her features.  She is disgusted by the
endless wanton acts I perform upon her, but she fears the lash of the whip
if she dares anger me.  It's like a brand of her utter submission burned
into her very soul.  God, I want her!

   All the old objections rise up in my mind.  I would get caught, losing
my career and my newfound wealth.  Yet my nightmare self whispers that I
could do it.  There was a recent expose on TV about the clubs of the red
light district.  Connected to organized crime, those joints are the lowest
rung on the local stripper circuit.  The owners use tricks and intimidation
to force the girls into indentured servitude.  My dancer would have to be
poor or desperate to work there.  There would be nothing unusual about such
a woman disappearing to escape such a life.  The club owner, in fact, would
have a vested interest in not contacting the police.  Who cares about some
bar slut vanishing, anyway?  Serial killers prey on hookers for years
without getting caught.  Certainly I'm smarter than some lunatic with a yen
for slicing and dicing.

   I'm forced to admit I relish the prospect of transforming her into my
fucktoy.  Shit, why the hell not?  I can finally act out my deepest fantasy
on a perfect victim.  Chances like this don't come along every day. 
Unfortunately, the risk of discovery is way too big.  I may be as bland as
Mr.  Clegg in _The Collector_, but that doesn't help me at all in stalking
her.  The street people in that area would spot a businessman who follows a
girl around.  Worse, the owners or their goons might notice me as well. 
The bouncers at the club looked like they ate redwoods and crapped
toothpicks.  A social visit from them would not be fun.  I also don't have
a place to keep her.  Creating a dungeon in a three room apartment is not a
simple matter.  Someone would hear a stray noise even if I kept her bound
and gagged in the closet all the time.

   Luckily, I'm not unprepared.

   I've written a few Damsel in Distress stories for the Internet. 
Research into the techniques a kidnapper might use lead me to the website
of Loompanics Unlimited.  A fringe publishing company, they publish books
useful for the average Joe who wants to run a guerrilla warfare campaign.
The small library I've ordered from their catalogue is on a shelf above my
computer desk.  Perusing the titles, I avoid the weapons manuals and
explosives treatises in favor of more useful works.  Okay, I have to stalk
her without exposing myself.  _Covert Surveillance_ should do nicely. 
_Secrets of Disguise_ will help me blend in with the street scene.  The
lockpicking books should help me if I have to break into an apartment or
hotel room.  Speaking of which, I really should find a suitable prison for
my slavegirl.  Mr.  Clegg's example suggests a rural property away from
prying eyes.  I put _How to Buy Land Cheap_ and a couple of books on hiding
things onto the growing pile of study material.

   I decide to approach the kidnapping like the projects I manage at work.
I split the job into a number of phase--Supplies, Preparation, Aquisition,
etc.  As I jot down notes, I discover I have a lot of work ahead of me. 
I'll have to quit my job--no way I can stalk my dancer on lunchbreaks and
weekends.  Perhaps I can plead depression and a need to evaluate my life.
My performance until lately has been pretty good; I might be able to wangle
a month's sabbatical if I grovel enough.  Trying out that independent
consultancy is an option.  The half-million does provide a decent security
blanket.  Most of it has been transfered into a safer portfolio--the
market's too volatile to risk gambling on those three stocks--with about a
hundred grand in liquid assets.  I could live quite comfortably on that
amount for a few years if I budget correctly.

   I beaver away at the problem.  Getting in shape is a must.  I couldn't
wrestle a housefly with the extra pounds on my waist.  Time to cut off the
donuts and junk food.  A search through the Yellow Pages offers several
martial arts studios who offer streetfighting classes.  I need to be able
to handle her if she resists.  I also decided a few books on basic
carpentry would be useful.  Contractors might get suspicious about requests
for soundproofed hidden rooms.  By midnight, I have a rough draft.  I grin
excitely as I review my analysis of the situation.  It will be difficult
and risky as all hell....and it just might work!  Within the two months
provided for in the plan I could have a personal sex-slave at my beck and
call.  I can do this.  No, I will do this.  Whatever the cost.

   I gaze out the window at the city skyline.  She is out there tonight. 
Dancing like a whore for the grubby bills forced into her garters by
drunken lechers.  Bitch.  You will dance only for me.  You should thank me
for taking you out of your pathetic, tawdry existence as my cunt.  Being
fucked silly by my cock is a mercy I grant you.  And you will thank me. 
I'll make sure that you learn that you are mine.  All mine.  Do you hear
me, my dancer?  Do you?

   She will.  Oh, yes, I vow she will.

   ****

   I am sweating my balls off in this costume.  The layers of shabby
clothing I bought from Goodwill seal in the warmth of the humid summer
night.  Unfortunately, real bums like the one I'm disguised as wear their
entire wardrobe at once because they can't stash their clothes anywhere
else.  I can't risk screwing up my camouflage.  Shuffling along, I
concentrate on maintaining the persona of your average homeless man
scavenging the streets.  I drift among the overflowing public garbage cans,
riffling through them for any cans I could redeem for their deposits.  City
services doesn't do much about the red-light district; the junk spilling
out of the cans is incredibly vile.  I'm really glad I chose those thick
leather gloves.

   The hookers and johns around me seem convinced.  They don't spare me a
second glance as I loiter about the area in front of my dancer's club. 
Setting down my plastic bags, I hunker down in front of an empty storefront
with a jug of cheap wine.  I take occasional sips of the paint-thinner
while I study the street.  The surveillance manual emphasized the
importance of recognizing patterns while on stakeouts.  Not just the
obvious things like a suspect's movements, but the subtler aspects of the
area being watched.  I note how many times a cop car rolls by, which
hookers tend to certain corners, the ebb and flow of traffic on the
sidewalks.  After a while I puzzle out certain rhythms in the street life
about me.  What I see doesn't encourage me at all.

   Too many witnesses.  I underestimated how busy this area is after dark.
We taxpaying citizens think the streets become an urban wasteland during
the night.  That may be true of the business district, but not of this part
of town.  Even at its most desolate, there's always a lone streetwalker or
bum who might notice a woman being dragged into a dark alley.  They
probably wouldn't care.  Unfortunately, a canvas by the police or the local
mob could turn up the fact that a van coasted out of that same alley a few
minutes later.  I have seen enough cop shows to realize that a criminal can
be tracked down by the slimmest of clues if an investigator is lucky.  It
would a mercy if that detective is a cop.  If it's a mobster, I'd be dead
by morning.  The Russians who have taken over the vice rackets in this city
are very nasty towards poachers.

   Huddled in the doorway, I pretend to sleep until the strip club finally
closes.  I nearly miss my dancer among the crowd spilling out onto the
pavement.  Her frayed denim shorts and white T-shirt are a far cry from her
sexy club outfit.  The clunky glasses perched on her nose throw me off. 
Yet she cannot hide her aura of vulnerabilty as she loiters by the club
entrance.  The other, more hardened women run the gauntlet of
propositioning johns without any reaction.  My dancer visibly flinches each
time someone leers at her.  I realize she is very young--perhaps eighteen
or nineteen--and very scared.  I wonder what her story is.  A sweet girl
from the sticks who turned the wrong way at the bus station?  A high-school
kid who found out that easy money isn't so easy?

   A burly man in his late thirties accosts my girl.  At six feet, he looms
over her by six inches.  Though he sports a prominent beer belly, the beefy
muscles on his arms mark him as a tough man in a fight A resigned
expression crosses her features when he roughly grabs her forearm.  She
meekly follows him as he drags her away.  I curse under my breath as I
shadow the pair.  Wonderful--she has a pimp I'll have to deal with.  My
worst suspicions are confirmed while I observe them heading east to a slum
area at the fringes of the red-light district.  Her minder does not release
her for a single second.  He is close everywhere they go: ordering at
McDonalds, buying a case of beer, having a whispered conversation with an
obvious drug dealer.  The one time she strays, he yanks her back by a hand
twined into her hair.  Even I wince at the viciousness in that gesture.

   They disappear into an alley behind a flophouse.  I hear angry shouting
from behind the dumpsters as I dart across the street.  I try not to be too
conspicuous when I poke my head around the corner.  The pimp has my dancer
pinned up against the brick wall with one ham-hand at her neck.  His free
hand paws through her purse until he comes up with a wad of bills.  He
grunts in satisfaction and stuffs them into a back pocket.  Tears stream
down my dancer's cheeks as her night's earnings disappear.  Slumping, she
wraps her arms about her knees as her pimp tosses her a bag of takeout. 
She eats her Big Mac in silence while her produces a weird glass pipe and a
lighter.  Something from a packet bought from the dealer is tipped into the
pipe.

   I rage silently when I recognize what the pimp is doing.  He's smoking
crack.  Fucking hell, it's a travesty!  My dancer should be serving at my
feet, not whoring herself for an addict's fix.  At least she refuses when
he offers the pipe to her.  Smart girl.  I'd have to cure her of such a
nasty habit the hard way if she were a crackhead.  The pimp doesn't like
that, though.  His eyes narrow meanly as he grabs her light-brown hair
again.  Her glasses go skittering off to land by my boot when he brutally
forces her on her knees.  She begs frantically for mercy while he peels her
shorts down her legs.  Ass raised high in the air, she squirms in his grasp
while he unzips the fly of his jeans.  I barely check hysterical laughter
when I catch the size of his unit.  I'm pretty much average in that
department, but this guys makes me look like Mount Everest.

   She winces, though, when he unceremoniously thrusts into her dry pussy.
Stupid asshole.  He doesn't even wear a condom.  He could be giving my
property AIDS or herpes.  My hand brushes the combat knife in it's wrist
sheath that I bought from a military surplus store.  I read those books on
knife fighting quite carefully.  So easy to sneak up behind him and plant a
few inches of Solingen steel into his heart.  But what would I do then?  I
have to watch while this fat thug plunders her sex instead of me.  My
dancers bears his attentions stoically; she stares blankly at the ground
while the rape continues.  After withdraws, she wipes herself off with a
handi-wipe from her purse while her pimp lights up another rock.  She
scrambles about for her glasses in the darkness

   What the hell.  The pig's back is turned.  I toss the glasses in her
direction.  Startled, she nonetheless catches them in mid-air.  She gasps
when she spots me after fumbling on her specs.  I tip my grimy ball cap in
a gentlemanly fashion before retreating.  My dancer scans about curiously
when she and her pimp finally leave the alley.  Her night vision must be
good, because she spots me in my hiding spot under a neighboring stoop. 
She actually smiles at me.  Not the "fuck-me-I'm-yours" smile of her club
act, either.  It's a grateful grin that transforms her wan demeanour into
the bright young girl she could have been.  I can't help a friendly wave in
return.  She is still smiling even after her keeper hauls her up the steps
into the flophouse.

   There's a curious heaviness in my chest as I scuttle away towards home.
Damn.  I have to work out more.  And why am I sweating so much?  I really
should have picked a lighter costume.

   ****

   "Forty-five a night," the desk clerk drawls, "five-buck key deposit. 
Bathroom's down the hall, payphones are in the lobby.  No drugs, no
tricks."

   "Put me down for two nights," I reply, handing over five twenties

   The balding man pushes the room key and change across the counter.  I
sigh when I see the "607" on the keychain.  There are ten floors to this
transient's hotel...and no elevators.  Hefting my dufflebag, I wait until
my dancer and her pimp head up the stairs before me.  The surveillance I've
done over the week has pinpointed the time they usually arrive at the
flophouse.  They don't take any notice of me while we climb the narrow
staircase.  No reason they should--my ratty clothes and stubble mark me as
just another drifter.  I pause on the fourth floor landing, pretending to
tie my shoe, to note where they live.  I also admire my dancer's buttcheeks
shifting under the seat of her denim shorts.  Thongs are definitely going
to be a major part of her wardrobe once she's in my clutches.

   The flophouse has seen better decades.  Cigarette burns and cracks mar
the puke-green linoleum in the hallway.  The decor of my room is equally
underwhelming--a creaky metal bed and a cheap dresser are the only
furniture.  What does impress me, though, is the steel frame around the
door.  The jamb overlaps the frame to prevent anyone from trying the
credit-card trick.  The lock is a decent pin-and-tumbler job.  A quick
check of the window finds it opens onto empty space over an alley.  No
convenient fire-escapes for a burglar to use; a code violation that the
owner likely pays off in fines or bribes.  Only one way in or out unless I
use a grappling hook.  Dammit.  Is nothing ever easy in this world?

   I have plenty of time to work out the details.  My dancer isn't leaving
for work until tomorrow morning.  Dumping out my stuff, I unzip the fanny
pack buried under my clothes.  Inside is a collection of tools that would
send me to jail if a cop ever patted me down.  Amazing how willing some
companies on the Net to sell lockpicks to anyone with a valid card number.
Reaching into my bag, I get out a number of different locks I purchased at
a hardware store.  A few were made by the same people who produced the lock
in the door.  I select a type that seems a close match and practise for the
next few hours.  It's not easy--reading those books from Loompanics didn't
ingrain the skills into my fingers.  My best time to rake open the lock is
a full minute, and this is a fairly simple design.  Futzing around for that
long is sure to get me caught.

   Yawning, I stuff the picks back into the fanny pack.  Plenty of time for
that tomorrow when I'm fresh.  The mattress offer scant comfort when I lie
back on the bed.  It's a stark contrast to my cozy apartment across the
city.  At least I have the option of going back to my VCR and TV and coffee
maker.  My dancer has nothing to look forward to after her shift at the
club except this dump.  She'll probably be crushed by the endless grind of
living hand-to-mouth.  Closing my eyes, I envision her huddled in her lumpy
bed.  No, that's not right.  Her pimp has hogtied her tightly on the floor.
Back arched, she struggles weakly against the nylon cord digging into the
flesh of her ankles and wrist.  A muffled whimper escapes through the
layers of duct tape slapped across her lips; the foul taste of his boxers
stuffed into her mouth is sour on her tongue.  She stares at the grimy
wallpaper, wondering if he'll whip her or fuck her or both in the morning.

   I wake up with an iron bar tenting my pants.  God, what a rush it'll be
to have her writhing at my feet.  I can hear her pathetic squeals through
her ballgag right now.  At least that fat fuck of a pimp has already
trained her as a slave.  All the resistance has been beaten out of her; the
cowed way she acts around him is proof of that.  Mind you, it's a pity I
haven't seen a trace of that happy young woman I saw for a brief moment
coming out of the alley.  That girl embodies the innocence that first
attracted me in the club.  That'll probably be gone for good once she
understands she's traded one cruel owner for another.  Great--that curious
weight in my chest has returned.  I really have to visit the Y more often.
Can't go all limp when the big moment arrives just because my dong has
clogged arteries.

   Later.  I've got a slave-girl to hunt for.  The flophouse is quiet when
I creep out of my room at midday.  Most of the inhabitants are either
hustling on the street or are spaced out on the illegal chemical of their
choice.  Still, there are enough people around to unnerve me.  Munching on
a bag of corn chips--so sue me, I have an oral fixation--I wait until my
dancer's floor is clear of any nosy guests before sidling up to her room. I
catch someone taking a shower in the bathroom at the opposite end of the
hall.  Better make this quick.  Pretending to jiggle with a key, I withdraw
my pick-gun from the holster clipped to my belt.  Pick-guns are noisier and
more obvious than regular picks.  However, they're the fastest means for
duffers like me to open locks.  I carefully insert the pick into the
keyway. My earlier experiments taught me there's a certain angle that works
best.

   I hear the shower go off.  Shit, shit shit...  Sweat beads on my
forehead while I pull the trigger.  The sharp snap of pins bouncing off the
spring-powered pick sounds like it could be heard on the street outside. 
Panicking, I jam my torsion wrench into place.  The plug rotates a little,
but jams after a quarter-turn.  Some of the pins aren't clear of the
shear-line.  I hyperventilate as I adjust the pick-gun slightly.  Squeeze,
click, turn.  The lock doesn't co-operate.  Behind me, the catch of the
bathroom door is unlatched.  Whisps of steam escape into the hallway.  One
last time: I aim the gun at a new angle.  Whatever deity governs abductors
must have heard my profanity-laden plea.  The lock turns smoothly with a
single twist of the wrench.  I dart inside just as the bather stumbles out
wiping his face on a towel.

   My dancer's room is a sty.  Her pimp isn't exactly enamored with
personal hygiene.  Gingerly, I tiptoe through the fast-food cartons and
mildewed clothing littering the floor.  I pray that it's only cockroaches
that I spot skittering under the dresser.  I snap on latex gloves from my
fanny pack as I unzip a large backpack stuffed between the bedframe and the
window.  Most of its contents inside seem to be the pimp's clothes.  He
apparently does his shopping at the Salvation Army.  Some of the clothes,
through, are my dancer's.  She has a small wardrobe--a few T-shirts and a
red miniskirt.  Probably a ploy by her "boyfriend" to maintain control of
her life.  Hello, what's this?  A shiver runs up my spine when I lift out a
box of ammunition from a side-pocket.  They're only .25 calibre...but that
means he has a pistol.  I think it's time I checked out "body armour" on
the search engines.  Just in case.

   Perched atop a sleeping bag is a knapsack.  It's one of those
teddy-bears you see grade-schoolers carrying around.  I methodically lay
out the contents on the stained mattress.  There's a bundle of postcards
wrapped in rubber bands.  They appear to be the kind you pick up at
souvenir shops or truck stops.  Cincinnati, Chicago, Miami, New York, even
San Francisco.  My girl's been around.  No writing on them--they seem to be
momentos more than anything else.  Some cheap jewelry is stuffed into a
cardboard box.  Charm bracelets and rings that would make your finger turn
green.  Her pimp let her keep them, I assume, because they're too worthless
to hawk at a pawnshop.  I find a Valentine's heart carefully sealed in a
rigid envelope.  Childish writing pledges eternal fourth grade love to
"Abigail".  Cute.  I might even use it as her slave name.  It could be
engraved on a dog tag for her collar.

   At the very bottom, there's a Polaroid in a plastic frame.  In the
picture, a young girl no more than twelve years old hugs a calico cat in
her arms.  She's a coltish, gawky kid dressed in a worn dress.  The
clapboard in the backdrop has peeling paint.  Yet I know it is my dancer.
That bright smile I saw so briefly is in full flower.  She doesn't know, I
realize, what's going to happen.  The pain, the humiliation, the
disappointment that's in her future is nowhere to be seen.  There's only
the pure joy of the young.  I ponder anew her paltry collection.  It's
fucking pathetic.  This is her entire life?  It doesn't even fill up this
little knapsack.  Suddenly, the hotel room is far too claustrophobic for my
linking.  The walls close in on me like a vice.  Shit, I can't breathe!  I
have to leave before I lose my mind.

   I don't know why I took her knapsack with me.  It's an obvious clue
someone was in the room.  I don't know why I hurriedly pack and run toward
the subway station for home.  And I don't know why I cry, hunched over that
picture, the entire way back.

   ****

   The gun is aimed directly at my heart.  I twist about to present the
smallest possible target to my attacker.  Grabbing his wrist, I pull it
across my chest until the muzzle is by my left shoulders.  He dances about
trying to free his gun-hand.  I launch a right jab into his face that
knocks him off balance; my elbow to the temple quickly follows.  Using the
momentum of my swing, I whirl about to rip away the gun from his weakened
grasp.  He can't keep hold of his weapon when I force the barrel out and
away from his hand.  I roughly push him to the floor and retreat a few feet
away.  Before he can recover, I have the gun leveled at him in a two-handed
grip.

   The instructor calls time.  My sparring partner grins encouragingly when
I return the fake pistol to him.  Signaling for a water break, I go over to
my duffel bag deposited in a corner of the gym.  I watch the rest of the
students in the Krav Maga class running through various practise drills
while I sip some Evian.  Their movements are quick, explosive, and simple.
An Israeli unarmed combat system, Krav Maga is less complex than the formal
martial arts schools of the East.  The style relies on improvisation using
a few basic maneuvers.  Disdaining elaborate katas, training is done by
mock attacks that simulate actual streetfighting conditions.  The approach
is quite effective.  I once abandoned a karate class because I was worried
about getting punched or executing a move badly.  The speed of the Krav
Maga practice drills removes all instincts save sheer survival.

   I rejoin the sparring.  Three weeks of daily attendance have ingrained
the attack forms into my reflexes.  Kicks, punches, joint locks and blocks
come naturally to me.  I don't have to dwell on the fact that my dancer
might be on the receiving end.  Right now it's only a former Israeli
paratrooper I knee-strike, rather than a young woman who will crumple in
pain from the impact.  The image of her agonized cries cannot distract me
in the heat of battle.  Neither does the prospect of blinding her pimp with
an eye-gouge before slitting his throat.  After class, I work out on the
Nautilus machines in the weight room.  The exercise has really firmed up my
muscles.  I'm fitter than I've been since college.  Most of the extra
pounds I've carried have melted away.  Actually, my poor appetite of late
is also responsible for my newfound slimness.  Oh well--what's a few missed
meals?

   The van parked in the gym lot appears ordinary.  The paint job's faded
somewhat--I bought it used--but there's no defects to attract a cop's
attention.  However, I've had it altered by several different body shops to
suit my special needs.  The windows are tinted to the legal limit. 
Heavy-duty shocks insure even the most violent of movements within cannot
rock the chassis.  Within the cargo compartment, thick soundproofing mat
plastered on every surface mutes any loud noise.  The black foam also makes
a fairly comfy mattress.  Wouldn't want to bruise my slavegirl en-route. 
I've accessorized accordingly: hidden within easy reach are an array of
cuffs, tape, gags, and sundry bondage items.  Stout chains dipped in black
liquid latex to cut down on the jingling can be clipped to tie-down cleats
on the floor.  I've even got a bottle of Rohypnol tablets.  Unfortunately,
they're the new ones put out by Hoffman-Laroche that leave a blue tint if
dissolved in liquid.  At least I can use them to sedate her during the trip
to my lair.

   I think it's time to cruise my hunting grounds.  Slipping on my Raybans,
I drive towards the red-light district.  Nobody notices me as I drive along
the streets; my van is similar to the ones used by second-string courier
companies.  I take special care to explore the alleys.  I've checked out
plenty of them on foot, but I want to be sure I can navigate through them
with a vehicle this size.  It's not easy going due to the trash cans and
garbage bags.  Better schedule the abduction for after garbage collection.
I do spot a few loading docks and spaces between Dumpsters I can hide the
van.  I consider waiting in the alley where her pimp habitually lights up.
I have some books on improvised silencers in my library.  Hmmm--I could buy
a used semiautomatic .22 rifle out of the classified ads.  Pick up some
subsonics from a gun show to reduce the paper trail, hook up a silencer,
then plug the asshole from behind while he's preoccupied.  It's a
possibility...

   I'm so busy dwelling on the merits of laser sights that I nearly miss
her.  The road I've turned on to is Hooker City.  My dancer is standing on
the corner smack dab in the middle of the strip.  Stunned, I stall the
engine as I watch her fidget nervously under the streetlight.  Sporting
whorish makeup, she's tricked out in a skimpy red leather minidress that
showcases her spectacular legs.  Knee-high boots with very high heels arch
her dainty feet.  Her tight bustier is cut low to reveal the upswell of her
firm breasts.  I go insane with jealousy with each car that slows down by
her.  Yet I don't have any reason to worry.  As each john leans out of his
car, she slinks away before he can ask her for the price of her services.
There are a pair of compact binoculars in my glove compartment.  Focusing,
I discover her mascara has run from the tears glistening in her eyes.  She
looked scared waiting outside the club.  Here, she is downright terrified.

   I shouldn't.  Too many witnesses, I'm not ready-- But without thinking
I've parked the van a few feet away.

   "Hey babe," I say, "how about a party?"

   "Uh," she stammers.  It's intoxicating hearing her speak for the first
time.  She has a really nice voice.  There's a little tinge of a Southern
accent, like honey in bourbon.  "I, uh--"

   "Come on, I can pay." I offer a fifty dollar bill.  "And I have a pretty
nice set of wheels.  Why don't we go somewhere for a little company?"

   "Sorry, um, you're wrong," she babbles.  "I have to go--"

   "Look, kid." Swiftly, I flash a fake police-badge I ordered from
SafeSecur.  I flip it too quick for her to see it's not city issue.  "I'm
Vice.  So you either treat me real nice or do thirty for solicitation. 
Your choice, bitch."

   My dancer shudders when I raise my sweatshirt to reveal a revolver in a
belly holster.  Fake, of course.  Just a replica to use as a threat without
the risk of getting shot if it's taken away.  Trembling, she doesn't resist
when I apply a come-along hold to her left arm.  The other hookers
studiously ignore us as I guide my dancer through the rear doors of my van.
Before she can react, I snatch a pair of hinged handcuffs from their hiding
place and ratchet them closed onto her wrists.  She doesn't have time to
scream before I slam the doors shut.  Heart pounding, I dash into the
driver's seat.  I barely stop myself from burning rubber.  No need to
worry, though.  Hands manacled behind her, she lies curled in a ball while
I drive into a desolate industrial zone southeast of the red-light
district. I park behind an abandoned factory I scouted out earlier.

   This is idiotic.  I've ruined a month of careful planning by abducting
her in front of dozens of witnesses.  Yet the sheer power of holding this
young woman captive is overwhelming.  My dancer yelps when I leap atop her
bound form.  Her delicious body surges beneath me as I divide her thighs
with my knees.  Bawling, she kicks her feet wildly in a desperate effort to
escape.  Damn it--those heels of hers will scar the acoustic mat.  That
stuff is expensive.  I seize her ankles in an iron grip and bend her legs
until her toes are level with her shoulders.  I get a grand view of her
quim when her skirt rucks up.  Lord almighty, the slut hasn't worn any
panties.  Spreading her legs, I gaze hungrily upon the lips of the sex. 
Her mons is devoid of hair, a common practise among strippers.  Everything
from the puckered rosebud of her nether hole to the little nubbin of her
clit is on display.  I yearn to explore the trim labia of her cunt with my
tongue.

   I gingerly tug one boot off her leg.  The skin of her calf is
silky-smooth under my fingertips.  Very nice wax job.  Her foot wiggles
helplessly when I finally toss the boot into a corner.  Wow.  It's badly
inflamed.  The sole is hot to the touch, and there are plenty of blisters
on her toes.  Spending all that time in high heels at the club must really
put a strain on her tootsies.  Streetwalking in this killer boots isn't
doing them any good, either.  My stomach does a nasty backflip.  I look
down upon the quivering girl trapped in my grasp.  Teeth clenched, she
cries quietly as she waits for the inevitable violation.  Her throat is
bared as if ready to accept the stroke of a butcher's knife.  For a moment
we stay frozen in the tableau of rapist and victim.  Then, carefully, I
lower her feet into my lap.  Stripping off the other boots, I cup her
abused feet in the palms of my hands.  My dancer blinks in disbelief when I
begin a gentle massage.

   "What are you--unnnnngggg!" She hisses in agony when my thumbs press at
a sensitive spot.

   "Sorry," I apologize.  "I shouldn't have been that rough."

   "Officer," she sniffles, "let me go, I swear I won't tell anybody--"

   "Shhhhh," I soothe.  "You're in no condition to go anywhere."

   "I--ooooo." Her eyelids droop.  "Oh, man, that feels good."

   "Like that, huh?" I concentrate on the balls of her feet.  "Figures. 
The one thing that I was good at in bed was footrubs."

   "Um, yeah." She glances at me curiously.  Up close, I can see her eyes
are curiously mismatched.  One is jade-green, the other is a limpid blue.
"Er, you're into, uh, feet?"

   "Um, no." Lovely.  I have a gorgeous woman at my mercy and still I'm a
tongue-tied idiot.  "Look, kid, I'm really sorry if I hurt you."

   "Whatever." She shrugs.  "Look, if you want kink, I can deal.  It'll
cost extra though.  I mean, if you're gonna pay me." "Hey, I'm a perve not
a thief." I can't believe I feel ashamed at the idea of cheating the girl I
plan on enslaving.

   I notice her hands are going blue.  Oh, hell, I forgot to double-lock
the cuffs!  My dancer stiffens as I reach behind her, but doesn't do
anything beside chaff her sore wrists while I continue my footrub.  Her
toes curl with relief as my talented fingers cast their special mojo. 
Still, she seems awfully stiff.  Not surprising, considering that being
abducted off the street would up anyone's stress levels.  I pat the floor
of the van invitingly.  Hesitantly, she complies with my suggestion.  I
revel in her supple flesh while kneading her shoulders.  The invigorating
scent of nubile youth wafts off her fair skin.  My dancer relaxes
completely under my ministrations.  I straddle her on my knees, working my
thumbs down her spine.  I am tempted to unhook her brassiere...but that
might spook her for good.  Losing her now would be a shame.  I content
myself with the occasional brushes of her miniskirted butt against my inner
thigh as she responds to the sensual treatment.

   "I've seen you before," I remark.  "You work on that club at Fremont and
Cavendish.  Seen you get plenty of tips.  Why are you out hooking?"

   "Just, um, need the money." Doubtless for her pimp's insatiable habit.

   "You shouldn't." I run my fingers through her light-brown hair.  Her
tresses are slightly wavy--a detail I find very appealing.  "A pretty girl
like you shouldn't be out there on the street.  You'll get eaten alive,
kid."

   "Don't have much of a choice." She purses her lips.  "Never made it past
6th grade.  Even McDonald's won't hire me."

   "There must be some family--"

   "No." She shivers.  "I...I can't go back.  Trust me on that"

   "Oh." Did that joyful little girl ever have a chance for a life?

   "Look, could you stop the social worker thing?" There is a bitter edge
in her tone.  "I got enough of that from Social Services.  Are you gonna
get your money's worth or not?"

   I could have her spreadeagled and gagged in a few seconds.  Hell, I
could flip throw down a couple of hundred from my wallet and fuck her
without any need for bondage.  She honestly believes she has no other
choice.  My manhood twitches at the prospect of ramming into her.  Instead
of claiming her, though, I leave her on her belly.  The only sound in the
van is her sharp breaths while I drive away from the delapidated factory.
My stomach churns the whole way to the bus station at the center of the
city.  There's an ATM across the street.  My dancer stares at me in
confusion while I withdraw the maximum of five hundred dollars from my
account.  With the money in my wallet, it adds up to a tidy seven-fifty in
cash.  My guts are in knots as I proffer the wad of bills.

   "Get out," I order curtly.

   "Did--did I do something wrong?' She cringes away like she expects a
slap.

   "I mean get out of this life." I tuck the cash into her bustier.  "Buy a
bus ticket to wherever.  Use the rest to get some decent clothes."

   "I can't." She shakes her head.  "There's someone--"

   "He isn't worth it." I cough.  "Nothing's worth killing yourself off
like this."

   "He'd find me." She tosses the bills onto the asphalt.  "He's done it
before.  Don't be stupid, mister.  I'm just another fucking whore.  That's
all."

   She cries as she clambers, barefoot, out of the van.  Impassive, I pick
up the bills and peel off a hundred fifty.  My dancer limps down the street
after accepting her fee.  I watch her until she disappears into the night.
I am quite calm as I drive back to my apartment building.  It's very clear
what I have to do.  I gave her a chance.  Her fault if she didn't take it.

   If she is destined to be a whore, I am goddamn well going to own rather
than rent.

   ****

   I've chosen my dancer's home carefully.  My decision to purchase this
one-and-a-half storey bungalow might be an odd one for an abductor. 
There's no handy cellar or attic to stash my concubine.  But choosing one's
lair, like all real estate, is about location.  The house is at the end of
a gravel road near a small town thirty minutes drive from the city. 
Surrounded on three sides by forested state land, the nearest neighbours
are about a hundred yards away.  A high wooden fence around the lot behind
the house ensures privacy.  The previous owners appreciated its isolation.
They had all the privacy they needed for their marijuana grow-op.  Only the
poor decision to sell to an undercover narc caused them to lose the house
under the drug-forfeiture laws.  Their loss is my gain.  I purchased the
land for a ridiculously low price at auction.

   The eight by ten wooden shack at the far end of the back yard appears
innocuous.  Resting on cinder-block supports, it looks like any other
outbuilding common in rural areas.  The pot growers used this camouflage
for their advantage.  You can still smell a faint whiff of indica from the
timbers.  However, I've renovated the place extensively.  The bare frame
within the shed has been covered with drywall painted eggshell white. 
Tongue-and-groove board nailed across the beams forms the ceiling. 
Synthetic carpet in a green Persian-rug pattern covers the floor. 
Opposite, an inflatable air mattress and chair provide a cozy sleeping
area. A few feet away is a portable chemical toilet and a tin bath.  One of
those solar showers--a five gallon vinyl bag with a nozzle--hangs from the
ceiling on a metal chain.  There's even a mirror screwed into the wall with
a porcerlain soapdish/toothbrush-holder beside it.  She has all the
creature comforts

   Unfortunately, it is also quite evident that this is a prison.  Some
details are hidden.  The drywall is attached to the studs on resilient
metal strips.  These channels act as sonic shock absorbers.  The same foam
used in my van covers the wooden walls behind the gyproc.  It doubles as
insulation--a good thing since winters can get nippy.  Under the carpet is
special "loaded" vinyl matting that would muffle any frantic stamping for
attention.  Even the loft above the ceiling is soundproofed with more vinyl
mats and fiberglass insulation batting.  There are more obvious signs of
captivity.  Three lines of boat-mooring rings, mounted on plywood spacers,
are screwed firmly into the shed frame.  Caulking between the gaps ensures
no sound will leak through.  The rings provide anchor points at foot level,
waist height, and arms held above her head.  The bed and chair are bondage
items.  The former has a dozen metal rings for a slave's chains, while the
latter has velcro straps to restrain wrists and legs.  Made from acrylic,
the mirror cannot be shattered to produce a weapon.  The tub empties
through a hole into a pipe buried into a French drain underneath the shed.
Any screaming will end up in the ground.  As a final precaution, sturdy
chainlink fencing stretched across the room three feet from the door turns
the shed into a cell.

   The only thing I can hear from the outside is the sigh of the air
purifier.  I'm fortunate the dealers ran an underground electrical conduit
to the shed for their grow-lamps.  The window-mounted unit, fixed over one
of the soffit vents, feeds air through a duct in the loft into a grill
above the door.  It cycles through intake and outake modes to constantly
freshen the air.  Two sets of HEPA filters ensure air quality...and stop
any loud noises from escaping.  The purifier's hum is so quiet you can't
hear it a few feet away.  I've pretty much covered every angle.  The only
addition I might add is a space heater during the cold months.  Satisfied,
I go back into the bungalow to finish my dinner.  I haven't lavished the
same care on the house as on the shed.  The walls need some new wallpaper,
and the shag carpeting has to go.  The furniture from my apartment is
swallowed up in all the space.  Rather ironic that my sex-slave has better
home decor than I do.

   I'm not jumpy during the midnight drive into the city.  I haven't been
nervous ever since that night behind the factory.  It is like freefall: the
sudden clarity of flinging yourself out into space without care for the
consquences.  I park in the alley behind my dancer's hotel.  It is the only
spot where they are out of sight from the street.  The van is invisible
within the shadows as I hide among some garbage cans.  I review my plan as
I wait.  It's risky...but it allows me to abduct my dancer without any
witnesses.  I just have to be convincing.  Hello--here they come!  The pimp
and my dancer walk into the alley just in time for that pig to get his fix.
She's dressed in that T-shirt and denim shorts combo I've grown to love. 
As always, he leaves her sitting by a few feet away as he prepares his
crack in the shelter of a Dumpter.  There's a glint of metal from his belt
above the crack of his ass.  Looks like a cheap Raven pistol--likely to jam
in a fight.  Still, I'm glad for the Kevlar inserts in my trenchcoat.

   "Hey, man," I cough.

   "Huh?" Up close, the pimp is a lot less flabby than I expected.  I hope
that Krav Maga training works!  "Fuck off, pal.  This is a private party."

   "Uh, that's what I want." I play the geeky, embarrassed john role to
hilt.  "I saw your girl in the club a few nights ago, and, uh, well, if
she's availible..."

   "You wanna screw?  Sure." His piggy eyes light up at the prospect of
easy money.  "Seventy a handjob, hundred a blow--"

   "Actually, I got something more special in mind." I actually blush. 
Thank god for acting classes!  "See, I'm kind've into...forcing women.  I
like them really scared during sex."

   "So?"

   "I'll pay you two hundred fifty," I say, "if you bring her out like
she's being kidnapped.  I won't be rough with her during the, uh, sex.  I
only want her to squeal some while I tie her up."

   "No prob." He shrugs.  "Whatever gets you off, dude."

   "Cool." I grin.  "I'll be waiting over at the van back there.  Here's
fifty down."

   I ready my equipment while the pimp finishes his nightly substance
abuse. He's honest enough for street trash: after ten minutes he's
strolling nonchanlantly down the narrow passage between buildings.  My
dancer is rather confused.  This is a break in their usual routine.  The
reason for the change becomes very clear when he abruptly twists her arms
into her shoulder blades.  Pump-gag in hand, I swoop down upon my dancer.
Sudden recognition mixed with terror registers on her face when she sees
me. I slam the gag into her mouth before she has a chance to scream...or
yell "he's a cop".  Her cute, mismatched eyes widen when the rubber bladder
jacks open her jaw.  I clap the thick leather band over her lips and force
the strap taut at the nape of her neck.  Astonished mewls pour through the
gag while I tighten the buckle to its limit.  Sorry, kiddo.  I have to be
sure.

   She kicks desperately before I can inflate the gag.  I wrap my arms
about her knees to forestall her struggles.  My dancer thrashes as the pimp
and I haul her towards the waiting van.  In her struggles, her glasses fall
off her nose.  My pimp laughs harshly when the lenses crack under his
combat boots.  Silent tears pour down her cheeks when she lands on her ass
in the cargo compartment.  I avoid her gaze as I straddle her hips. 
Fleece-lined leather cuffs on a chain anchored between the seats in front
await her trim wrists.  I don't want her hurt by metal restraints during
the trip home.  I owe her that much.  Securing her arms, I slip padlocks
into grommets on the buckles.  They're all keyed alike to get them off in
an emergency.  When I turn about I discover the pimp has some initiative;
he has bound her feet in the leather manacles attached to the tiedowns by
the rear.  He is somewhat amateurish, though.  I have to tighten the cuffs
a little before padlocking them shut.  I take the opportunity to admire her
lithe body stretched out in a classic Eiffel Tower spreadeagle.

   The pimp finds all this incredibly funny.  He chortles so much he
doesn't notice the stun gun I produce from a pocket.  I cackle with glee
when I jam the electrodes into the wattles of his neck.  One Mississippi,
two Mississippi--I could off the seconds while the phase-induction current
fries his nervous system.  He goes down like a sack of meat.  Laugh it up
now, fat boy!  I quickly don a rubber poncho and kitchen gloves. 
Whistling, I drag his paralyzed form over to the Dumpster.  The crack does
make him lively enough to grunt when I deliberately pull his head over a
pothole.  No time for petty vengence, though.  I have maybe ten minutes to
set the scene.  Seating him upright, I pull his pants down to his ankles. I
ignore the stench of unwashed human as I tug down his boxers.  Hygiene
isn't going to be a problem for him in the future.  Glass tinkles when I
smash his crack pipe against the alley wall.  I let him recover enough for
him to see my unpleasant smile.

   Then I stab him in the groin over and over until his privates are a mass
of useless flesh.

   The pimp gurgles incoherently when the pain hits his drug-addled mind.
He doesn't have a chance to experience the sensation for long.  I made sure
to sever the femoral artery.  After two minutes he is a lifeless heap.  The
emotion I feel is unbelievably intense.  It rivals the ectstacy I felt when
my old high school girlfriend Betty-Sue went down on me in the back of that
Oldsmobile.  I surf on the unexpected rush while I skip back to the van. 
The poncho and gloves go into a plastic bag for later disposal.  I hold the
bloody pipe end in a wad of Kleenex while I crawl over my captive beauty.
She howls in pure horror as I loom over her helpless form.  I quickly
inflate the bladder in her mouth with the squeeze-bulb connected to the
gag. Anguished cries die out as her mouth is filled to capacity.

   "Pnnnnnn!" she begs.  "Dnnnnn!"

   "Eh?" Oh, right.  Probably thinks I'm going to finish the job.  "No,
Abigail, I won't kill you.  You're much to valuable to me, my precious."

   "Wmmmmph?" she grunts.

   "Ahhh," I sigh, stroking her heaving breasts.  "You were right, Abby. 
You are a whore.  Just not a worthless one.  You didn't deserve an owner
like that stupid shit back there.  You should have an owner who will treat
you right.  Like me....your Master."

   My dancer faints.  Poor kid--this has not been her night.  I better
allow her some time to chill out when we get home.  I lightly kiss the
leather clamped over her rosy lips before curling her right hand about the
crack pipe.  The broken fragment is tossed out onto her pimp's corpse soon
after.  I survery the scene critically.  Hmmm--pimp demands blowjob, his
bitch gets on the ground, she snatches his pipe-- Whoops, forgot something!
Tiptoeing over to the dead man, I fish around with latex-gloved hands
before I remove all his possessions.  The inventory comes to one Saturday
Night Special, a keyring, a baggie of crack, and about a thousand in loose
bills in a money belt.  Plus I have my fifty back.  The scumbag at my feet
isn't about to complain about the unfairness of the exchange.  My dancer
deserves payback for the trouble she's been through.  I also retrieve her
broken glasses.  A visit to Lenscrafters was on the itinerary anyway.  I
won't have any slave of mine wearing crappy frames!

   "Let's get you settled, precious," I whisper to my swooning captive
while I gun the engine.

   ****

   I gently stroke my dancer's hair as she sleeps with her head cradled in
my lap.  She kneels between my thighs, unconscious, as I recline in the
inflatable bondage chair.  This isn't neccessary--I could watch her just as
easily through the hidden camera in the wall clock.  Mounted on the other
side of the chainlink barrier, the wireless nannycam broadcasts via a 2.4
gigahertz signal to a receiver connected to a VCR/television combo in my
bedroom.  But then, I would miss the true impact of her beauty.  Her
vibrant peaches-and-cream complexion practically glows from the scented
oils rubbed into her skin during a sponge-bath.  Conditioner and shampoo
has burnished her light-brown tresses to a lustrous sheen; I wove it into a
schoolgirlish braid fixed by a red ribbon at the end.  Her teeth gleam
after a vigourous brushing and flossing.  The Rohypnol I fed her once I
returned home subdued her long enough me to obtain a new pair of glasses.
The Lenscrafters at a nearby mall did a terrific job on her specs.  The
elegant silver wire-rims complement her features very well.

   My dancer groans as the drug finally wears off.  Licking her lips, she
struggles to stand up.  A puzzled frown furrows her brow when she discovers
they are not cooperating.  Her eyelids flutter as she strains to see what
is holding her wrists behind her back.  She gulps audibly when she finds
the fleece-lined leather cuffs on her wrists joined by a padlock through
their D-rings.  Quick shuffles with her feet confirm another set of bands
linked by six inches of chain.  In dread, my dancer raises her head to the
reflection in the mirror on the other wall.  I am sure that, in other
circumstances, she would appreciate the care lavished on her appearance. 
Unfortunately, she does not find other changes to her liking.  The bonds
are a surprise.  So is the cute powder-blue leather cat collar fastened
around her neck.  I bought it from a pet-shop while the glasses were
prepared.  The tiny golden bell on the front tinkles with each tremor of
her body.  The collar matches her sole garment-a skimpy g-string with
side-clasp closures.  It is, though, the golden captive-bead rings in her
nipples that shock her.  They twinkle in the subdued light within the shed.
Those piercing seminars paid off, as did the home kit I had autoclaved by a
studio in the city.  I think I did a pretty good job.although the tears
welling up in her eyes mean that she doesn't share my admiration for a job
well done.

   She gasps when I stand up.  My outfit of black leather breeches, vest,
and combat boots is designed to intimidate.  Panicking, she scurries on her
knees for safety.  I stop her with a slap of a cane upon her belly. 
Hanging from my wrist by a nylon strap, the two feet of rattan can have
considerable impact on female flesh.  I give her a mere love-tap--being
scared doesn't merit a real punishment.  However, she freezes the instant
the cane touches her fair skin.  My dancer remains still as a statue while
I walk around to face her.  I tap her splayed-legs.  She follows the
pressure of the cane-tip as I guide her into kneeling once again at my
feet. I adjust her stance with a few pokes until her legs are spread as far
apart as balance allows.  Her pussy is on full display.  A touch between
her shoulder-blades arches out her back nicely; my dancers tits are
presented nicely in that position.  I tilt her her head down slightly to
the proper angle for respect.  Now she cannot challenge me with an impudent
stare.  Circling, I appraise my dancer as she waits for judgement.

   "Very good.  That's an excellent slave-kneel." I speak softly.  My
dancer has been shouted at enough in her old life.  "We're going to get
along very well, Abigail, if you continue to be such a good girl."

   "You--" she whispers.  "I told Merril that somebody was following us. 
He just laughed and hit me, even when my stuff was stolen."

   "Then Merrill was an idiot who paid the price." I smile toothily.  "But
you're a much smarter girl.  I don't think you'll end up like him."

   "Please," she shudders, doubtless remembering the brutal stabbing of her
former owner, "what do you want from me?"

   "Abby, that's a silly question." I roll my eyes.  "You're almost naked,
chained, and in front of a man dressed out of the leatherman section.  I
think it's pretty obvious why you're here."

   "You w-w-w", she stammers.

   "Slow down, precious."

   "I cuh-cuh-cuh-" My dancer pales.  "I guh-guh-get nervous and I
stuh-stuh-stuh-stutter and I cuh-can't help it and oh god don't hit me-"

   "Shhh, Abby." I pat her on the shoulder.  "I won't discipline you for
something you can't help.  I'm not like that.  Here, let me say it for you.
You are a slave.  Not much different from your old life, really.  On the
streets you sold your body to any man with enough cash.  Now you have to
use your pussy and mouth and ass to please me."

   "Let me go," she begs, "I wuh-wuh-won't tell, I swear-"

   "There you go being stupid," I snap.  "You're not dumb, otherwise I
wouldn't have chosen you.  I've deliberately killed a man in a
death-penalty state.  Not to mention violating kidnapping and
sexual-assault laws.  I'd get the needle if you ever came to light."

   "Oh, shit." She hangs her head.  "You're gonna kill me, aren't you? 
I've heard the stories, mister.  I know what's guh-guh-gonna happen."

   "That's a.worst-case scenario." I shake my head.  "Abby, remember the
time in the van a while ago?  I scared you, yes.  I apologize.  But that
also showed I can be kind if I want.  That's why I killed Merrill.  He had
to die for treating such a beautiful girl like trash."

   "Uh, thanks." Is that a faint blush on her cheeks?  Must be my
imagination.  "So, you want, uh, sex."

   "Not exactly," I reply.  "I demand complete obedience.  You will obey
every single order and show total respect towards me as your master. 
Sounds silly, I realize, but then I'm the one holding the cane.  And I will
use it if you piss me off.  But there is an upside, little one."

   "I get to live?" she says sardonically.  She squeals a second later when
the cane slashes across her breasts.

   "Never mock me, Abby," I warn the crying girl.  "And get back into
slave-kneel or you earn ten on the thighs.  That's what happens to bad
slavegirls.  Good slavegirls are given treats.  Better meals, clothes, a
book or a CD.  What kind of slavegirl do you want to be, pet?"

   "A..." she says, eyes downcast, "a good girl.  I'll be a good girl."

   "Thank you." I nod.  "We have a lot of work ahead of us, and it helps if
you have a positive attitude.  Now stay very, very still.  This is a
test--you don't want to fail it."

   My dancer remains kneeling while I get the testing equipment ready.  The
Home Access HIV and Hepatitis C testing kits, sold at your better
drugstores, are a boon to adbuctors.  You can find out if your slave has a
lethal STD without any doctors asking pesky questions.  The results are
obtained by calling a toll-free number and identifying yourself by the
unique serial number assigned to each kit.  No names are ever exchanged.  I
carefully sterilize four of her fingers according to the kit instructions.
My dancer yelps when the first spring-loaded lancet pricks her fingertip,
but doesn't break position while I force a few drops of blood onto the
sample strip.  I use two of each test, just to be sure.  The sample strips
are sealed in prepaid FedEx envelopes; it'll take three days to process the
AIDS test, a week for the Hepatitis C.  Oh, well.  That's what condoms are
for.

   My dancer squirms when I throw her on her back onto the bed.  I place
her glasses to one side for safe-keeping.  Her nerve breaks as I climb atop
her bound form.  Screaming, she thrashes wildly under my weight.  I still
her terrified cries with a wet, sloppy kiss.  Her tears wet my cheeks while
I swirl my tongue about her mouth.  My hands find her firm breasts,
squeezing and kneading the ripe mounds.  I avoid her nipples--much too sore
after her piercing--but I glory in fondling her resilient titmeat.  Her
frantic struggles cease as I squeeze her in a bearhug.  When I come up for
air, I see that lost and defeated look on her face that captivated me the
first time I saw her.  This time I do not stop violating her nubile body.
There is no time for mercy now--only the lesson that she is utterly,
completely mine.  She must learn that she is a slave.  In a trice I undo
the side-clasps of her g-string and toss it over my shoulder.

   I roughly force a baby-blue ballgag past her teeth.  She whines in pain
when I cinch the strap tight at the nape of her neck.  Grabbing her braid,
I force her to look into my eyes as I get out a tube of lube and latex
gloves.  Safety first, after all.  My dancer stiffens when my slick, gloved
hand strokes the lips of her quim.  Oh god, even through the rubber I can
tell how soft and warm she is.  I hiss to her about the penalties for
disobedience as I slowly press my fingers into the hot centre of her pussy.
So wonderfully tight, though obviously she isn't a virgin.  Screwing that
needle-dick pimp wouldn't have been much exercise.  She squirms as I slick
up her cunt with the hemp-based lubricant while a thumb rubs her clit. 
Definitely a reaction there--her little nubbin pokes out shyly from under
its hood under my tender ministrations.  This isn't fun for her by a long
shot, but those slight pumps of her hips mean I am hitting a sweet spot. 
Enough of this.  I roll a condom onto my rampant tool while she tenses for
the inevitable.

   What happens next?  I fuck her.  Nothing elegant or romatic about the
way I spear into her depths.  I can't resist cutting loose.  At last I have
her in my clutches, and I won't apologize for violating her sweet pussy. 
Her tight sex milks me so thoroughly I lose my composure after a few
thrusts.  Luckily there are plenty of condoms in the pack.  Not to put too
fine a point on it, I screw her every which way imaginable.  On her back,
on her belly, on her knees--hell, I'd've raped her upside down if I had a
bungee harness.  Always, I service with languourous, deep strokes that
plunge the length of her love-canal.  She shudders with each thrust that
burrows right to the gates of her womb.  Not the artless battering
inflicted by the deceased Merrill, but a hard fucking that teaches her
exactly her place in the order of the things.  She is my slave, and all the
whimpering in the world won't change that.  It is better she learns that
now before she does something stupid during her training.

   "Alright, precious," I say after undoing the ballgag.  "You did very
well.  It's over for now."

   "Oh," she groans.  She brings her knees into her chest.  "Oh, god--"

   "That's right, precious." I clean between her legs with a moist
towellette.  Good--she isn't too bruised.  "I'm God.  Or at least your god
for the rest of your life.  You will address as 'milord' from now on to
show the proper respect."

   "Muh-milord," she sniffles, "no more, please--"

   "It hurt some." I kiss her neck.  "Don't worry.  I won't be that
rough...very often.  You just had to learn what you are.  And what are you,
precious?"

   "Muh-milord's--" she shudders--"I am milord's slave."

   "Good girl." I ruffle her disheveled hair.  "Here's your treat."

   My dancer trembles when I unholster a taser from my belt.  The
identification tags it kicks out after being fired make it useless as a
capture weapon, but it's an excellent subdual method to handle a captive
slavegirl.  Mindful of the stun-gunning of her pimp, she lies absolutely
quietly while I undo the padlocks on the cuff buckles.  I keep it aimed at
her back while I remove her fetters.  She flexes her arms as I retreat past
the sliding gate of the chainlink barrier.  Before I lock it, I toss a
cardboard box to my dancer.  She blinks in surprise when she opens it. 
Inside is all her possessions.  I've organized her postcard in a photo
album, and arranged her jewelry in a nice music-jewelry box.  It has one of
those spinning ballet dancers that pops up when you open the lid.  I've
even put her Polaroid into a heart-shaped frame.  So sue me, I was
sentimental at the time.

   "What do we say, precious?" I ask.  I spin the wheels on the combination
lock mounted on the gate.

   "Thank you.  Milord," she adds hastily.

   "Like I said," I say before flipping off the light above the door, "I'm
a perve.  Not a thief.  Nighty night, precious."

   "Good night...milord."

   I leave her in darkness to reflect on her new life.

   ****

   My dancer grunts as she leg-lifts in time with the aerobics instructor
displayed on the small TV/VCR unit.  Her exercise outfit is, like all her
other clothing, very brief.  Her breasts heave within a black sportsbra
with the centers cut out to avoid irritating her piercings.  The gold rings
in her nipples flash as she twirls upon the exercise mat.  The rest of her
is clothed in sneakers, folded-over tube socks, and plenty of sweat.  Quite
a bit of it, actually.  It's only thirty minutes into the workout, and she
is stumbling through steps she performed flawlessly on stage.  I suspect
her slim build is due to malnutrition than good health; sitting around in a
smoky club and eating fast food isn't the most invigorating lifestyle.  Her
nervous glances at the taser clipped to my belt spurs her into struggling
through another set of routines.  The occasional slap of the cane against
my boot boosts her spirits whenever her will flags.

   She collapses into a slave-kneel on her exercise mat when the tape ends.
I am worried by the crimson flush on her cheeks.  I allow her fifteen
minutes to cool down before ordering her to strip.  My dancer crosses an
arm shyly over her bosom after unclasping her bra.  It's an endearing
gesture, but I quickly shout that slavegirls aren't permitted modesty. 
She'll earn ten strokes if she does not present her tits for my pleasure.
My dancer immediately thrusts out her chest at the threat of punishment. 
Jerking a thumb, I order her to clean off the sweat of her workout.  My
dancer gratefully scampers under the solar shower.  Steam fogs the mirror
as she soaps up with a bar of moisturizing soap; I filled it with hot water
earlier this morning.  She uses water sparingly, opening the nozzle only to
wet herself or rinse off.  Must have learned that on the road.  She spends
the longest time lathering up her hair with herbal shampoo, working the
suds into her scalp.

   Reluctantly, my dancer approaches the locked gate after toweling dry. 
There is a two and a half inch gap between the bottom of the gate and the
carpet.  She pushes her exercise outfit through the narrow opening.  The
toughest are the sneakers--she has to fold down their sides to fit them
into the gap.  For a second our hands touch as I take the clothing.  Her
fearful shudder at the brief contact is a disappointment.  In return, I
push back handcuffs and manacles linked by a section of chain.  My dancer
grimaces when I command her to fasten them onto her limbs.  She fumbles
with the legirons as she ratchets them shut about her ankles.  I count the
clicks until I decide they are tight enough.  After locking the cuffs onto
her wrists, she cautiously tests the limits of her bondage.  It's
restrictive--with her legs extended, she cannot raise her hands above her
belly button.  I finally open the gate once I am sure she is not faking her
helplessness.  After double-locking her manacles, I inspect her quarters
thoroughly for anything dangerous.  Too much risk she could surprise me
with a shiv fashioned from a sharpened toothbrush.

   "Comfy, precious?" I ask when I double-lock her fetters.

   "Yuh-yes, milord," she answers faintly.

   "Good." I carry in a tray piled with breakfast fixings.  "What do you
want on your cornflakes--banana or strawberries?"

   "Banana." She licks her lips.  "Uh, can I have it in skim milk, milord?
I don't like the one percent stuff."

   "No problemo." I pop out a tablet of Brevicon.  Those Mexican border
pharmacies are great about not asking why a single man would want oral
contraceptives.  "Before you can eat, though, you have to take your
medicine."

   "No!" She recoils violently.  "Don't, milord, I swear I'll be good--"

   "What the fuck?" I retort.  "No medicine, no breakfast.  And you'll earn
twenty strokes for disobedience!"

   "Don't make me," she pleads, "you don't have to string me out!"

   "Oh." Hell, she thought I was going to drug her.  "This is just a birth
control pill.  I don't want any accidents."

   "Right." She eyes the pill suspiciously.  "I've seen too many OD's, and
there's no way you're going to turn me into a junkie.  You'll have to kill
me first."

   "If I wanted to get you hooked, precious," I reply, "I could have easily
shoved more roofies down your throat.  Which I'll do, right after I put
your breakfast into a blender and pour it into your belly through a feeding
tube."

   "Look, uh, milord, I didn't mean to puh-piss you off." My dances
blanches.  "Drugs just totally freak me out."

   "Apology accepted." I narrow my eyes.  "I'm willing to give you the
benefit of the doubt.once.  Next time you question my orders, you earn
forty strokes for screwing with my good nature."

   Hesitantly, my dancer swallows the Brevicon.  She sighs in relief when
the expected rush doesn't come.  I offer her a disposable bowl filled with
cereal and a rubber spoon.  Balancing it on her knees, she gulps down her
breakfast like a hungry wolf.  Orange juice spills down her chin as she
slurps from a Styrofoam cup of orange juice.  That isn't surprising-I can
see her ribs a little through her skin.  Merrill must have kept her figure
trim by near-starvation.  I'm going to put some meat on her bones, that's
for sure.  I may be as brainwashed by the Beauty Myth as the next guy, but
humping a famine victim is not one of my kinks.  However, I do order her to
slow down when she almost stuffs an entire bran muffin slathered with
butter into her mouth.  There is such a thing as decorum.  I feed it to her
piece by piece.  The touch of her lips against my palm is like those of a
doe at a petting zoo I used to hand-feed as a kid.  All soft and trembling
and warm.  It sends bells a-ringing in my hindbrain.

   I wipe her face clean with the damp towel before producing a Nerf ball.
My dancer groans when, gently prising her jaw open, I stuff in the foam
wadding.  Clear packing tape is plastered over her lips; painful to tear
off, but it won't irritate the corners of her mouth like a cleave gag.  She
utters a curious "mmmmphh" when I stick a flexible straw through a small
hole in the gag.  I buckle her cat-collar about her neck before clipping a
leash to its D-ring.  My dancer shuffles awkwardly as I lead her out of the
shed Squinting in the sunlight, she peers about the back yard with startled
interest.  I have to say I improved the property significantly before her
abduction.  Contractors from town added a broad deck in place of the old
back porch.  You can walk out over a platform to an aboveground pool; it's
still August, so she might get a chance to enjoy it before autumn starts.
She really likes the grass the gardeners reseeded a few weeks ago.  Her
toes curl into the sod, savoring the warmth rising from the ground.

   An air mattress covered by a striped beach towel occupies the center of
the yard.  Transparent plastic cuffs are attached by short chains to stakes
in the earth at either end.  I press the taser into the small of her back
while I lay her down onto the mattress.  One at a time, I padlock the cuffs
shut about her arms and legs.  Her new bonds have very little play: she can
only wriggle anxiously as I run a possessive hand the length of her nude
body.  I get a bottle of suntan lotion from a paper sack beside her bed. 
Oiling up my palms, I slather dollops of cream onto her fair skin.  The
pungent smell of aloe vera spices the summer air as I work down her arms
and neck, applying generous amounts to her face, before drifting downward
to sensually massage her cleavage.  She squeals and moans while my hands
spiral up her breasts.  The lotion mixes with a new sheen of sweat as I
roll her tender nips between my fingers.  Chains rattle while I spread a
pool of lotion poured into her belly button all over her lower body.  Her
nostrils flare as my hands slowly descend to the V between her legs.

   I suddenly switch to rubbing her feet.  The abrupt change in sensation
takes her aback.and do I detect a little disappointment that my fingers
didn't reach the Promised Land?  I carefully work up her limbs until my
hands caress her inner thighs.  Guttural cries rip through the Nerf ball
lodged in her mouth when I cup her mons just so.  Humiliated tears stream
down her cheeks when her hips unconsciously rise to meet my slick fingers.
Stroking her engorged labia, I make sure she won't get a nasty burn in that
most intimate of spots.  I am so tempted to plunge into her right now, but
I have other plans.  Out of her sight, I get a tiny micro-butterfly
vibrator and a roll of white medical tape.  The vibe once had elastic
straps to keep it in place; I severed them because I hate tan lines.  My
dancer quivers upon feeling the tiny ridges on the butterfly pressing into
her clit.  A little square of tape fixes it into place.  Paying out the
cable, I tape the remote to the stake at her feet.  With some effort her
big toe can reach the speed dial.

   She jacknifes when I turn the vibrator onto high.  An agonized shriek is
barely muffled by the layers of tape over her mouth.  Whoops, too much
stimulation!  I power down the remote to its lowest setting.  Gradually my
dancer settles down onto the towel, although her hips squirm while the
butterfly tickles her nubbin.  Covering her eyes with sunglasses, I nip
into the house to strip out of my dom costume.  Those damn leather pants
chafe like hell.  I am considerably more comfortable in Bermuda shorts and
a baggy T-shirt while I settle into a lawn chair next to my slavegirl.  I
bend her straw into the mouth of a sports bottle filled with iced tea so
she won't get dehydrated.  A kitchen timer counts out the minutes until I
have to turn her over.  I guard my own pasty complexion with a
broad-brimmed straw hat and a huge beach umbrella.  I get burned leaning
too close to a lightbulb, much less sunbathing.

   The rest of the morning passes in companionable silence.  That is, if
you discount the ragged breathing from my dancer.  I notice her nudge the
speed dial every so often when she thinks I'm not looking.  At times I
fondle her while touching up bare spots on her skin.  When the timer rings,
I simply rotate her like a chicken on a spit.  Her ass clenches when the
her full weight comes to bear on the butterfly chugging away at her sweet
spot.  I treat her to a massage while I spread lotion on her back.  She
doesn't "mmmpphhh" once, even when I spend minutes squeezing her firm
asscheeks.  She seems totally zoned out from the heat--although her hips do
a tantalizing bump-and-grind on the mattress.  The sight turns me on so
much that I race back into the bungalow for my trusty pack of Japanese
ultrathins.  God, she is deliciously wet when I slide into her from behind.
So different than the out-and-out screwing of her first night.  I have to
leave her out an extra thirty minutes to complete her tanning session after
I finish sating my lusts.

   I use the towel to clean away the remnants of the suntan lotion.  She
moans audibly when I peel off the vibrator from her reddened clit.  Her
limbs are secured again into my trusty padded leather cuffs.  I padlock on
a short chain between them, binding my dancer into a loose hogtie.  Hauling
her onto my shoulder, I carry her like the proverbial caveman bearing a
mate captured from a rival tribe.  Me Og big man, got cute chick to warm
cave.  Ugh.  The way she presses her legs together warns me its time for a
pit stop.  She is so adorable when she blushes as I kneel her on the toilet
seat.  As if she could expect any modesty by now.  I'm not squeamish about
patting her dry--more time to lavish attention on her bare pussy.  It
hasn't developed a hint of stubble since I killed her pimp; she must wax
instead of merely shaving.  Good girl.  My dancer is quiet as I position
her kneeling on a pillow in the kitchen.  She doesn't say much after I
remove her wad-and-foam gag.  Actually, her downcast expression worries me
somewhat.  The helplessness I usually find endearing is leavened with a
morose expression that she always wore when cringing before her pimp.  I
don't like it at all.

   "What's wrong now?" I spit out.  Dammit, why am I so bitter all of a
sudden?  "Don't tell me you're down because of a little sex.  I saw you
take a lot worse on the streets."

   "Sorry, milord." Nevertheless, she hangs her head in shame.  "It's
just....Merrill was right.  I am a fucking slut."

   "Excuse me?"

   "I got off on it." She sniffles.  "Just like he always said.  I needed
to be fucked 'cause that's what I was made for."

   "Of course--" I was about to say "you are a slut", but the words seem so
mean-spirited.  "Precious, I wanted you to enjoy it.  Even a little.  It
was my gift to you for being so good on your first day."

   "That's the problem." She's crying now.  "Only a slut gets turned on
like being treated like a dog, huh?  Just what I've always been--my foster
family's bitch, Merrill's bitch.  Now I'm yours."

   "You are not!" I grip her by the shoulders, forcing her to look into my
eyes.  "You are a gorgeous, lovely person.  I would never have spent this
much time and money if you were worthless."

   "Don't shit me.  You grabbed me 'cause nobody cares about a stupid
hooker."

   "Yes.  That is one reason." I cannot lie to her.  "But--dammit, Abigail,
hasn't anyone ever treated you nice?  Just once?"

   "My grammy did." My dancer sighs.  "She took me in after my mom split.
We had this great farm all to ourselves.  But she got cancer when I was
twelve, and the farm was sold 'cause she owed the bank."

   "And that's when it started, didn't it?" I dry her tears with a
dishtowel.  "Things went wrong."

   "My foster family seemed nice." She shudders.  "I mean, they sent me to
school and kept me fed.  But at night--they tied me down on the bed.  Oh,
god, it hurt so much when he stuck his thing in my ass while she...she made
me lick out her--"

   "You ran away." A horrible need to know consumes me, like the urge to
scratch at a pustulent sore.

   "No.  They sold me." Her eyes are unfocused as she relives upon the
horrors of her past.  "To this biker named Zach, then he lost me to Spike
on a bet, then he rented me to Merrill."

   "And then I killed him, and you're expecting more of the same." I shake
my head.  "Abby, do you know why I call you 'precious'?  Because that is
what you are to me.  I had to have you the moment I spotted you in the
club. It's...not love.  I can't offer you that.  But I do care for you."

   "Then why are you always saying you'll punish me?"

   "I don't want to.  Abigail, all I ask is that you accept your place.  I
realize it's not fair.  But, honestly, is the alternative any better?  Do
you want to be treated like shit by everyone until you die from a needle in
your arm or a beating in an alley?"

   "No," my dancer bawls.  "I wanna be safe.  For once.  Just once."

   "I can give you that," I coo into her ear.  "Just submit.  You won't be
hit or starved or made to waste your beauty on pimps and johns.  That's
what being my slave is all about.  Just let...go."

   "I--I can't--" She grits her teeth.  "This is too much--"

   My plans for an afternoon of sampling my dancer's charms die right at
that moment.  This isn't fun and games anymore.  This is about the
responsibility for a human being who is so broken inside she cannot accept
a hint of kindness without despising herself.  Releasing her hogtie chain,
I cradle her in my arms while I walk into my bedroom.  I wrap her in a
blanket and lay her onto the four-poster bed.  Poor thing--she's already
out cold.  By the terrified look on her features, the dreams in her pretty
little head are far from pleasant.  Shit, I must have opened up a host of
nightmares when I brought up her past.  For hours I dab away the sweat
dotting her brow as nightmares wrack her psyche.  She finally collapses
into listless slumber by six o'clock in the evening.  I doubt she'll awaken
before the next morning.

   Lying beside her, I reflect that I have a hell of a lot of work to do. 

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