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WARNING! THIS IS A WORK OF EROTIC BDSM FICTION. IT IS ADULT ORIENTED MATERIAL OF A SEXUAL NATURE. The copyright of this story remains with the author, Night Owl. This posting does not give you the rights to post this on any website without obtaining the author's permission first.
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Indoctrintation
by Night Owl
Chapter 13: Hunters
The van seemed innocent enough parked along the street. Half a dozen vehicles were parked there also, and since its windows were tinted, a passer-by wouldn't have noticed the man sitting almost motionless behind the wheel. He was not a resident in that neighborhood, but for over two weeks he had been there on business, and his business was in one particular house across the street.
The man's name was Jason Clark. He was an obtainer of girls, a slaver, paid by The Organization to find and abduct young, attractive woman. This was the first assignment on his own, but Sonia had trained him well. He knew how to set up a surveillance system and could 'shadow' a target as well as any federal agent. Nonetheless, he was still a little nervous, but it was a nervousness mixed with excitement and anticipation. He watched his quarry intently as she emerged from the house, thinking how much he was going to enjoy this job.
The target was a gorgeous blonde with an athletic figure and a pair of large, ripe melons that, in his opinion, couldn't possibly be her real breasts. She stood on the porch, and scanned the neighborhood. Her eyes didn't even pause at the dark van parked nearby. Then she lifted one leg on the railing and began her usual routine of stretching before her afternoon jog.
Just like clockwork, Jason smiled. During those two weeks, he learned everything about the girl - when she left for work in the morning, when she came home in the afternoon. He knew she was a health nut, jogging about 10 miles or so four times a week, and taking aerobics classes twice in the evenings. They broke into her house one day, and bugged everything so they could monitor all her conversations.
As he watched the girl lean forward and stretch each raised leg, he imagined her putting on this show for his benefit. She wore the usual outfit -- a white spandex exercise bra and running shorts cut high and loose around her well-toned thighs. Her long golden hair was now braided in a ponytail. She dropped the other leg and began stretching her upper body. Jason raised the binoculars to get a better look, his eyes focusing on her razor-sharp nipples as they tented through the skin-tight fabric. Someone was going to pay a huge chunk of change for this one, he thought.
After loosening up, the woman began her jog, heading down the street in the opposite direction. Jason watched her until she turned the corner, then he lifted the mic,
"Target is on the move. Stand-by."
"Roger," a voice answered.
The other two men were waiting in their truck only a few blocks away. Jason estimated the girl would be gone 40 minutes, having timed her a dozen or so times before. When she returned, she would be good and tired from her workout, and less likely to put up much of a struggle. That's when they'd make their move.
Jason leaned back in his seat and leafed though the file Sonia had given him on the girl:
Name: Heidi Strobel
Age: 25
Marital Status: Single
Occupation: P.E. Teacher
Residence: 246 Cottonwood Lane, Buffalo, Missouri
The file then went over her bio. Most of it was bullshit, but Sonia was always very thorough in her reports -- Bachelor of Arts degree in exercise physiology, secondary education and physical education from Drury University in Springfield, Missouri. Currently, a physical education and health teacher at Pendleton High School. Previously worked as a sales representative for a lingerie company, a secretary in a doctor's office, etc . . . etc . . .
The high school yearbook photo Sonia included showed a very sexy dish trying to appear official in her white polo shirt with a "Pendleton" logo on the pocket and whistle around her neck. Jason couldn't recall any of his P.E. teachers looking this good, nor even being a woman for that matter -- just ex-marines and washed-up football players with crew cuts and loud voices.
"Keep those toes on the line!" he remembered hearing them say as the class lined up in their matching gym shorts and jerseys.
Things certainly had changed since then. He imagined Heidi walking to class, looking very leggy in her shorts, and wearing a white tank top with her whistle dangling between those torpedo-like breasts, drawing heated stares (not to mention a hard-on) from every boy she passed in the halls. Jason remembered seeing girls like that in his high school. Beautiful,
bratty and bitchy, all of them, and if he were a rich client, he could easily part with a substantial portion of his wealth to own such a girl - to tease, fuck and abuse whenever he wished.
Forty minutes later, just as Jason had guessed, Heidi came jogging back to the house. He lifted the mic again.
"Target in sight," he said, "let's move."
"We're on our way," answered the other voice.
Less than two minutes later, a delivery truck appeared and pulled up in front of her house. It was actually an old U-Haul truck that had been repainted with a logo that read "Smythe Bros. Furniture" on the sides.
"It’s showtime," Jason whispered to himself. He lit a cigarette, then took a draw and waited.
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Dave Roberts emerged from his truck and walked confidently up to the front door, while his partner, Marco Sanchez, stayed in the cab and waited. Both men were wearing delivery uniforms with a Smythe Bros. patch stitched above the front pocket. Heidi was still dressed in her bra top and shorts when she answered the door, her perfectly tanned skin beading with perspiration all over.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," he said, "I'm with Smythe Brothers Furniture. We have your sofa for you?"
"I didn't order a sofa."
"Are you sure?" Dave glanced at the fake form on his clipboard. "This IS the Brooks residence, isn't it?"
"No. Strobel."
"Shit! Oh . . . sorry about my language, ma'am, but we were supposed to get this sofa delivered an hour ago, and now they've given me the wrong address. Do you think you could let me use your phone so I can call the warehouse?"
"Um . . . sure, go ahead," Heidi stepped aside to let him in. "It’s through the living room in the kitchen."
"Thanks, ma'am. I really do apologize for this."
Dave grabbed the phone and dialed a number, then pretended to talk to his supervisor. Heidi was drying off with a towel. She moved passed him to the sink and poured herself a glass of water. Dave continued his fake conversation, but quietly hung up the phone. He reached into his pocket. The plastic bag opened easily, as he got the chloroform-soaked cloth ready.
"I've never heard of Smythe Brothers," she said while still facing away from him at the sink. "Where are they locat . . ."
Heidi's words were cut off as he pounced on her from behind. The glass fell from her hands, spraying water and shattered glass all over the floor. His left arm locked around her ample chest while he used his right hand to cover her face with the cloth. Her initial cry was immediately muffled by the cloth. She struggled frantically, twisting, grabbing at his arms, scratching, kicking.
Her strength surprised him at first. He'd almost forgotten he was dealing with a well-trained athlete. She almost broke his grip a couple of times, but his superior brute strength and the quick action of the chemical soon tamed the wild animal she'd become. Her arms finally fell limp to her sides. Her legs lost their ability to support her weight. He continued to hold her tightly for a minute until he was sure she was really out, then he gently laid her on the floor. Dave stood over his victim breathing heavily. He remained still for several minutes, as though he were expecting the cops to suddenly come bursting into the house with their weapons drawn. But nothing happened.
As his breathing and heart-rate returned to normal, he proceeded to the front door and waved the signal to his partner. Jason also saw it through the binoculars in his van, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Together Dave and Marco grabbed a large crate from the back of the truck, and carried it into the house. The crate was empty, save for a few items they would use to bind their captive with. Dave then pulled out the largest item, a straightjacket. As much as he liked to bind his victims with rope, he felt the straightjacket would be more secure for now. He knelt down next to Heidi's prone form and pulled her up. He listened to her breathing and checked her pulse before working her arms into the long sleeves of the restrictive garment, pulling them tightly across her chest and locking them securely in place.
Next, he took a roll of duct tape and taped her legs together at the ankles and knees. Then he folded her legs up and taped her ankles to her thighs. An air mask was placed over her mouth and secured with leather straps around her head. A small air tank would then be fastened inside the crate with her so she could breath once it was sealed up. Having once been a pre-med student, Dave knew there was a possibility that she could have a reaction to the chloroform which would make things a little messy, and possibly dangerous, but since that had happened only once for as long as he could remember, he decided to risk it.
While Dave did this, Marco cleaned up the spilled water and carefully picked up all of the glass, then put it into a plastic bag to take with them so there would be no evidence of a struggle. It was also his job to remove all camera and listening devices, and to wipe away any fingerprints. Lastly, they carefully lifted their human package into the crate and sealed it up tightly.
Jason watched from the van while his partners carried the crate from the house and loaded it into the truck.
"Everything go well?" he spoke into the mic.
"Yeah, no sweat," Dave answered.
"Good, I'll meet you at the rendezvous point. We have a long drive ahead of us."
With that, Jason waited until the truck was out of site, then started up the van and followed.
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Everyone knew Elma Peterson to be a neighborhood gossip. At age 71, and hobbled with a cane, she had little to do all day but watch people from her window, or on nice warm days, from the porch. She knew Bill and Maggie Stevenson were getting a divorce before anyone else, and how Shawna McFarland, that bimbo cheerleader who lived three houses up, had to get an abortion once. Elma got all sorts of tasty bits of information just by watching her neighbors on the porch, or listening to their conversations as they walked past. She also had her friend Norma Watts to trade gossip with over the phone. Sometimes those conversations would last more than two hours.
So when Elma saw the delivery truck parked outside Hiedi's house, she knew something was amiss. She could feel it in her bones. She also noticed a van parked nearby drive off suspiciously right after the truck left, and jotted the license numbers down on a pad she always kept handy for notes. Then, two days later, when she saw the police come to search Heidi's house. Elma immediately got on the phone and called Norma.
"I heard her family filed a missing person's report," her friend told her. "You have to call the police and tell them what you saw." So Elma did.
One week later, the Heidi Strobel file was sent to FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C., along with Elma Peterson's written account, and two pieces of evidence found in the house that were equally as valuable -- a small listening device carelessly left on one of Heidi's phones, and a single print from Marco's thumb. This was the break Special Agent Phil Trask had been waiting for. Within days, the investigation was moved from the back burner to the front, and the original two agents assigned to it, increased by five, with Trask overseeing all operations.
"Looks like I'll be working late hours again," Joe Kelly lamented.
"Sorry about that, ol' chum," Trask smiled and fired a piece of waded paper over to his partner's desk.
(continued)
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