The Pickup Truck Man: Origins

This is a complex story centered on the origins of a very bad man briefly introduced at the end of The Logic of My Anger: A Sociopath’s Tale of Vengeance.  The Pickup Truck Man is a professional kidnapper, a taker of beautiful women for one of several Midnight Harvest teams rumored to be run by an elderly Eastern European.  This businessman is thought to live in south-central Texas and uses these teams to acquire new talent to stock a high-end whorehouse he owns.  In this story, during the more boring parts of his current assignment, the Pickup Truck Man thinks about his history and what drove him into this life.

Pickup Truck Man: Origins

Prologue

Psychopaths can be found in legislatures, hospitals and used-car lots.  They're your neighbor, your boss and your blind date.  Because they have no conscience, they're natural predators.

If you didn't have a conscience, you'd be one too.

-Unknown

Ogden, Utah; Wednesday, Twenty-One Days Ago

Faith Altman was always a happy girl.  But today, she had just turned eighteen and she so happy she was walking on air.  She whirled in front of the mirror in her bedroom, pleased with what she saw.  Her new green Easter dress and rather demure wedge sandals were just the slightest bit out of style but to her still seemed adult-like and quite daring; what she wore all just came together in a way that made her feel so grown up. 

She was the fourth of five children, four girls and a boy, all part of an extended, upper-middle class Mormon family.  Her brother Sam was the oldest and had married last year.  He now lived on his own less than thirty miles away and worked in the family business, while she and her three sisters all still lived at home.  Sometimes she felt a little rebellious and even embarrassed about the size of her family and the old fashioned way her mother and father treated them.  At other times she thanked God for letting her be part of such a loving and supportive family. 

Her parents were relentlessly religious and so Faith, and her siblings, were all home-schooled.  The rest of her family members were devout Mormons as well, and while she wasn’t exactly sure what she believed, she was nonetheless meeting her family at their LDS temple in a few minutes.  But first she wanted to pick up a quick gift for one of her younger sisters.  Her parents normally never let her drive alone but today was special.  She pulled into the bookstore parking lot that was on the way to their temple and went in.  She walked quickly, happily.  She knew she was considered hopelessly naïve by most kids her age.  Having been home-schooled, perhaps she had been sheltered by her parents.  But she knew they loved her and wanted only the best for her, and she loved them dearly in return. 

The three youngest children in the family were all accomplished female athletes, and Faith knew she was an exceptional gymnast.  At more than 5’ 7” in height, she was a little tall now for truly competitive gymnastics at the college level, but she enjoyed competing in the floor exercises and rhythmic gymnastics routines more than anything else she’d ever done.  The summer Olympics in London had done an excellent job of showcasing women’s gymnastics.  She was good at it; and by heaven, her parents wanted to make her happy, so her parents willingly paid for the special coaching she needed.  Their mom had wanted Faith to compete in all of the local gymnastic invitational events, but this request had been refused a year ago because of her home-schooled status.  A threatened lawsuit had aroused a local reporter’s interest and a short interview about the controversy had made the national news about six months ago.  The gymnastics organization had caved in after that and now she competed against all of the other junior and senior girls that went to the local high school and with them against teams at other invitational competitions. 

Today, for some reason, perhaps for the first time in her life, Faith truly felt like an adult.  She knew she looked exceptional today, and when Faith looked attractive, she just felt good.  She had a wonderful family; she loved her parents and even loved her sister, the little toad. 

Her whole life was ahead of her.  She didn’t have a care in the world and she was just happy to be alive. 

Origins

No man knows till the time comes, what depths are within him.  To some men it never comes; let them rest and be thankful!  To me, you brought it; on me, you forced it!

-Unknown

A wolf in sheep's clothing is still a wolf

-Unknown

This Is A Truly Dangerous Man or Despite His Previous Good Looks, He’s Always Been One Slick, Heartless Bastard

Even after almost three years, the heavyset man with slightly pugnacious jowls was still considered relatively new to the team.  Referred to by members as either Midnight teams or Harvest teams, theirs was one of several highly-trained groups of professional kidnappers employed by someone rumored to be an older Eastern European man called The Albanian.  The teams always travelled light while on the road, moving often, abandoning possessions and identities by which they could be tracked, often carrying nothing more than bags of cash.  They were without bank accounts or credit cards, except for those they needed for temporary use.  Always on the move, searching for the next available Tier-1 beauty, they paid cash for the things they needed locally and then pretty much abandoned everything when they moved again. 

Normally trolling the southeast United States in an apparently aimless manner as they searched for targets with harvest potential, the team had this time uncharacteristically been ordered to focus full-time on one individual.  The unusual specificity of this request, the difficult requirements for success, all of these things bothered him because they kept the team pinned in one area much longer than they were used to. 

An odd man, he was a person of strong likes and dislikes.  His team consisted of four reapers, code named Adriel, Daniel, Gabriel and Peter; real first names and undue familiarity weren’t particularly encouraged in this kind of business.  Adriel was the leader, a very attractive woman in her mid-thirties.  The newest team member was called Peter.  The third man’s name was Daniel and he was called Gabriel.  While all of them were natural loners, he and the skinny black man had gotten together early on and over a couple of nights had determined they both fucking hated playing these kinds of spy games.  So, the guy he was most comfortable with informally became Mutt, while he became Pickup Truck Man because of the personal vehicle he drove.  Naturally. 

The young guy?  Not a bad kid really.  They generally called him Junior or Skippy; sometimes when they were pissed, it was Hey, Dick.  After all, you couldn’t call him Fuckwad all of the time. 

The team leader?  She was still The Cunt.

Whoever ultimately ran acquisitions had at least three such teams he knew of, with perhaps a fourth, less well-known team free-floating as they evaluated possible recruits even further afield.  Within each of the Midnight Hunter teams, there were specialists that carried out a variety of specific tasks including collecting intelligence on the target, conducting surveillance and abducting the target.  While the euphemisms for what they did were essentially endless, most members of these teams generally referred to themselves as simply Shepherds or Reapers. 

Most normal people feel a false sense of security in that members of various underworld fraternities are pretty much thought to be glaringly obvious—meth freaks looked like meth freaks, street dealers looked like street dealers, prostitutes looked cheap and killers always had that “look” in their eyes.  But in the real world, almost everyone wore a disguise. 

Thus, Reapers were actually quite nondescript.  Natural actors and chameleons.  Non-persons never noticed in a crowd.  They were highly disciplined and had no desire to see their names in lights, their pictures in newspapers or hope to hear their name as an answer to a question on Jeopardy!  Frankly, the people who desired attention interested them less than they amused members of his fraternity.  Reapers embraced their anonymity and the quiet that came with it. 

The artist Andy Warhol once said that in the future everyone would be famous for fifteen minutes, and he implied they would hunger for that fame.  He was right, but only about the kind of people he knew.  As for the guys who put handbills und windshield wipers in parking lots; Man!  They had totally wired the anonymity thing right; they were as invisible as the wind, as faceless as time. 

But the Pickup Truck Man was naturally a big man, and now he was even a little over-weight from sitting on his ass in his truck so much.  He had a broad forehead, a thick neck, big chest, a slight pot belly and a pair of legs that provided a sturdy base to what seemed an immovable object. 

He knew big men were nice to have around if you needed heavy lifting, but they weren’t generally good for clandestine work: they usually attracted too much attention.  His size wasn’t freakish or anything but it was his shoulders and head and neck that should have made him stand out. 

Along with those eyes. 

But somehow, he was still able to fit in without being noticed.  He didn’t rely on costumes or gimmicks like cowboy boots, cameras or wraparound sunglasses.  The trappings were important, but the art of not being noticed, of being disguised was in the gestures and the voice.  And then there was the X-Factor; the element that truly distinguished The Pickup Truck Man as a first class chameleon was his ability to truly become someone different, the person he was pretending to be. 

The few that did notice him were initially often drawn to what seemed like solid confidence and a strong belief in self.  But if one really got to know him, and few did other than the women he kidnapped---and they were never in a position to tell anyone anything afterwards---a person quickly realized that what looked like confidence was actually the façade of a cold, calculating and brutally manipulative man.  For if someone should ever make it past that outer shell of ordinary appearance, the Pickup Truck Man tended to scare people.  Somehow, on the most fundamental level, normal people just knew he didn’t belong.  Simple human interactions were often beyond him.  Pending violence and a well-disguised willingness to violate all boundaries hung on him like a neon sign once you knew what to look for.  Even then there were only a few cautionary signs for which one had to dig before they were visible, but by this time it was usually much too late.  He was a well-disguised predator that for the most part didn’t know how to talk to his prey. 

Targets were ninety-nine percent female, but every now and then a spectacular looking young male was taken too.  The teams being run out of Texas had forcibly taken enough recruits over a long enough period of time that the state police in the south and southeast had finally begun to take notice.  While the cops didn’t have a lot of details, sufficient young, extremely attractive talent had disappeared that certain trends had become painfully obvious.  While there still wasn’t a lot of publicity yet, it was certain that City, State and Federal law enforcement agencies had compiled and begun working off of some disturbingly good profiles. 

And so another layer of stress was added to the cat and mouse game played out between the two sides, for now the teams were always looking for the undercover cops who they must always assume were searching for them.  Men that stiff-walked through life; their slow, deliberate side-to side-gait a result of the guns they carried under their sport coats or in the waist bands of their trousers, because the guns were uncomfortable or made it hard to bend. 

There were other signs too.  Lots of them. 

Shoes and watches.  He’d learned a long time ago in his young, but stupid times that one of the secrets to staying out of jail was to pay attention to shoes and watches.  Loafers, for example.  Somebody wearing them was unlikely to be with the police in any capacity.  Anyone who’d tried to run while wearing loafers knew how it easy it was to lose a loafer in a chase or a fight.  Only lace-up boots were acceptable to anyone worth fearing. 

Thin soles were another indication that someone was unlikely to be a serious threat, thick soles being necessary in a fight.  Likewise, watches told the Pickup Truck Man a lot.  Many police trained in the late eighties up to the mid or late nineties wore Rolex dive watches or pilot watches.  They were rugged and the fit in with the masculine ego most cops of that age displayed like some sort of a fraternity badge.  Undercover police of that age also tended to prefer sneakers, jeans, T-shirts and wind breakers (often leather) for their casual undercover clothing.  Further, the windbreaker had to be loose to hide a gun.  To the untutored eye, none of this would seem unusual.  And not that anyone who fit this description necessarily aroused his suspicions.  But to the Pickup Truck Man, that person caused concern for the operation. 

Undercover police trained after the late 1990’s tended to have a different profile.  They were younger of course, and the watch they preferred was a cheap and anonymous rubber-coated diver’s watch that had a timer function and could be picked up in any decent sporting goods store.  They generally preferred hiking boots with tough, thick soles, along with loose fitting camping pants with baggy pockets, a loose pullover, and a fanny pack.  All of these allowed concealment of a weapon.  Given the generally poor fashion sense of most people on the street, anyone who matched this profile didn’t necessarily stand out, except to someone like him who instantly began watching overtime. 

Watches.  So much could be told by them.  It wasn’t something the Pickup Truck Man did consciously anymore.  It had become his reflexive way of seeing the world.  He had an aptitude for what he did.  A certain ice-cold ability that was heightened by the fact that he didn’t allow extraneous facts to get in the way.  As a shepherd, there was little room for fear and doubt.  There had to be caution and a keen eye to detail, but fear and doubt could be incapacitating.  He was cautious, but neither fearful nor filled with doubts. 

And so, he was so very good at what he did. 

But even more, he left nothing behind that could be tied to him, not DNA, not footprints or fingerprints, there were no good pictures of him or videos from fast food or efficiency store security cameras.  Finally, he never left anyone behind that could connect him to an acquisition.  He had no known enemies because of this. 

He didn’t permit such a thing. 

Finally, he was a lucky man too.  Things just seemed to work out for him, and sometimes, even he was amazed at his luck.  It seemed at times to be the devil’s own luck.  Cops never accidently drove by one of his abductions while on routine patrol.  Women and girls always seemed to have their minds on something else while he was around—watches stopped and they were hurrying somewhere because they were late, or something had happened at work or home and they were preoccupied, cell phones would not work or heels broke or cars would not start; all of this added to his reputation among the teams. 

He was very good, but the other members of the team were too.  And his team had fairly good team chemistry, acting in unspoken harmony even when the situation went south and they were in a reactive rather than proactive mode, putting a play together on the fly.  By nature, they were all loners, and they played to that strength. 

There were two basic parts to the job, finding an acceptable target and then surveilling and acquiring the target.  The first part allowed them to remain loosely together as a team as they prowled according to whatever parameters they had set for themselves.  However, during the second half of the operation, they generally tried to maintain the fiction of being alone.  They all rented different vehicles using fake ID’s, they didn’t tend to share meals together, they didn’t need to travel together, and they certainly didn’t feel the need to overnight at the same place while on the job. 

The target had already been identified for them in this case, so upon arriving individually for this job, they’d set up in the normal way, using anonymous websites and the burner cellphones that had been provided for their use when a cellphone was absolutely necessary.  No ordinary burner, the Samsung S3 they used was a Shenzhen special, and the IMEI, the phone’s unique serial number, confirmed its Chinese-knockoff origins.  For additional security, the SIM cards for all of the burners came from Uzbekistan.  So what the teams used were Chinese knock-off phones with an untraceable serial number and an untraceable SIM card from the “Stans. 

However, when possible, the team just avoided using the cellphones and approximated real-time contact by leaving cryptic messages in the Drafts folder of multiple free Yahoo email addresses setup by the team leader for each particular job; each was a one-time email site that would never be used again.  Thus, while it was a little more tedious, they were able to work closely together even as they labored apart, coordinating arrivals and departures and evaluating snatch sites from a distance, planning on coming together just before the end, gathering just as the job required completion. 

Generally, the teams were allowed to roam freely, crossing state lines in the south, west and lower Midwest, always changing vehicle plates as they hunted for beautiful young women to take.  They moved secretly, quietly, never travelling together as they crossed state lines.  Multiple false names, multiple overlapping sets of motel records, never the same license plates; the confusion between competing authorities built fast enough to keep them safe as long as they didn’t so something stupid or were spectacularly unlucky. 

Mostly, the teams recruited young females that had no extended family or harvested targets of opportunity that fit their recruiting profile.  But sometimes, like now, they were given a specific target.  In these thankfully rare cases, the shepherds still had to surveil the girl to determine if she was worth taking, and could be safely taken.  Only if the job could be accomplished without undue risk did they then proceed.  After all, they were in it for the money; the potential for spending the rest of their life in prison just because they had acted too quickly or cut corners while gather intelligence was not a welcome prospect. 

Three days ago they had received instructions to go to Ogden, Utah, and he’d arrived day before yesterday.  Personally, after changing the Texas plates for Utah plates, he’d left his pickup at an out of the way, long-term parking lot, pulled his hat down low over his face, finally taking a taxi to one of the better hotels in on the edge of town.  From there, he taken a second taxi to the other side of town and acquired an inexpensive mud-colored generic family sedan as a rental. 

The non-descript Ford Taurus had been acquired using a set of forged documents provided by whoever ultimately ran this operation, documents that he would dump after this particular job.  However decent the forgeries were, and they were uniformly good to excellent, that was the way they always did it.  He almost always wore a hat pulled down over his eyes, never looked up at security cameras, never took unnecessary chances.  All of the precautions he took without ever really thinking about it anymore, they were the reasons why he, his team and the rest of the people that worked this kind of job were seldom, if ever, caught.

As usual, he’d then driven the Taurus about forty miles west of town from where the girl’s family lived and checked into a cheap motel. 

It Was The Team’s First Day In Ogden or Even In Low-Profile Mode, He Still Seemed Interesting To The Young Motel Clerk

The door chimed and seventeen year-old Gabrielle Hunter looked up from the miniature television set on her desk.  The man who stepped into the lobby of the Sunset Hills Motor Inn was a big man, not necessarily tall, but not short either.  Rather, he was just big in the shoulders and his waist was no longer as slender as it once might have been.  But it was his face that made her stop.  While it was a heavy face, almost overbearing, it seemed to her that it was also a face that had been lived in, the face of a man who had seen and done a lot of things in life.  She liked to imagine herself having a face like that in a few years, once she’d gotten out of here.

The man approached the desk and his expressionless mouth twitched into something that might have resembled a smile.  She turned down the TV and asked, “Can I help you?” 

“I’d like to get a room, please,” he said pleasantly.

“For how long?”

“One day, but that might change and I could be around longer.”

All business now, Gabrielle responded, “I need your license, please.  How will you pay?”

“Cash,” he said as she read the name off of the license: DEREK TRAVISS.

Gabby turned to the computer, entered the man’s information and then spun her chair to face the wall of keys.  “Smoking or non-smoking?”

“Non-smoking, thank you.”

His bill was printing.  “You’ll need to drive around to the right and then the back.  It’s room twenty-six, on the second floor.”  She tore his bill loose, slid it across the desk with his license and keys.  “That’ll be fifty-three fifty, with tax.”

He handed her two twenties, a ten and a five.  She made change and then smiled routinely, “Have a good stay.”

“By the way,” she suddenly blurted, “complimentary coffee is served in the lobby each morning from six to ten.  Would you like some information about local sights?  I’ve got brochures…”

“I’ll be busy working,” he replied courteously.  “But thank you.”

His mouth did that odd twitchy-thing again, and he went out the front door.

Gabby reflected; for some reason, he seemed interesting to her.  A mysterious stranger, she thought.  A darkly mysterious stranger.  A rough man, but she thought maybe she had detected a deeper, more sensitive side to him too.  There wasn’t a lot to see around here, but what kind of work would keep him too busy to see the few sights they did have?  Perhaps the man was a poet, or maybe a writer.  He certainly seemed intense enough.  Out here, in the middle of nowhere, she imagined a writer could get a lot of work done.  Or perhaps, she suddenly speculated, he was something else.  These days, one couldn’t take anything for granted.  A government agent or maybe even a terrorist.  She snorted, amused at her train of thought, or perhaps she was just bored. 

A few moments passed.  Bored again, Gabby stopped massaging the small zit that was slowly developing on the tip of her nose and reached again for the television set.  She turned up the volume and for the time being, forgot about the dark, mysterious stranger who had checked into her parent’s motel for a night or two, at least. 

Ogden, Utah; Friday, Nineteen Days Ago

As usual, the Pickup Truck Man had checked in first, taken a quick nap and then assumed the early Thursday morning surveillance shift.  He had gone back to the motel afterwards and caught some sleep.  Now, he had just finished the Friday morning shift and it was about time to head back to the motel once more.  While it was too early to be feel any frustration, it also wasn’t necessarily surprising that even after watching the girl’s family for over 24-hours, none of them had picked up any additional intelligence about the target that they had not already possessed upon their arrival. 

The team had never been sent this far to harvest a specific recruit.  Worse, as obvious outsiders in a burgeoning, yet still tightly knit city, the longer they stayed, the more difficult it would be to continue blending in without raising questions.  The target lived with her family and the family seldom allowed any the children to leave home alone.  The only exception was when their girl took early morning gymnastics lessons.  On special occasions, she also attended afternoon practices at the local high school or was involved in competitions, but it would not work for them having to wait for any of those to occur.  But the truth was that his team had been only onsite for a couple of days before the weekend and the family hadn’t followed any established pattern so far. 

It was just one more frustration for the team.  It had been a long dry spell, no real targets worth recruiting for over a month now, and they were tired.  Unused to feeling out of sorts, all of them worked to maintain at least a minimum sense of professionalism.  There were a lot of good looking females here, that wasn’t the problem.  The problem was that the team worked under impossibly high standards and that meant their target had to be literally exceptional in every way AND the team had been targeted on one specific individual rather than letting them throw their nets a little wider and “recruit” or “harvest” or “reap” any obvious angels of opportunity.  That was what made it so difficult. 

So, here they were.  Flying under the radar in conservative, small-town Ogden, all to evaluate the overall charms of a particular young woman.  They rarely worked an area like this for this long.  It had always seemed too dangerous.  In and out, quick and clean, bim-bam, thank you ma’am, that had always been their preferred method.  Now they were departing from that, and to make it worse, the girl’s unknowing family refused to cooperate.  Their conservative lifestyle made it extremely difficult to learn much of anything about her or even them. 

He’d just finished his shift, but wanted to pick up some paperbacks to read tomorrow morning.  Mutt had the family’s home loosely staked out now, so he went to the large chain book store before heading back to his motel; he was tired, bored and browsing the uninteresting magazines as he sipped a large, black, over-priced decaf coffee.  It was about noon and the place was almost empty when she walked in. 

He lazily looked over at the young woman walking by and then his eyes snapped back, irresistibly drawn to her.  At about 80,000 people, Ogden really was still a relatively small town, but as incredible as it might seem, it was her, their target.  Of this he had no doubt. 

He looked around---no Mutt, no Junior.  Somehow, she’d gotten by the two of them, which was a feat in and of itself and she was out on her own. 

The Pickup Truck Man slowly drifted closer to the team’s potential prey and then he stopped.  He narrowed his eyes as he looked at the girl and stood motionless.  Like a rock, like a statue…..like a predator. 

His Was An Objective Analysis Of Her Charms or These Were The Traits Of A Very Desirable Young Woman

The very, very attractive young woman began talking to an older woman working near him, asking about books for children under five.  The Pickup Truck Man assumed her look was supposed to be some sort of church-going thing; young adult, yet demure and innocent.  But that look on her didn’t work, couldn’t work, would never work with a young woman like her.  He knew he was being too obvious, but couldn’t help himself.  He could see why the old man wanted her.  It was the same reason that he enjoyed watching her now.  She was absolutely not one of those thin teenage girls who had yet to fully grow up.  She was a woman; irrefutably grownup and indisputably adult, a totally beautiful woman despite her chronological age. 

Eighteen years old today, she was at the same time an innocent elf and an unknowing, yet captivating succubus.  Despite her desire to seem adult, clearly she was still an immature teenager in some ways.  Yet, there was also something else about her that seemed compelling.  Perhaps because of her religion or her family upbringing, from what the Pickup Truck Man could tell, and despite her youth, she also seemed to lack the childish illusions that often tested children; that made them potential victims or led them astray.  He had a sense of her natural dignity, but the adolescent ego that made teenagers imagine themselves exceptional in either their abilities or their destiny seemed missing in her.  It was as if even at her young age, she somehow knew the world and the people in it for what they were, and this gave her a quiet unshakeable confidence. 

A life largely spent indoors had not left her pale and drawn for her face had color and carried not a blemish.  Her jade-green eyes were large and guileless -- yet simultaneously smoky, mysterious.  Her nose was pert and she had Slavic-high cheekbones and a slightly squarish chin, but her mouth was sensuous with lush red lips, making it the essence of all that was erotic. 

In some ways, her beauty was chaste, like that of a Botticelli Madonna, ethereal even.  She had medium-small breasts for her age and sport, and impossibly long and well-formed legs.  But even so, the girl was still slender, but not too slender, for she was very shapely even with her tiny waist.  Especially with her tiny waist.  Her athletic, almost tom-boyish build was absolutely perfect for a gymnast. 

If one was to believe what had been published, for everyone that knew this girl, her beauty stirred neither envy nor desire, but inexplicably inspired something like hope or even reverence among those that had the fortune to know her. 

But here the team was, and her enduring innocence, her obvious vulnerability, these things were what had drawn the team, were what had excited their boss. 

The teenager had on little makeup because her flawless skin simply didn’t need any.  Her honey-gold hair was a little longer than shoulder length and loose, unconfined and flowing as she walked.  She wore a simple, unpatterned green dress, but on her it was enchanting.  The spring dress came to just above her shapely knees.  Uncomplicated, the softly knit outfit was double scooped, front and back to emphasize her long neck and firm shoulders and arms.  Despite the neckline, the dress really was conservative and not meant to be particularly sexy….but it was absolutely mind-numbing on her. 

With a high waist that rode just below her breasts and gathered below, the skirt had a swingy, flowing shape as she strode by; on her it was an evocative look that drew far more attention to her body than it concealed.  She had long, very shapely calves and slender ankles, while “almost nude” pantyhose and strappy, three-inch wedge sandals finished off the innocent look of someone’s home-schooled teenage daughter.  He could just see her in a short, tight, black bandage dress with sheer black stockings and sky-high stiletto-heeled pumps.  A man would pay almost anything asked just to possess her innocence one time. 

While she talked to the clerk, he could never decide whether to look at her eyes or her mouth.  The slightly squarish features of her face offset one another so nicely, the straight nose complementing the full lips, the full lips complementing the remarkably firm chin for an eighteen year-old, and so on.  Her gaze seemed direct as she listened intently to the older woman; it was a look that could be interpreted by some as perhaps even challenging.  Whatever it was, it was a look that appealed to the conquistador in him.  But her young lips were just so deliciously ripe too.  When she talked, he was amazed at the way her supple lips formed words.  If possible, her mouth really was perhaps a better feature than even her eyes. 

A relatively confident yet still shy girl, she suddenly caught him gazing at her mouth and nervously mistook his gaze as looking at something that was wrong.  Embarrassed, she took out a Kleenex and turned away to unobtrusively wipe her mouth as she finished her conversation with the female clerk.  The girl didn’t need to be concerned about smearing her lipstick, because she wasn’t wearing any.  It couldn’t improve her.  He suddenly realized that he was staring and that she had become increasingly aware of it.  His gaze drifted up to her eyes as he turned to walk away to another section.  It was glaringly obvious that the girl was shy and lacking in worldly experience; she blushed faintly as she looked away from him and threw the crumpled tissue in a waste can. 

She then went to the children’s section and picked up a couple of thin books before proceeding to the checkout counter.  The man was so filled with sudden lust that it was hard to walk, but he departed anyway, started his Ford rental and then waited for the unsuspecting angel.  She came out in a minute, walking in that free and open and innocent way that was still so incredibly sexy.  Pickup Truck Man videotaped everything up until the girl hopped in a two-year old Corolla that must have belonged to her parents and then drove to a large LDS temple about five miles away.  This was a girl that lacked even the pretense of “street smarts”.  She was glaringly oblivious to everything around her, especially to the inconspicuous Ford that was never more than two vehicles behind. 

Whatever was going on inside, it lasted a little more than ninety minutes, time he spent thinking about the girl and his first impressions.  Whether he had been wrong or not, he knew she was one of those young women that a man wanted to possess in every way as soon as he had seen her.  The Pickup Truck Man videotaped her as she laughed softly while walking out with her family and he knew then that she was more than likely a high-end Tier-1 prospect.  Tier-1’s, or T-1’s, were what all teams aspired to; they were the girls and young women that were literally perfect physical specimens.  As in everything else in life, even when rated as a T-1, some were more beautiful, more sexually desirable than others.  It was sometimes hard to classify a high-potential recruit when they were viewed fully clothed and from a distance or in a few blurry photos.  But if this one was not T-1 material, then she would definitely rate at the top of the T-2’s that worked in the old man’s basement.  In either case, she was worth a lot of money to the team. 

Suddenly, the Pickup Truck Man felt what he assumed was the slightest touch of empathy for the young girl he’d never really met.  Instinctively, the emotion felt to him both unusual and actually unwanted; empathy was a bad thing for a man in his business since it was supposed to give him second thoughts about what he did.  Quickly, easily, he put that whole frame of reference aside; going instead with his usual life was a bitch mode. 

She might be young and innocent and beautiful and think she had her whole life ahead of her now.  That was the reasonable expectation of someone with a loving and supportive family, and who enjoyed the kind of life experiences she had probably had.  But the hard reality was that she really was nothing less than a unsuspecting cow ready to be taken; fresh meat, part of a larger herd of cattle that had not yet been culled. 

The team did not usually go after young women with close family, but the old man had specifically targeted this girl……so who was he to deny the old man his demands?  He called the team on his cell and let them know that their target was on the move and that he was following her and her family, most likely back to their home. 

Knowing the girl’s name and the family’s address from the beginning, the team had been able to quickly begin pulling information off the internet on the family members.  They knew that her full name was Faith, but she was called Faith by all that knew her.  Initially skeptical with the old man’s orders, it was easy for the team to Google the girl since she had already competed in several interstate gymnastic events.  Even though initially cynical about the old man’s orders, once the team saw a couple photos of her wearing only a skin-tight, yet still conservative gymnastic costume, they became believers and were much more enthusiastic in their efforts. 

It was easy to dig up the girl’s superficial history: her main passion in life was gymnastics.  She was very competitive in rhythmic gymnastics, tumbling and free-style, not bad on the parallel beam, and had been competing since she was eight.  Since the family owned two local car dealerships, there was always money for lessons.  She turned out to have some talent and after four years of lessons, she had graduated to a level where she was now being coached by an older woman that had competed in the 1984 Olympics, the one in which the summer games had been spoiled by the Soviet boycott. 

They’d seen a couple of out of focus newspaper photos, but what the rest of the team really needed was to see her in person, to see how she looked, how she carried herself, how she moved, was she as shapely as she looked in photos or was she one of those unfortunate females with a pretty face and droopy buttocks or saggy tits.  He was already convinced.  But they had to see it too.  It was sometimes difficult to determine these things without stripping the subject naked, but the team had enough experience at evaluating young females that they were rarely fooled anymore. 

They discovered that she worked out early every morning on weekdays and then returned to her family for home-schooling.  Faith had keys to front door of her coach’s gym.  She showed up promptly at 5:30 AM and then let herself in.  Always before her mother or father had driven her to the gym and then watched and waited for their daughter during practice.  But recently, she had begun driving herself to the gym even though it seemed her parents thought she was becoming a little too independent for her own good.  Faith then stretched inside the gym for about half an hour, at which point her gymnastics trainer showed up around 6, except for Mondays, when the woman never arrived earlier than 6:15.  The two then worked on moves and routines for about two hours before calling it quits. 

There was no reason for the innocent girl to suspect that her life was maybe going to change forever, as plans were being put in place to take her from the home-schooled equivalent of high school and turn her into a whore whose only purpose in life was to earn money for an Eastern European mafia syndicate. 

None of that was really his concern now, for it was Friday afternoon, it was getting late and it was time for him to head back to his motel, get some sleep and get back to watching the Altman place. 

Inquisitiveness Is Not Next To Godliness or Gabrielle Really, REALLY Needs To Mind Her Own Business

The school bus door closed with a hydraulic hiss as it pulled away.  The stranger’s car, Gabby noticed, was gone.  Had he checked out before the weekend?  For some reason, she frowned.  After a moment she shouldered her backpack and moved to the front office.  Her mother looked up. 

“Conchita called in sick.  You’ll have to help with the housekeeping today.”

Gabby shot her mother a frowny face.

“And get that look off your face.”

Gabrielle gave in to immature frustration and stuck her tongue out before she moved through the office and into the small set of rooms in back that she shared with her family.  She dumped her backpack, washed her hands and considered her latest earring, the third in her right ear.  It looked red and the skin around it felt hard.  It couldn’t decide whether or not it was going to become infected, but after further consideration, she thought it was going to be okay. 

It was time to grab the linen cart. 

Leaves on trees that covered the low foot hills surrounding the Sunset Hills Motor Inn were rustling in a soft, slow wind.  She felt a sense of frustration; the work was not hard but Conchita missed more days than the rest of the maids combined.  But there was nothing she could do about it, so, giving in with a big sigh, she began.  Delayed by the unexpected chores, Gabby knew that if she could get the housekeeping completed quickly enough, she might still have a chance to get into the hills for a few minutes before the sun went down. 

Gabrielle was growing up.  She wanted to get away, she needed to get away.  Gabby had a favorite place near a creek, a secret place next to the water that cascaded down from Devil’s Peak, and it would be in full bloom on a day like today.  She loved spending time there, it was the one place that allowed her to be a teenager without any grownups around or the ridiculous rules they all insisted on.  It was a place that gave her the freedom to dream her dreams without being interrupted by either her parents or her annoying sister. 

While the motel did an okay job of supporting her family, it had not been a busy week.  Only two rooms on the ground floor were occupied today, she worked these fast and they went quickly.  Finally, she wheeled the cart into the elevator and rode the slow, cranky antique up to the second floor.  Here were the final two rooms that required attention.  Then she would be done and out into the hills. 

Room twenty-six belonged to the man who had arrived the day before.  She briskly rapped on the metal door twice.  “Housekeeping,” she called. 

But his car was gone, of course.  Checked out or not, the man wasn’t here.  Part of a routine she’d completed a thousand times before, she let herself in with the passkey.  She noted the bed seemed to have hardly been used.  Gabby destroyed a bed at night; in the morning she always found the sheet and blanket kicked into a tangle at her feet.  But this man either slept soundly or had not used the bed at all.  Regardless, she changed the sheets and then moved into the bathroom, where meager evidence of his existence could actually be found.  She replaced the single, neatly re-folded towel and then made a quick circuit of the room with a feather duster.  She had not previously noticed the small bag tucked into a corner near the desk; small, made of black leather. 

So, he had decided to stay for at least another day. 

She looked at the bag and then looked away and continued dusting.  Just as she was about to leave, she looked at the bag again. 

A writer?  A poet?  Or a terrorist?

Her mouth quirked.  Gabrielle looked around guiltily as if someone might be watching, then she moved, quickly and stealthily, to the bag.  Kneeling beside it, she reached for the zipper. 

You shouldn’t be doing this, Gabrielle thought to herself.

It was the same-old, same-old; what she always thought when going through a guest’s luggage.  Not that this necessarily was something of which she made a habit.  But she’d done it before and with guests about whom she felt far less curiosity.  Not necessarily a particularly smart girl, but always the clever girl, before reaching into the bag, Gabrielle carefully memorized how the items inside were arranged, so that she would be able to hide the evidence of her snooping. 

On top she noted a manila folder and a smaller, leather folder just a little larger than a passport.  Inside the last were what looked like drivers’ licenses and credit cards.  Beneath them were clothes: a few items, mostly dark in color.  A pair of jeans, two T-shirts and a long-sleeved shirt neatly folded.  Below the shirt, there was something else.  She caught a glimpse of white plastic and the glint of polished metal.  Almost looked like one of those handcuff things one saw in the new cop shows on TV.  She reached into the bag again……

The big man had suddenly come into the room behind her without making a sound.  He was looking at her with curiously cold, almost black eyes.  Gabby stood, but unexpectedly, her knees felt weak.  When she spoke however, her voice was surprisingly steady. 

“There you are.  We’ve got a bit of a roach problem.  I wanted to make sure your bag, um…”

He kept looking at her.

“Everything looks okay,” she finished lamely.  “Well, I’ll just get out of your way.”

Gabrielle moved towards the door, regretting her curiosity.  And as she drew closer, her arms arose almost on their own to protectively hug her torso.  His eyes seemed haunting and for some reason she had the uncomfortable feeling that this man would not hesitate to hurt her, reacting in some reckless way just as she stepped past him.  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she was slipping past him unhindered, turning hastily to the right before she remembered the cart she’d left behind.  Gabby stopped and turned.  The cart was still where she’d left it, parked outside the room, and the man was still standing there, looking at her.

She moved back, smiling sheepishly, “Forgot my cart.”

He still said nothing.

Gabrielle put her hands on the cart, turned again, and began to wheel it away.  She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder.  But there was no need for she could feel his eyes burning into her back.  When she reached the elevator, she mashed the button several times in quick succession. 

The doors seemed to take forever to open. 

The Pickup Truck Man watched the girl move into the elevator and the doors close.  Then he stepped into the room, pulled the door shut behind him and went through his bag to ensure everything was still there.  He had two additional valises made out of thick black nylon.  One of them was very heavy.  He kept both locked in the car and the heavy valise was the reason he drove everywhere.  It contained things best kept away from airport scanners. 

He didn’t want this to be anything, but he also knew that his sudden anxiety arose from his intuition, not from some chain of deductive reasoning.  He was wise enough and sufficiently experienced to know that, at least for him, intuition was one of the highest forms of knowledge, and he’d learned after years of experience that it should never be ignored. 

Yet… 

It was still nothing, he told himself.  Just a teenaged girl, no doubt bored out of her mind and stuck out here in the middle of nowhere.  She snooped as a matter of course, no doubt, thanks to her boredom. 

She suspected nothing……the stupid, stupid bitch.

Calm. 

He twisted the door lock, sat on the edge of the bed and straightened his back, then closed his eyes.  No cause for alarm, he thought.  Just a stupid young girl.  A stupid, fucking, too curious girl. 

The team knew their target’s location and were in the process of learning her activities and schedules.  Soon it would be finished and they’d be gone, with no one the wiser. 

Soon. 

This one was not a threat. 

Calm.  He breathed in and out slowly.  His shift started early and he needed rest. 

He had never worked regular hours.   Sleep when you can so you won’t need to when you can’t.  That was his rule.  To him there was no real difference between a Tuesday and a Sunday, or a Monday and a Friday, or night and day.  He was happy to sleep twelve hours and then work the next thirty-six, if he had to.  And when he didn’t have to work the next thirty-six, then he would sleep twelve hours again, and again, as often as he could, until the next target cropped up. 

The bed seemed short and the mattress was lumpy.  The air had settled like a thick pea soup on the thin sheet covering him.  He could hear insects outside, clicking and whining loudly.  The sound of the night, far from anywhere.  There were lonely guttural cries both near and far off in the distance. 

Finally, he was able to sleep. 

The Lesson For Today: Avoid Interesting Tourists or Bad Luck For A Too Curious Girl??

Ogden, Utah; Saturday, Eighteen Days Ago

It was 3:30 in the morning and a shivering Gabby Hunter crept out into the drizzle.  She pulled the sweater more tightly around her body, then pressed herself into to the recess by the front office to avoid the cold, wet wind.  After a moment, she took out her pack of cigarettes and put one in her mouth.  She needed the cigarette---her body had woken her up with the need.  At least, that is what she had told herself. 

Being addicted to nicotine seemed quite an adult thing; it made Gabrielle feel very grownup.  Of course, she was not yet doing exactly right since she smoked only three or four a day, whenever she could find the time and privacy.  But she was working on it, and soon, she’d be smoking half a pack a day, maybe even a full pack.  She could imagine the look on her boring mother’s face when she realized her daughter had become a sophisticated smoker.  But the problem was that if her mother caught her right now, there’d be hell to pay, so Gabby ducked further back into the shadows as she struck a match and tried to be as quiet as possible. 

She would graduate in a little more than a year, and a few months after that she’d be in college.  Then she would be able to give the burgeoning habit the attention it deserved.  And when her parents finally came to visit her at college, they’d find a sophisticated young woman who smoked long, elegant cigarettes. 

Something moved in the night. 

She exhaled, reflexively hiding the glowing cigarette ember behind her body. 

For a moment, she thought it had been a trick of her eyes.  The rain was misting down, swirling patterns in the wind that hid any real detail.  And she was tired.  Who would have been moving, here, in the dead of the early morning darkness, in the parking lot in front of Sunset Hills Motor Inn?

There!  Gabby saw it again; she had not been imagining it!  It really had been a person slipping into a car. 

After she saw the last movement, she waited……nothing happened.  Gabby dropped the cigarette and stepped on it.  Then she stood, hugging herself, still watching. 

Minutes passed.  She had imagined it, she decided at last.  The whole thing was a stupid dream.  What was she doing out here, smoking cigarettes?  This was not like her.  A year ago, the thought of a cigarette would have been disgusting.  A year before, she had been a good girl; she would have behaved herself, she never would have smoked.  The parties, the pot, Jimmy clawing at her sweater in some strange parent’s bedroom….

The rain suddenly picked up and then the engine of car was turned on. 

She watched as it drifted backward, out of its space, and then gained the access road running in front of the hotel.  The headlights blazed to life as the vehicle pulled away.

She kept watching, shivering in the drizzly night.  Gabby took out another cigarette and carefully lit it.

It was early, dark-early in the morning and the Pickup Truck Man had just replaced the team leader, staking out the Altman family home.  The Cunt had finally left and the Pickup Truck Man sat alone in his Ford, bored, drinking bad coffee he’d picked up at a 24-hour gas station and getting ready to urinate into an empty plastic coke bottle rather than leave his rental to take a piss in the rain. 

This family had no idea that people like him existed or that they might be nearby and have an interest in their daughter.  They were so damned clueless.  Sometimes it seemed like he lived in two worlds.  One was understood by the masses, papered over with comforting conceits, anchored in psychological need rather than physical fact.  This was a world with a million heroes and gooey happy endings, where the unknown was irrelevant and confronting one’s own weaknesses was the breakfast of losers.  He called it Disney World. 

The other one was Reality.  Most people rarely visited his world.  His job was to quietly move a few beautiful people through the Employees Only door from Disney World to the Real World.  And when he did this, most were never allowed to come back.  For them the cartoon was over and it was now time for Animal Planet.  Only a limited number, like the ones that he and Mutt took for personal use while on vacation, they were the lucky few allowed to re-enter Disney World at the end….but only if they wanted to.

He’d been taking people, mostly females, for quite a while, at least five years before he’d begun with the current team…  The Pickup Truck Man’s mind lazily wandered back to how he’d first gotten into the business. 

Once, about ten, twelve years ago, he’d been a very good looking man before too much fast food and so much sitting and driving and living in his pickup had given him a big belly and even bigger ass.  He’d always been a grifter and female companionship had often been one of the perks of a long con being worked by an average to nice looking guy.  He’d always liked women and had worked at maintaining a go along to get along attitude with the world, even as he took it for all he could get. 

In his late-thirties at the time, he had been working the system hard but had been out of money at the moment.  He’d had a run of bad luck and needed some cash to hold him over until the plans for a new scam had been laid.  Christ, he remembered asking himself, how did the sheep do it, living this kind of life.  He’d only been interviewing for a couple of days and already he was bored to death with what seemed an almost endless loop of useless interviews with various companies. 

Quickly Trained To The Boss’s Pleasure or The Whip Never Left Her Hand

Georgia; June, 1995

He was in Savannah; it was a new town and a fresh start and he knew no one.  He had two credit cards that were good for maybe another twenty days tops, then they’d be flagged and dangerous as hell.  That, and perhaps another hundred in cash. 

Man, he loved challenges. 

An exceedingly violent man when necessary, he was not a man who generally allowed that violence free rein.  He needed a place to lay low for a few weeks, some money for a cushion.  Nothing new about that.  Play like he was one of the marks for maybe a month, pretend to be one of the fish he always took to the cleaners.  Once he had himself some cash, had caught his breath and knew the lay of the land, he’d use the job to launch the next phase of his plan. 

At the moment, he was at a job interview, wearing his best suit; an Armani knock-off, but a good one.  Most of the time he let the suit do the talking, got him halfway there by itself. 

Trot ‘em all out, phony, con man, grifter, flimflam man; he knew ‘em all, he’d been ‘em all.  To varying degrees of success.  He’d been drifting for the last few years, had nothing big to show for it.  He was a natural-born chameleon of sorts.  One thing, he could sure shoot the shit.  If you noticed his accent, he had more changes than a two-dollar whore working the strip in Vegas.  He flitted from accent to accent like an alkie off the street searching dumpsters for that last whisper of cheap wine. 

You wanna know why?  Because he could.  Failed actor.  Tried it on one time when he was still young and naïve.  Hadn’t had what it takes, that zombie-sponge ability to soak it up.  Plus, oddly enough, he wasn’t real good at taking directions from assholes. 

Who knew??

Suddenly, he zoned.  It just happened, the way his mind worked; he’d go away sometimes, like a white blankness, a space apart, with some episode from the past narrating on the side.  It had gotten a lot better recently so nobody really noticed, but it still happened occasionally.

Well, maybe a few knew.  There was the time they’d had him in the secure facility.  Yeah, the madhouse, that private home for the bewildered, and the shrink was giving him all of these tests.  He was sixteen, going on seventeen, and he’d been involved in what he personally viewed as a minor altercation.  Basically, he’d fucked up and instead of keeping his head down, he had prairie-dogged, sticking his head above of the rest of herd in which he normally hid.  It should have been nothing, but something about him had triggered a subliminal warning with the police onsite, and that had somehow been enough to ensure he was sent in for evaluation, forever giving him a record and separating him from the rest of the losers he’d used as camouflage for most of his young life. 

It had been only the second time in his life that he had been evaluated, but as a result of this one he had been forced to sit through the same boring shit-ass counseling for another few years after that.  Unknown to him, the tests had shown that he couldn’t really be called a sociopath, not by the traditional definition of someone lacking the usual ability to feel empathy and understand human emotion.  Oh, he felt the emotion alright, but he simply didn’t care.  He pretty much knew the difference between right and wrong.  He knew which of his actions would be most likely to hurt other people.  The problem had been that in almost every measure, in every hypothetical in which they put him, he always chose to do the wrong thing. 

Not out of some twisted selfishness or thought of future gain, which was how most sociopaths were wired.  He didn’t even get any pleasure out of another person’s pain, if the MMPI could be trusted.  He wasn’t a sadist.  He just had an unerring instinct for malice and the best way to use people.  For him, it was almost a talent, like a virtuoso who played the violin beautifully the first time it was put in his hands.  He could find a person’s weakness within moments of meeting them, and then he never let up until he had them like putty in his hands.  A born predator. 

He remembered the college-trained punk had leaned back at the initial interview and said, “You seem to show latent sociopathic tendencies.”

The crap these guys talked.  So, being young but stupid at that age, he had gone with it and demanded, “Gimme fifty bucks.”

The fuckhole looked at him with his eyebrows waggling in surprise and said, “Excuse me?”

“Give me fifty bucks or I’ll cut your throat.”

The over-educated piece of shit had sat there with the alarm bell right on his desk, his suddenly sweaty, trembling hand hovering over it and the prick had asked, “Are you serious?”

He’d stared intently at the fuck’s hand and said, “Depends upon how latent those tendencies are……  Ya think?”  It had not been a smart move, but it had felt so good at that moment. 

Ah, for the good times…….

Like when he’d met this college broad, a young trust-fund mama on spring break.  He’d been in his professor’s year-out sabbatical writing-the-novel shtick, right down to the leather patches on his corduroy jacket.  An easy role.  Crib some Updike, some Cheever, then sprinkle with Blake; it’s a lock for a certain kind of bitch.  It was funny; the Blake, he’d learned that from Thomas Harris’s Red Dragon. 

Go figure. 

Blake was a shoo-in, the college bunnies sucked that right up.

Took the naïve bitch for five large, then it all went south.  Had to break the cunt’s neck in her own shower. 

You think that’s easy?  They were in the shower together.  He’d pulled her to him as if to kiss her neck, her back to his front, then whipped his left arm around her throat, put his right palm against her skull just below the right ear, and pushed forward.  An oh-so careful application of pressure had easily separated the skull from the spinal column.  But he’d had to be cautious because the damn soap had made everything slippery and he’d been a bit woozy after the sex. 

But the upside of doing it in the shower?  It was always a clean kill.  Plus, they ruled it an accidental death, due to falling in the shower and hitting her head.  Morons!

The bottom line though was that he wasn’t a guy that normally used overt, physical violence because it drew too much attention to a guy.  But when it was necessary, and sometimes necessary had a very low threshold, he just didn’t hesitate.  Didn’t do it because he liked it, just didn’t shy away from it either.  And while that one had been his first, there had been two others since then.  Hopefully it was the last.  Of course, if you took into account what he routinely did to women, he guessed he could be called a very violent man. 

Back to the interview.  The woman asking him questions looked younger than him by maybe ten, twelve years and the first thing he’d noticed about his interviewer was her legs.  They were legs to die for.  Long, slim, perfectly shaped, leading up to a tight, red skirt that could have doubled as a wide belt.  A skirt that detracted absolutely nothing from her considerable assets.  She’d had her legs crossed and turned away from him as she stood to shake his hand.  He would have completely missed her name if he hadn’t already known with whom he was interviewing.  He’d also thanked God for the long developed habit of discrete rather than indiscrete leering.  It helped to have hidden talents.  Still, he’d gotten the feeling she didn’t miss much. 

The Executive Assistant to the President had run fingers through her long, black lightly streaked hair as she resumed her seat, and then crossed her legs deftly to preserve whatever secrecy she had left by the barest imaginable margin.  “Hello, Mark.  I’m pleased to meet you.  You should know I’m a very brief interviewer, and one way or another, I make up my mind quickly about prospective employees.  Your credentials are impeccable, perfect for our needs,” she’d said. 

His name wasn’t Mark, and the credentials weren’t his.  But they definitely were impressive. 

She continued after a moment’s hesitation, her brown eyes boring into his, “But why do you want to work here, for us?”

He sensed she was a woman that was used to winning.  She was one of those bitches that was ill-tempered when they first got up.  Best to give them a wide berth until they’d had some coffee and put their lipstick on.  He knew he had to play it right if he wanted this job.  Suddenly, even though he wasn’t sure why he wanted it, it somehow seemed important to get the position.  “I think I’d like it here,” he’d replied, instantly sensing it would seem he’d begun the interview poorly from her POV.  “I like your company and…..and, I like the money that you pay…...and….”

The nails of one hand had impatiently tapped on her shapely knee as he’d finally stuttered to what he hoped most was think was a humiliating stop.  He’d noticed that her nails were long and blood red in color.  She was a woman that seemed most intent on making a specific impression on prospective employees.  The fact that she had purposely put him in this particular situation suddenly lit a small fire of anger in his chest; and the anger began to grow.  But regardless of how he’d felt at first, despite how badly it had begun, he’d hidden the anger and they had talked more; then, at the end, for some reason she’d smiled. 

For most of the people that first saw her, it would have seemed a charming smile.  In fact however, it was one which gave no indication of the cold psychopath he’d later found lived beneath those warm, brown orbs.  But even then he’d somehow been aware that the smile was both predatory and calculated to the n’th decimal place…..

Even As A Child, He’d Been One Sick Bastard or There’s A Fearful Symmetry Working Here

He’d zoned again. 

The reason he’d been able to pick up on this woman’s odd vibrations when everyone else had not was that he was a sociopath too.  Conduct Disorder—that was what they called it when you were under eighteen; just a polite way of saying that a kid was not quite right in the head.  The official term was Antisocial Personality Disorder, and that was the label he’d had slapped on him when he’d turned twenty-three and stopped going to counseling.  Since then, he’d kept under the radar.  Nothing helped being labeled like that but it sure gave him a head start when a situation like this came along. 

He was a southern boy, born and bred.  Like the blue’s lyrics said, he’d been born on a stormy Louisiana night even though his momma had definitely not thought he was a good luck charm.  His father had worked on the Louisiana Southern Railroad until 1993 when the LSO was bought out by the Alabama Great Southern.  For some reason, he didn’t remember a lot about his father except that he had always worn a cool pair of snakeskin cowboy boots. 

And that there was an aura of barely contained violence that surrounded him wherever he went.  His father had worked with hard men; all of them avoided him, none of ‘em fucked with him. 

He’d been small as a kid and had always been forced to suffer the righteous attentions of larger children for whom cruelty and joy were indistinguishable.  When he was seven during his first week at a new school, he’d noticed a much larger kid eyeing him, a meaty crew-cut blonde bastard the others called The Bear.  This budding fuck had evidently acquired the nickname because his favorite move was to grab his victims in a frontal bear hug, squeeze them senseless and then throw them to the ground where he could hurt and humiliate them at will.  He’d seen one hapless kid get the full treatment—the Bear sucked him in; the kid tried to push away but his thin arms had soon crumbled; the Bear then threw him down and beat the crap out of him. 

Even at his young age, he’d already known that bullies this kid’s size were not particularly scared of any children that might stand up to them.  They did not pick on kids that were smaller than them because they were cowards.  They did it because they liked winning every fight.  And it seemed that everyone the dumb fuck had ever grabbed always reacted the same way; if someone’s pulling you in to squeeze you to death, you naturally resisted.  So it stood to reason that this dumbass might not be prepared for someone who failed to resist his embrace.  Someone who might instead embrace him back. 

It hadn’t taken long for his turn to come.  Though he’d lacked the frame of reference at the time, he’d recognized the behaviors—the looks, the whispered comments, the accidental on-purpose hallway shoulder slams—that constituted a sort of bully foreplay.  And he’d somehow instinctively understood the little signs as all being emblems of tactical weakness, for they informed the intended victim of what was coming and when.  At that moment, he resolved to never display such warnings himself, and he never had. 

It was on a grass berm behind the school’s baseball field that the Bear had decided to consummate their budding relationship.  So when the bully-fuck had nudged his friends and pointed toward him, it was almost comforting, like watching an actor dutifully playing his part in the drama of which only he knew the conclusion. 

The bastard had swaggered over to him and demanded, What are you looking at?  It was so much like what he’d expected that he might even have smiled a little, because even though he hadn’t responded back, he thought he might have seen a moment of doubt pass across the larger kid’s features like the shadow of a fast moving cloud.  But then it was gone, and the bully was again accusing him of looking at him.  Not a great thinker and his one line of enquiry used, the bully threw out his arms and lunged forward, just as he’d hoped the dumbass would. 

As the fucking retard’s muscular arms encircled his back and begun pulling him in, he had shot his hands forward and dug his fingers into the back of the older boy’s neck while he braced his elbows on the boy’s chest.  He’d felt the bigger boy jerk with surprise, but the fuck only knew the one move, so he didn’t stop.  But now he was squeezing the dumb bastard back, his thin biceps straining, tightening with effort, bringing the older child’s head along his.  And as their cheeks connected, he’d suddenly dug his face in, bit into the other boy’s earlobe and ripped it free with a savage jerk of his head. 

The suddenly freaked-out pussy-boy had screamed like a little girl then, suddenly tried to push him away.  But he was now clamped onto the bully like a pair of human pliers, and so he’d bit him again but this time on the back of the ear.  Cartilage crunched and tore loose and his mouth had filled with the hot, coppery taste of blood.  A primal frenzy had gone through him at that point when he had realized how badly he’d made the bigger boy bleed. 

By now, the bully had lost his balance and fallen, so now he reared up and rained punches down on the other’s face.  Someone tried to pull him off the other boy but he had slipped away and darted in for another go at the punk’s ear.  The Bear had shrieked in terror and scrambled away from him, then turned and ran for the safety of the school. 

The Bear’s parents made a fuss, threatening a lawsuit and excoriating his parents for raising such a wanton, vicious, savage child.  Then, the school held disciplinary hearings and for a while it looked like he might get expelled.  But soon the hearings had turned into a discussion of previous incidents in which the Bear had been involved, and of how much bigger the bully had been than him or any of his other victims.  And he’d sensed in the official expressions of disapproval something pro forma, something almost with the aroma of a whitewash. 

Eventually, he’d realized that a cabal of frustrated teachers and outraged parents had been secretly pleased at the Bear’s comeuppance, and had used the hearings as a means by which they could achieve an outcome that had already been decided.  In the end, his run-in with the Bear semi-blew over.  Surgeons were able to save what was left of his ear.  The boy grew his hair long and never came around again. 

He’d learned two things from his encounter with that fuck.  First, the importance of surprise.  Second, there was always an aftermath.  Always take care of matters in such a way that no blame could be attached to you. 

As a sop to the Bear’s parents, the school authorities had taken him away for a day after he’d taken out the Bear; it’d been his first professional psychological evaluation.  He remembered that his mother had been embarrassed, literally mortified by what he’d done, but it was much more difficult to remember anything his father had said.  Even then he’d somehow been aware that he was different from all of the kids his age and that he’d felt compelled to hide that difference for some unknown reason.  He could still remember the woman interviewing him; how at the end she’d asked him to answer just three last questions for her, but she’d also said that he also couldn’t look away from her, couldn’t hide his face or anything like that.  He’d instinctively known that she was testing him, looking for what he later learned was called grounding behavior….the upward flicker of an eyeball, the flutter of an eyelid, a change in voice, some other sign of stress or inner struggle. 

Not particularly well trained, like most adults, she’d been ridiculously easy to manipulate.  At the end, she had rewarded him with a stick of Juicy Fruit for being such a good, cooperative child, and then had left him alone in the room for almost two hours.  The funny part was that there really was no inner struggle, for he felt perfectly fine with what he’d done.  He’d answered her simplistic questions perfectly and easily played the normal boy of seven.  After the interview, he’d been careful to wait at least fifteen minutes before finally spitting the gum out on the floor and resuming his real identity. 

He’d stood then and lowered his shoulders and arched his neck, cocking his head to one side.  “Why, thank you,” he’d said aloud, perfectly mimicking the psychologist’s accent in his child’s voice.  “You’re nice too.”

His upbringing was rich with a mix of myth and fairy tales, mostly from his mother, but he’d always been an odd mix of the macro-rational kid that was strongly in touch with his intuitive side.  To him, science had scrubbed the world of real purpose.  For some reason, wherever science encountered intention or purpose in the world, it had snuffed it out.  The world described by science was arbitrary and random, a place where capriciousness ruled.  There were innumerable causes for everything, but reasons for nothing.  Shit happened, but there was no meaning.  What happened….just happened.  The will of God was indistinguishable from dumb luck.  That was why insurance companies didn’t give a damn how much one prayed….let alone to whom.

So, even as a boy he had recognized that monsters were mostly invented to keep the curious and argumentative in line.  If he’d had the formal training of a psychologist, he might’ve gone so far as to identify the fairy-tale monsters his mother diverted him with as the darker urges of humankind.  But he’d looked for the most obvious things first and then worked it out from there on his own.  There were, he was told, always monsters waiting in forbidden places to trap the disobedient and unwary child. 

He’d never believed in them. 

He remembered crawling under his bed every night for a whole week with a flashlight and cheap camera, defying the monsters to appear so that he could get a good look.  But they never came and he knew his parents had been lying all along. 

It was just after that that his father left and never came back.  That was a seminal event in his life, and there were many life-lessons to be learned from it. 

So, he knew better now.  Monsters did exist, but it was just that they came in human form for camouflage.  Of course, he didn’t consider himself a monster, just a working stiff who had a rather unconventional job.  And who was allowed to satisfy his stiffy’s every now and then while on the job. 

Gratify that woody. 

Pure, savage, mahogany. 

I know well what I am fleeing from but not what I am in search of.

–Michel de Montaigne

He’d been eight when he had first discovered that one of the greatest passions of his youth were killers.  He devoured the true crime magazines each month in search of new high-profile killers…they had not yet coined the name serial killer for what these men did.  He didn’t necessarily like what they did, of course—even at his age he’d known that society always said it was wrong—but he’d been fascinated by it too, and by how they did it, and why.  But what had really intrigued him was not how different they were, but how similar they were—to each other….and to him.  He and his mother were alone at this point and she hated his fascination with the deadly and the perverted, so he had dutifully hidden this realization from her. 

He was still quite young when he fully realized how complicated the world was.  Everything had pockets, hidden depths that could be plumbed but never quite emptied.  A look, a friend, a skyscraper---it really didn’t matter.  Everything was more complicated than it seemed.  Only ignorance and stupidity convinced people otherwise. 

Still rather small when he was in the seventh grade, his music teacher told him that even though he thought he was strong, actually he was fragile because he had no emotions.  He was weak because couldn’t feel anything. 

So he pushed the douche down a flight of stairs and the guy died in the fall. 

He’d felt bad about that…….

Fifteen-twenty years later, as he’d read more and learned more about himself, he’d begun to tick off all of the warning signs in his head: chronic bedwetting.  Pyromania.  Animal cruelty.  High IQ’s with low grades.  Lonely childhoods with few or no friends.  Strained parental relationships and dysfunctional home lives.  These and a dozen more tell-tales were considered warning signs; predictors for serial killer behavior.  And he’d had almost every one of them right from the very beginning.  It had been a big shock for him to suddenly realize after twenty years that the only people he could really identify with were psychopathic killers. 

But the thing about predictors was; they’re never set in stone.  Most serial killers showed these signs in childhood, but of the children who had them, the vast majority would never become serial killers.  It was a step-by-step process to move from one state of being to the other, moving from one bad decision to another, just doing a little more and going a little further each time until you’re finally caught with a basement full of corpses and a shrine in the den made of skulls. 

Thus, when he’d finally reached the point that he’d become so angry that he wanted to kill everyone he knew, he’d decided it was time to do something about himself.  So, in desperation, he’d made a set of rules to help him stay relatively happy and act fairly normal. 

A lot of the rules pretty much wrote themselves; “don’t hurt animals” and “don’t hurt people.”  But as he’d gotten older and understood himself better, the initially informal rules became more hard and specific, and he’d even attached serious self-punishment where necessary.  Then, when he’d hit adolescence, his whole world had changed once more and his rules had been forced to change just to keep up: the girls in school grew hips and breasts, and all of a sudden his nightmares had been full of young, screaming women instead of old, screaming men….. 

He’d instituted a new rule, “don’t look below the eyes”, but he’d generally found it easier to just not look at girls at all.  Women young and old had become his obsession, but he’d somehow survived.  However, even with his rules, he’d still always been the weird kid in school, the one that made everyone else uncomfortable.  He’d successfully downplayed the dark urges and accentuated the vanilla side.  He had even almost graduated without any additional incidents but when he was sixteen, he was accused of being involved in fight outside of a ball game in which the other guy was badly hurt. 

He’d had a solid alibi of course, and was finally released.  The funny part though, was that it had been him that had beaten the shit of the fucking high school snitch.  The way he’d set it up, nothing could be proved against him, but he had still been forced to undergo extended psychological analysis a second time. 

Additionally, the police had put him through a lie detector test.  They had asked questions and he had answered; he later found that that he’d passed with flying colors.  Words were plastic to him.  Of course, that made him just another part of modern society.  Small loans made to desperate people at exorbitant interest rates were called payday advances.  A cheesy hotel paired with a seedy casino was called a resort.  Any assemblage of frenetic images, bad music and incoherent plot was called a major motion picture. 

However, regardless of guilty or innocent, the price he’d had to pay afterwards this time were the constant hard, unsympathetic looks of the townspeople he’d known his whole life.  And some long term, court-ordered counseling; at the end, he found that the last bout of head-emptying had been the final straw.  He’d hung around seven years for his mother’s sake, and it was only after her death that that he left the hellish little town that had spawned him, departed without ever looking back. 

So, he’d somehow avoided most of the traps that life put in front of people like him when he was young.  He was too slippery to be held to anything he did; he never felt lonely and there was no mercy in his smile or his eyes.  He’d been both lucky and had learned a lot, only making that one mistake while growing up. 

He’d had his internal rules and then there had been the rules that society tried to impose on everyone.  In the game of life, in every aspect of his life, he had learned to work society’s rules to his own advantage.  Never a social being, nonetheless things like embarrassment, hurt, or the fear of confrontation had become simply tools to him.  If someone caught him on what he thought of as a technical violation, he would apologize readily enough, but always in a way that made the person challenging him feel like a total hard-ass for even crying foul in the first place.  At the same time, he was utterly deaf to anything that appealed to the spirit of what he came to think of as the game.  If family or friends (he really had only a few acquaintances) got themselves hurt, then they needed to learn to mind the fucking rules. 

So he’d become a conman, generally tamped down the violent urges and pretty much avoided women as much as he could unless they were the actual mark, always playing to his lack of empathy and other strengths in a way that allowed him to motor from place to place, staying under the local radar and doing what he was so good at. 

He’d been grifting for years and although he’d hurt a few people here and there, mainly fucks that had deserved it or who had put him in untenable situations, he’d managed to keep his sociopathic impulses mostly under control as he worked and used his way across North America and Europe.  He was like a snake, shedding skins that died anonymously behind him in different places around the world as he dreamed sweet dreams of future scores. 

He’d been one of those guys that had imagined his legend long before he’d begun to create it.  He saw no difference between what he could imagine and what he could accomplish.  Ever the rational one, he was also prone to superstition, prone to unexpected gestures and superficial romances, prone to belief. 

His mother and father had been the same way.  Obsessive lovers.  Right up to the day his old man had disappeared. 

Now this woman had come along and he’d felt the bad old stirrings coming alive once again. 

The Boss Was A Fashionable, Sexy Woman or But She Had No Idea What She Was Fucking With

One thing I’ve learned over the last seven years is that in every game and con there is always an opponent and there is always a victim.  The trick is to know when you’re the latter, so that you can become the former.  ….the more the control the victim thinks he has, the less he has in reality. 

-Jake Green, in “Revolver”

At first she’d appeared like any other demanding superior interviewing a potential subordinate, but with that smile she’d suddenly become a much more dangerous person to him, a woman that in some ways scared the hell out of him; he knew exactly what she was capable of because he was too.  A finger of warning ice prickled down his back, but he had ignored it because he’d needed the job as the first move in a complicated sting he was setting up.  Two wolves circling each other, but one thought the other was a sheep. 

She stood at the end, forcing him to stand with her as a means of confirming her dominance.  She was silent for a full minute as she stared into his eyes, and then she said, “Okay, you’ve got the job.  As long as you never break any of my rules, we’ll get along fine.  The first of which is that from this point on, you never, ever, lie to me.  In return, I’ll never ask about what you did before you got here.  My rules are simple, reasonable.  I expect loyalty and obedience.  Doing your job competently, unquestioningly and keeping your mouth shut.” 

She actually cupped his cheek then with one hand and stared into his eyes once more.  He could feel her nails against his jaw line and he’d wanted to become angry, but instead found himself instead becoming excited in an odd, disturbed sort of way.  Consequently, he’d quickly had to think of pandas and teddy bears and adult diapers to avoid embarrassing himself.  Amazingly, it had worked.  He’d nodded, swallowing hard, feeling somehow intimidated a little by the twenty-five year old woman and also energized, angry and excited all at the same time. 

Up until that point, he’d never realized it was possible for someone to look so coldly sociopathic and yet cheerful at the same time.  One or the other, but not both and certainly not in that terrifyingly charming way.  He himself personally found it difficult to pull off, but quickly realized the potential if he could perfect the look himself.  It was an expression that would be far more useful in police interrogations than job interviews.  She’d then put a hand on the small of his back and ushered him to the door; somehow he had not flinched at her touch. 

“Got any plans to celebrate the new job tonight?” she’d asked in a neutral tone.

“Dinner with my girlfriend,” he’d lied quickly and intuitively.  Despite being a shark himself, this woman still gave him reason to pause, reason for caution. 

“Been seeing her long?” she had asked, her teeth a glaring white against the retro-red of her lipstick. 

“We’re pretty serious.” 

“I see.  Thanks for filling me in on your personal details.”  Her responding grin had contained the distinct edge of a hunter.  But he’d immediately known that he’d wordlessly conveyed a certain opportunistic interest, and thus had earned an extra sparkle of predatory sexual anticipation her eyes.  “Until Monday then.”  Naomi Jackson had then turned and walked away, offering him a stunning rear view of which he took full advantage, deciding a leer was in character after all. 

He’d begun working at the company the next morning and despite his promise to himself to keep his nose clean he had quickly learned more than he’d ever wanted to know about the woman for whom he labored.  How she’d placed her desk in the position of maximum psychological dominance within an office that was the most desirable on the floor.  How she was hated and feared, used to getting her own way.  How the female office workers were beneath her contempt, but how she went out of her way to debase and humble or destroy any man that didn’t immediately grovel at her feet. 

Her technique was to begin small and escalate dramatically if the man did not learn his lesson about who was supreme in the office.  At the same time, there were also disturbing…..rumors…about what she’d forced some of the same men to do behind closed doors. 

Ogden, Utah; Early Saturday Morning

It was dark and cold and wet.  He sat back in the car seat with his eyes closed; only opening one eye every now and then to check things out.  He drifted off…..

The Pickup Truck Man had always been curious about what made him the way he was, what made him tick the way he did.  Had it been the way his mother raised him?  Or was it something about the way he was put together, something about his genes?  He’d once read up on the subject and found out that the Human Genome Project, begun in 1990, had been completed a couple of years ahead of time in 2003.  They had discovered that ninety-nine percent of human DNA was non-coding, what they had euphemistically termed “junk” DNA. 

Or at least it seemed like junk since no one could find a useful purpose for it. 

So, in late 2009, on a whim he now bitterly regretted, he’d contracted with a lab to do genetic testing on a sample of blood he provided.  It wasn’t too expensive and, hey, what the hell?  He’d used a fake name on the blood sample and had them send any mail or communications to a PO Box he’d been using under the same pseudonym for years. 

What he hadn’t known at the time was that his blood contained a genetic pattern that researchers at other laboratories were studying.  Unable to take it any further, this first lab had, without his knowledge or permission, forwarded their results and a sample of his blood to a second laboratory.  Quietly excited by their findings, the second lab had in turn forwarded their results to a third lab.  Unknown to all, it turned out that in addition to the extremely advanced work genetic work they did, this third laboratory also had a hidden association with an institute for the criminally insane in upstate New York. 

He had only become aware of this when representatives of the third laboratory had begun quietly searching for him over a year later.  Once made aware of their interest, furious at the unwanted attention he was suddenly receiving, the Pickup Truck Man had taken a week-long vacation from the Midnight Team.  The first thing he had done was to reply to the laboratory’s representative in a tentative manner that indicated interest and led them to expect his full cooperation. 

He could be a patient man when necessary, and this was important to him.  He had watched and waited and eventually used the resources made available to his team on this.  He had initially met with the contact man and tagged him with a tiny responder that allowed the man to be tracked if one had the right equipment. 

The Pickup Truck Man did. 

He had followed this man back to the New York state institute, and then like a spider in his web eyeing a group of sub-normal flies, he had patiently watched and waited some more.  Although these people maintained a well-disguised anonymity, he had finally identified one of their lead researchers.  Successfully hiding the secretive nature of their work for so long had made them lazy.  He had simply followed this woman back to her home that night and from there, and given his profession and areas of expertise, it was a relatively easy task to make her talk.

The woman was in her mid-fifties, had a thin, academically ascetic body type, bulging, washed-out blue eyes and dirty, unattractive, stringy brown hair.  She never wore makeup and it turned out as he interrogated her, she had never understood those females who did.  She was a cold person and seemed to look at life as if it were nothing more than a series of chemical reactions. 

After moderate physical prodding, she confirmed that as a genetic researcher, as far back as the mid-1980’s, she had been involved with an NIH-funded project that had been attempting to identify genetic markers for “anti-social” behavior.  It had been kept hush-hush because of the controversial nature of the work (who the fuck said hush-hush anymore?), for if the markers were identified and confirmed, there had been no way to predict how politicians would have used the work.  Back in those days, she’d explained, the Human Genome project had only been a dream.  But consistent markers had initially been found in certain violent criminals.  After that, to continue their work all they had needed was a criminal population upon which to experiment. 

And so, the current arrangement, but now sponsored by a shadowy government group. 

She’d stopped here, reluctant to go any further.  It had taken him almost an hour to convince the woman that it was in her best interests to continue.  She finally did.  After many more years of laborious work, it turned out they had identified a subset of pseudo-genes among the DNA junk.  But these were so unique that they could almost have indicated a variant strain of humanity…another evolutionary line….another human race that got pushed aside. 

They had finally isolated a particular DNA variant they eventually wound up calling the áDNA.  This had over time been shortened to aDNA, with the “a” in this case standing for alien or just damned weird.  Only an extremely limited part of the world’s population had the aDNA variant.  But the latest research showed that almost all of the truly violent offenders behind bars, more than 99%, carried it.  Even though the evolutionary tree had many dead branches, the thing that excited the researchers was that these particular genes were so distinct, it almost looked as if they had been manipulated.  No one had any idea about where this gene had originated. 

He had laughed at the fucking maniac at that point, wanting to know if she also believed in flying saucers too.  He’d threatened her with more violence then, but she had been insistent, desperate even, to convince him at this point…somewhere along our evolutionary line….something had happened.  These genes were that different. 

Where did this strange genome come from?  It wasn’t found in chimps or butterflies or daffodils or sharks—humans share at least some DNA with all of these.  Snuffing up the blood that trickled from a broken nose, she had asked him: how did it skip every other species on the planet since the dawn of time, and end up in ours and ours alone? 

The woman had insisted we have apes in our genomes because of a common ancestor.  The Cro-Magnons lived on in our genes too, and there was recent evidence that Neanderthals did also.  She suspected that something had happened in our hominid past that split off a sub-species from the main line.  It had somehow developed this other genome, and then was later reabsorbed back into the mainline either by crossbreeding or some sort of introgression. 

Further complicating matters, in 2010 evidence of a previously unsuspected type of human called Denisovans was discovered in a cave in Siberia.  Sequencing of ancient DNA was a burgeoning field, but there was no doubt that what had been published was a high quality, full genomic sequence of a young Denisovan girl, all from just the tip of a single finger bone.  Sequencing on later finds confirmed that the Denisovans had probably diverged from Neanderthals somewhere between 170,000 to 700,000 years ago.  There was no way to tell exactly how old the Denisovan bones were, but the soil the bones had been found was at least 45,000 years old. 

But what had shocked the researchers at the secret lab was that all of Denisovans sequenced to this point had carried the aDNA variant, and in the highest concentrations they had ever seen. 

Archaic humans, it seemed, had interbred not only with Neanderthals, but with Denisovans too, before they had died out.  Since all of these were immediate ancestors of modern humans, they were also members of Homo sapiens.  And the aDNA variant that had been added to the population of modern humans tens of thousands of years ago?  It was continually being diluted until today. 

But, she had whispered to him, did that mean that someone had manipulated the Denisovan genome back then?  If so, who?  And how? 

They were still trying to figure out what all of this meant. 

That was where her story ended.  He’d heard enough.  He was truly pissed at her unbelievable arrogance.  He hadn’t cared what the fuck the researchers had discovered.  He’d just wanted to make sure they didn’t use his blood in any more research. 

As for the bitch that had been secretly experimenting on humans for almost thirty years?  She’d maintained that aura of scientific detachment right up to the point where he had decided to experiment upon her ass…and, as one might expect regarding one with his credentials, the experiment had gone badly for the lady doctor.  The authorities had to use her fingerprints to identify the body since it seemed its face had been chopped up pretty badly. 

It was still dark in the AM when the Pickup Truck Man shook his head, taking himself out of the zone and back to concentrating once more on the Alter girl’s house again.  They had reports that she worked out at a gym every weekday morning.  It was now early on a Saturday morning and they’d be here waiting to see if the reports were true or not.  In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to head back to the team rendezvous and post the latest video so that management would be able to let him know if they wanted the team to continue. 

His thoughts shifted to the snooping girl at the motel.  He did not believe she posed a threat.  She simply had a crush; he was new, different, and she was only trying to catch his eye.  And if she did suspect something, who would she report it to and what could she report?  Tell her parents that he’d gone for a drive in the night?  That wasn’t a crime. 

The thought distracted him however.  The girl had been snooping.  What had she made of the things in the bottom of his bag?  He knew she could not have really seen anything, but still, maybe she’d seen enough? 

Hopefully, she would find something else to demand her attention.  Children had such short attention spans.  He would just leave well enough alone, and within a few days she would distract herself with whatever it was that intrigued her besides snooping on her parent’s motel guests. 

The Organization Had Needs Too or It Was Becoming More And More Difficult Keeping The Inventory Fresh And Up To Date

South of Houston near the Gulf of Mexico; Saturday, Eighteen Days Ago Minus Six Hours.

One of The Albanian’s many anonymous recruiters had seen the local television special from Ogden a little over four months ago and had immediately sent him a video copy.  After watching the beautiful young girl perform, the old man’s interest had been piqued and after waiting a couple of months for local interest in the girl to cool down, he had diverted a nearby team to learn a little more about the young woman named Faith.  What they’d reported and what the just-received video of the girl showed had changed him, literally within seconds. 

The girl did not seem like the teenaged American whores with whom he was usually forced to deal.  Americans, Western civilization itself, was so shallow.  Desires arose from the deepest of the brain’s processes.  Evolution had hardwired man to assess prospective mates in terms of visual appearances.  But modern plastic surgery in the West had short-circuited that.  Once tools and techniques allowed man to manipulate that, desire descending into decadence did the rest. 

Now there were at least five high-production channels entirely devoted to plastic surgery on the web. The old taboos had gradually been rinsed away and now the cosmetic industry was providing a quarter of America’s bio-waste and makeovers now required bone saws instead of pencils and brushes. Where once these people used to paint themselves to conform to desire, now they recarved themselves.  The same with designer babies or gene-doping in sports.  They were pathetic. 

For the few thinking parents that remained in this country, it had to out and out terrify them seeing their kids panning for gold in America’s polluted cultural rivers. 

Thus, the girls he normally used were all far too experienced for their years, intimately familiar with sex and violence and drugs and with using people, when they should still be studying high school algebra.  He hated the weaknesses of the American and European cultures and the way it turned young men and women into nothing but pleasure seeking satyrs. 

But this beautiful girl!  He watched the video again and appreciated once more the beauty inherent in that teenage body, the perfect legs, the firm, gorgeous ass, the tightly wrapped heaving chest, the blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun.  The team onsite reported that while she was considered by many who knew her to be naïve and perhaps a little slow on the uptake, they also reported that she was also said to be one of the nicest people one could ever hope to meet.  The girl was youthful and unsophisticated and trusting, always ready to believe what she was told.  Recognizing her daughter’s lack of sophistication, one of Faith’s mother’s main reasons for home schooling the girl had been to protect her from the world outside. 

Too bad. 

The girl was beautiful, physically perfect and possessed a naïve charm that drew a person in; he knew that men would literally pay small fortunes to partake of her body and her charms, to possess her naiveté and despoil her innocence. 

He had to have her!! 

Curiosity Can Be A Bad Influence or What Price To Pay For Cheap Vodka?

It was the usual, slow, boring Saturday afternoon and Gabrielle waited for the man to sense her presence.  After a moment, he looked up from the combination washer/dryer tucked into a concrete atrium behind the motel’s front office.  After a short hesitation, she closed the distance between them, careful to keep her chin held high.  She’d spent hours in her room working on this walk, practicing until she had perfected a swanlike motion that was cool and willowy and unflappable. 

“Hi,” she said. 

He was concentrating on feeding some quarters into the machine and didn’t answer her. 

Gabby let a few moments of silence pass.  Despite her cool and willowy performance, the man seemed determined to ignore her.  Probably because he was more than double her age.  But she had read that older men had a soft spot for younger women; if she could overlook his age, surely he could do the same for her. 

“I saw you last night,” she blurted out suddenly.

He didn’t react, just finished with the quarters, chose a cycle and started the dryer.  Gabby knew it had been a stupid thing to say.  But now it was out and in the open between them, and she had no choice but to continue. 

“It was like, three in the morning.  I was smoking a cigarette.  You didn’t see me, but I saw you.” 

The man sighed softly, looked at the wall for a second, and then silently turned from the machine to face her. 

“You looked like a criminal or something,” she said, and smiled nervously.  “You didn’t turn on your headlights until you were on the road.”

“I didn’t?”

“I was standing by the office, out front.  Smoking a cigarette.  And I saw you---“

She was beginning to itch inside, just like she did when she was going through someone’s luggage…..when she knew she was doing something wrong. 

“it’s just…like….it’s just weird, you know,” she continued.  “You creep out to your car, then get in and just drive away before you turn the lights on.  In the middle of the night…..I mean, it’s just weird.”

He considered her for a few moments.  “How old are you?” he asked softly, unexpectedly.

“Eighteen.”  She drew herself up straighter.  “Almost.”

“In a few more years,” he said, “hopefully you’ll learn to mind your own business.”  He turned and left the laundry room. 

Gabrielle hesitated for a moment, not sure whether to be embarrassed or challenge the situation even further.  Suddenly, she’d decided and she hurried to catch up with him. 

“I’m sorry if you think I’m, you know, like snooping or something.  But that’s the way I am.  I don’t think it’s bad…it’s just that I’m a curious person.  I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being curious.  But…..“

They had reached the stairs.  He stopped abruptly. 

“I don’t know,” she said again.  She offered him her hand, limp-wristed, like she had read that real ladies should do.  “I’m Gabrielle.”

He looked at the hand, and then he looked quizzically into her face. 

“Gabby….may I call you Gabby?” he asked after a moment.  “Do your parents know you spy on the guests?”

She felt the same dark, excited thrill she had experienced the first time she had seen him.  She pulled her hand back.  “I think they might suspect,” she said seriously, adult to adult.  “But they have never said anything.”

Then she lost her composure and giggled. 

“Derek.  What are you doing, sneaking out in the middle of the night?”

The man’s brow darkened and for a few seconds, Gabrielle thought she might have underestimated how strongly he felt, and had maybe gone too far with him.  She entwined her hands behind her back, bit her lip and bounced on her toes.  She’d been told it was endearing and it usually worked.  He finally turned and ascended the stairs.

“Derek,” she called. 

He didn’t turn back.

“There’s a store a couple of miles down the highway that sells liquor.  I prefer Smirnoff or Seagram’s.”

He ignored her.

“I’ve had it before.  You can buy it, and I’ll pay you back if you want.  And then I won’t tell anyone about what I saw.”

He reached the top of stairs and disappeared from view without saying a word. 

She stood looking up after him for a few seconds, still biting her lip.  His clothes were still in the dryer.  She could go have a look, and see what it was that seemed so important for him to ignore her.

But all at once, the thought didn’t hold much appeal.  It was ill-mannered to snoop.  And she was not a bad-mannered girl.  Or hadn’t been, once. 

Besides, there were a couple of good movies that would be coming up on TV soon.  She looked up the stairs for another moment as she thought about the strange man and the movies.  Then she turned and headed back to the boring office. 

Ogden, Utah; Sunday, Seventeen Days Ago.

Clever Girls Need To Be Shown Their Limits or Gabby Could Eventually End Up In The Hands Of A Determined Man

The door in front of her remained shut.  “Housekeeping,” Gabby Hunter called once more.  She had already reached for the passkey when she became aware of a presence behind her.  She turned to find Derek Traviss, his eyes sharper than usual, but now filled with what looked like criticism.  Gabby looked down at his right hand and saw that he held a brown bag from which protruded the neck of a liter bottle of Smirnoff vodka. 

All thoughts of caution fled as a tingle moved down her body and into the pit of her stomach.  Why would the man give her a bottle of Smirnoff now, after he’d caught her snooping?  The answer; because she had been right -- he was doing something wrong, here at Sunset Hills or in town.  That’s why.  Or maybe it was because she had seen the contents of his bag—the folder, the leather passport holder, the glint of plastic and metal under the shirt. 

And now he was trying to buy her silence. 

Her sister would have laughed had Gabby voiced such an unreal and unlikely fantasy out loud.  But the excitement she felt when she allowed the idea free reign seemed delicious, almost irresistible.  Why not believe the man was a terrorist?  Who was to say he wasn’t?

The man waggled the bottle at her once more.  After checking furtively to ensure her mother wasn’t around, Gabrielle took the bottle and shook the bag once.  “Thanks,” she said. 

They stood facing each other.  There was one big step left and Gabby could feel a blush rising in her cheeks.  It took a moment to make its way to her mouth, but finally she asked, “Want to drink it with me?”  The man did not answer but tilted his head a degree to the right in response to her question.

Suddenly, she felt great.  This kind of thing never happened to girls in this town.  “I’ll show you my secret place,” she continued brazenly.  “You know—if you want.  It’s beautiful, right by the creek. 

The man looked at her for a moment and then he said, “Okay.  Why not?” 

“I have a few more rooms to clean.”

“Alright.”

“I’ll be done in an hour.”

“Alright.”

“I’ll knock on your door when it’s time.”

“Alright,” he said.

Finally, she finished, but before going to his room, Gabby returned to the apartment behind the office and took the pack of cigarettes from its hiding place.  She checked herself in the mirror and found her color high.  Be cool, she thought.  Be nonchalant.  Casual.  Unhurried.  Hold your chin up.  Be…tall….lithe….French….willowy….lissome.  Presently, her color had lowered but the excitement of the date remained.  Finally, Gabrielle patted her hair back into place one last time and knocked on the man’s door, keeping her chin held high.

They walked together into the pine forest without speaking.  It was late afternoon, approaching what Hollywood called the Golden Hour.  Gabby had read all about it in a friend’s magazines.  The Golden Hour came twice a day—at dawn and at dusk.  It was when the light turned magically golden, when aging starlets and heartthrobs looked their most attractive. 

Last year she and her friend had spent most of their afternoons together, poring over the magazines and talking about their favorite stars.  That had been before Gabby had met Jimmy Griffen, before she’d discovered cigarettes and Smirnoff.  Now she and Lauren were no longer close, for she had suddenly begun treating Gabby with brittle condescension.  But all of that was certainly because Lauren was jealous, because she didn’t have a boyfriend.  She certainly didn’t have older men taking her into the woods at the Golden Hour to drink vodka and smoke cigarettes. 

All she had were her stupid magazines. 

Fallen trees and old rotting logs dotted the landscape; the creek wandered down from Devil’s Peak, leaving the atmosphere smelling green.  Together, they moved inward for another twenty minutes, until the sound of the highway was lost.  Finally, they reached the small clearing that Gabrielle loved.  She sat down on a flat rock by the creek while the man sat beside her, near her but not touching her. 

She began working to get the vodka bottle open.  “This is when they like to shoot movies,” she remarked.  “Things look their best at this time of day.” 

The man remained silent as he watched.  Gabby finally got the bottle open and took a swig.  She passed it over to him as she managed to swallow her coughing.  A bird was singing in the branches above them, while the creek babbled and gushed below their feet.  Gabby took out her cigarettes and lit one with a pink Bic.  This time she did cough—but just a little. 

“I only drank beer last year,” she blurted out with a blush.  “I never even tasted vodka until February.  But it’s so much better, I think. And it’s not so fattening either.” 

He gave a wan smile—which felt like a major victory to Gabrielle—took a moderate gulp and handed the bottle back to her.

“Do you like out here?” she asked. 

“It’s very nice.”

“I come here to be alone.  When I need to think.  This is my special place.  I have matured a lot in the last year….is this place stupid?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re only the second person I brought out here,” she said, and then paused significantly. 

A beat passed.  “Who was the first,” he asked reluctantly. 

“My boyfriend.  Kind of.  Except he’s really not my boyfriend.  I don’t even really like him much anymore, actually.  He’s very superficial, you know, stupid.  Women mature so much faster than boys, you know.  I guess he’s still a nice person, though. 

Her cigarette had gone out.  She lit it again, shielding the flame from the wind with a cupped hand. 

“So, what’s going on with you?” she asked awkwardly, around the filter in her mouth. 

“What do you mean?” 

“What’s you’re deal?”

“My what?”

“Why are you here?  Don’t you have a job?”  Gabby took another large gulp of vodka while he stumbled for an answer. 

The man tossed a twig in the creek and watched as the water took it away.  “I’m a surveyor,” he finally said. 

“What kind of surveyor?”

“A cultural surveyor.  I’m surveying the lay of the land.”

“Why?”

“After I finish my survey, I have a team that incorporates my observations, makes plans and then we certify the quality of various…..tools we acquire.” 

“Doesn’t sound very exciting.”

“Generally, it’s pretty boring stuff…..except for those involved.”

Gabby nodded in silent agreement and then took another large gulp of vodka. 

Half an hour later, Gabby knew she was drunker than she had ever been before, but she just didn’t care at this point.  She’d taken the last ten minutes to move slowly closer to the mysterious man.  Finally, she was almost leaning against him.  She slowly tilted her head up, inviting him to kiss her.  She made sure that her breath slowly caressed his cheek, but nothing seemed to work with him.  Why wasn’t he kissing her?  Why had he come out here with her if he wasn’t going to kiss her? 

Maybe he was just shy.  She tilted her face away, letting her breath tickle his neck,.  If he was shy, then she would play hard to get.  Cool and sophisticated and willowy. 

They both remained silent for another minute, and as the sun went down the shadows got longer.  This raised a chill on Gabby’s arms and she hugged herself, shivering as she took another drink of vodka. 

The older man stirred, “Are you chilly?”

“A little,” she replied. 

He put an arm around her shoulders and she huddled into his warmth.  She could feel his stomach, but his arm beneath the shirt sleeve was unexpectedly hard.  She offered him the mostly empty bottle again, but he shook his head in denial so she took another drink instead.  Getting tipsy now.  Really, really dizzy.  Gabby moved in closer, somehow feeling both cold and hot at the same time. 

He wasn’t doing anything so it was up to her.  She leaned in to kiss him, a lingering, brush of the lips.  Then she leaned back to look into his eyes.  He looked back coolly, surprisingly calm. 

Gabrielle began to laugh.  At first a nervous chuckle, it grew to a giggle then blossomed into an uncontrollable cackle.  “Oh my God,” she said around a fit of nervous humor.  “This is so totally weird.”

He smiled, but remained silent.

“This is just so insane,” she repeated to herself.  After a moment, Gabby capped the bottle and set it down even as she continued making a strange snorting laugh.  Suddenly embarrassed, the unattractive snort only cracked her up even more.  “My…God,” she finally managed. 

The bout of laughter finally trailing off, Gabby looked at him and then kissed him once more.  This time the kiss was real as her tongue poked boldly into his mouth, exploring in a naively innocent way.  While he did not kiss her back, he also did not stop Gabrielle or push her away.  She pushed him back and then straddled him, nibbling on his ear.  “Derek,” she breathed, all willowy and waiting. 

His hands moved down to her hips as she tugged with her teeth on his earlobe again.  Then she pushed him flat on his back, molding her body to his.  She kissed him again.  Suddenly, he rolled with his legs and hips and now he was on top of her, but now he was taking her head in a very particular way, with care and deliberation.  She relaxed.  At last he was going to kiss her.  She knew this would be so very different from kissing Jimmy Griffen.  His hands continued to explore the back of her head; finding the lean muscles in her neck, locating the base of her skull. 

Gabby returned her mouth to his, but he wasn’t kissing her back.  She just knew that she had ruined it somehow.  The moment had passed, and it was growing chilly out here with the sun going down.  The flesh on her arms was filled with goose bumps, and suddenly, she didn’t want to be out here anymore.  Maybe that was why she had laughed like a loon, just to sabotage the moment.  But part of her still knew that they were doing was wrong, and she began to push him away.  But his hands on the back of her neck were firm, holding her place. 

“Derek,” she said.  He moved her head again, tilting it to a slightly uncomfortable angle. 

“I…I don’t think I want to…”  In fact, she knew she didn’t want to, and again, she tried to push him away.  But he held tight, one hand on the base of her skull and the other moving to cup her face.  He was going to kiss her now, whether she wanted it or not.

“Derek, please….” 

“Relax,” he said.  Helpless in the face of his unexpected strength, Gabby closed her eyes and braced herself, waiting for the kiss she now didn’t want. 

It Was A Cold, Violent Deed or Time Heals All Wounds….At Least, That’s What They Say

Ogden, Utah; Tuesday, Fifteen Days Ago

It was late on Tuesday morning and the Pickup Truck Man was back on duty outside Faith’s family home, about ready to hand the shift over to Junior.  They’d been waiting two blocks away and had followed the target to her gymnasium at 5:40 that morning.  She’d been inside for a little over two and a half hours and then they’d followed her back home.  Her parents had left and returned several times, but nothing had happened with any of the kids since then. 

He switched radio stations and listened carefully. 

An ongoing search has turned up no trace of the teenaged girl who vanished Sunday afternoon from the small motel owned by her parents.  Officials insist they have not given up hope that Gabrielle Hunter, 16, will be found, even as they acknowledged disappointment at the current lack of results. 

As helicopters, search parties and bloodhounds combed the woods behind this sleepy retreat, police today released a description of……

This was the first he had thought of the girl in the last day and a half.  The Pickup Truck Man remembered how the train whistle had dopplered behind him more than thirty-six hours ago as he had emerged from the hills behind the Sunset Hills Motel.  Careful to give the front office a wide berth, through the window he still could see the girl’s mother on the phone, her voice loud enough to penetrate the wall of glass.  “This is it; it’s the last straw,” she had hissed knowingly.  “She’s with him!  It’s that Griffen boy, I just know it….” 

In his room, he had washed his hands and face, then changed his clothes and packed his bag.  He had gone through the room then, carefully wiping it down.  It had been dark by then and no one was around.  Having previously noted where the maids placed the vacuum cleaner when they finished for the day, he had retrieved it from the unlocked closet near the laundry room on the ground floor along with a half-empty can of Drano.  After cleaning the shower and sink drains, he vacuumed the whole room carefully, then he did it again. 

Job finally completed, he had returned the Drano and vacuum cleaner to the store room, cautiously removed the cleaner bag and replaced it with a new one he found on one of the shelves.  Finally, he had wiped his finger prints from the vacuum cleaner and anything he may have touched in the store room and then departed for his room, taking the half-filled cleaner bag back with him.  He’d wiped his room clean of possible remaining fingerprints a second time, and then left it for the last time. 

Soon, as Derek Traviss, he was on the highway, heading east.  About twenty miles from the motel, he’d cut the vacuum cleaner bag open and dumped the contents on the side of the road, after which he had wiped the rental car down and returned it to the downtown office from where he’d picked it up.  From there, he had grabbed a taxi to the small airport just as a flight was arriving.  Dropped off there, he’d waited another thirty minutes before then taking a different taxi to a bus stop about a mile from a retirement community that was on the outskirts of Ogden.  It was semirural area with forests between him and his target. 

He had his two nylon bags with him.  After putting a hammer, two screwdrivers, wire cutters, rubber gloves, a slim jim and thin roll of electrical tape in a small backpack, he hid his larger bags in the edge of the forest and set off for the retirement community.  It was a sprawling facility on several acres that incorporated a variety of buildings.  This wasn’t some shady nursing home where ungrateful children dumped their aging parents.  With its manicured grounds and stylish Western architecture, it looked more like a high-end resort. 

The community offered options from villas and condos all the way to assisted living and hospice care.  All told, there were more than two hundred units.  The Pickup Truck Man felt confident that he would find what he was looking for here.  Less than eight minutes into his search, he did. 

From the day that people became old enough to drive, till the day they died, a car represented freedom and independence.  Which was one of the reasons many aging drivers found it so difficult to give up their cars.  Many, out of sentimentality or the refusal to admit that they were too old, held on to their vehicles long after they had stopped driving.  As long as he chose correctly, it could be months, if ever, before the car’s owner noticed it was missing and alerted authorities. 

Making his way down the rows of vehicles in the open carport behind the facility, he spotted an aging Chevy with slightly tinted windows.  Based on the dust alone, he could tell it had not been driven in some time.  He gave it a quick once-over.  The tire pressure was passable and the plates were even still valid.  The only concern was whether or not the battery remained charged. 

He slid the slim jim down the window and inside the rubber seal at the bottom, and then easily popped the lock.  As he opened the door, he noticed the dome light came on, which answered the question about the battery.  Climbing inside, he closed the door and removed a small penlight from his shirt pocket.  Putting the light in his mouth, he slipped the flathead screwdriver into the ignition, then gave it a firm tap with the hammer as he attempted to turn it like a key.  Even if it ruined the ignition cylinder, this was often all that was necessary with older cars. 

In this case, it didn’t work, so it was on to Plan B.  Using the Phillips head, he removed the screws that attached the plastic panels together around the steering column, prying them away to expose the ignition cylinder and wires running to it.  Ducking down, he identified the set of wires running to the battery as well as those going to the starter.  Slipping on the rubber dishwashing gloves, he picked up the wire cutters and clipped the power wires running to the cylinder.  After stripping the ends, he twisted them together to begin the flow of power.  Next, he cut the starter motor wires, stripped the ends, and made sure not to touch them with his hands to avoid getting a pretty intense electrical shock.  Holding an exposed starter wire in each hand, he took a deep breath and brought them together.  The Chevy groaned, but finally roared to life only a few seconds later.  He finally separated the starter wires from each other, tore off pieces of electrical tape and wrapped each exposed end.  After quickly replacing the panels around the steering column and stashing his tools in the glove box, he put the car in drive and quietly drove out of the retirement community and retrieved his luggage from the edge of the forest. 

While there, he dug a deep hole and disposed of his original identity papers.  No longer Derek Traviss, but now William Todd, he’d then driven about fifty miles East of Ogden and turned South for ten before finding a new motel at which to stay. 

Hopefully one with far less inquisitive inhabitants. 

He remembered having to crack his spine, neck and shoulders as he drove.  His forearms and shoulders had ached and burned from digging by hand, using a flat rock as a shovel. 

Still did. 

While none of this had been in the plan, he felt no remorse either.  Shit happened to good people.  Some kids never had a chance to grow up to be good people.  Bottom line?  Just didn’t pay to be too nosy sometimes. 

He cracked his spine and neck one more time and then leaned his head back as his thoughts drifted back once more to how he’d originally begun doing this kind of job. 

She Was A Dominant Female or Her Personal Armageddon Approached On Kitten Feet

Savannah, Georgia; June and July, 1995

The bitch Naomi had concentrated on him, tested him, tried to psychologically castrate him, humiliated him time and again over the next two weeks, going out of her way to point out small and usually contrived failings; these always took place in front of a crowd made up of her staff.  The setup he was working on required that he have a job like this to set the hook in the suckers, so he while appeared to take all of veiled abuse in stride, the hidden anger inside slowly, inevitably increased to a near explosive level. 

The men here all had the eyes of hound dogs and the jowls of Wall Street bankers.  They attempted to preserve their essential mediocrity though any minor success, making the dependability of their averageness the launching pad for any future successes.  They threatened no one and would outlast everyone. 

Sneaky fuckers too. 

The work was pathetically easy and he had performed it adequately.  Apparently he’d passed her initial emasculating tests because it was rumored she was quite pleased with him.  But the office workers with whom he was supposed to work had never given him a break, sensing some fatal weakness in the façade he presented to the world (little did they know!).  In retaliation for being an outsider, they had forced him to endure endless bad jokes about seducing school children and other sophomoric humor. 

He remembered ignoring them.  It had been the lion lazily looking at the pathetic prey that unknowing surrounded his place of concealment. 

His initial take on the woman had been spot-on.  He’d truly hated Naomi within the first two days, and loathed her by the end of the second week.  But he had also understood her perfectly.  Never one to question herself, as young as she was, this woman utterly believed in her right and capacity to rule her tiny fiefdom.  She just expected her minions to show solidarity with her policies.  In the end, she had been as bad as any East European communist dictator had ever been. 

She was also a goddam liar.  She lied the regular way, and she lied by omission.  He had no idea how much she kept from her staff or her superiors in order to maintain the status quo, but he knew it must have been a lot. 

That day three weeks later on which it all had begun had started normally enough.  Loud music from the bedroom clock radio, too damn early, interrupting the dream he’d been having for over two weeks of a woman with Naomi’s face screaming in chains against a wall.  Putting on the boring corporate clothing that his peers always wore, chugging a cup of his own bad coffee, rushing out the door.  But at least traffic had cooperated; he’d walked in two minutes early but surprisingly, Naomi was waiting at the door to escort him to his desk. 

She’d worn a deep blue sweater-dress made of something soft that clung and released as she moved, revealing every detail of her body, including the fact that she maintained upper body support without any artificial aids.  Her nipples had suddenly stood out like pebbles underneath the dress, though they hadn’t just a moment before.  This was not normal business attire, but she’d also seen his speculative look, mistaking it for appreciation and she had run her hands down the sides of her thighs, erotically smoothing her skirt again and again.  She was tall and lean and wore her clothing like a suit of armor.  Her hard-boned face was entirely unsoftened by the expertly applied, yet understated makeup she wore.

She’d come up beside him and draped her breast hard against him.  She had acted as if this were perfectly normal, nothing but friendly behavior.  Well, perhaps it had been, for her.  They walked together to the elevator.  He’d reminded himself of her beautiful face as he had seen it over the last few weeks; unless he was ready to act on his urges, it was safer to mess with a Bengal tiger.  In the course of flashing her ID card at the elevator scanner, she’d contrived to brush even more of her body against him. 

And for a few seconds, he had almost forgotten his own name as he’d suddenly become aroused.  But he’d reminded himself of the obvious sexual games this woman played with many of the men in the office and it cooled off quickly. 

She strode through the various groups of workers with her usual intimidating attitude of complete self-confidence, not the least bothered by the furtive stares that followed her.  People got out of her way without even realizing why they were doing it because she so clearly expected it of them. 

In Personnel, Naomi had excused herself, saying she had something to take care of and would be back in about an hour.  He was standing, facing a corkboard on the wall, when he heard footsteps in the hallway behind him.  A set of high heels clicking against the polished concrete floor.  They sounded vaguely familiar, then he had felt a presence attached to the heels that he’d just begun to sense, an almost genetic signature that he knew he would recognize anywhere from that point on.  Powerful and stylish.  True to her word, she’d returned an hour later and then taken him to her office for what she referred to as his final orientation.  She had motioned him to a chair in front of her desk and shut the door behind them. 

Walking back to his side, she had said, “You will never, ever, ever tell anyone at all, outside those people with whom we authorize you to work, anything about your job here.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” he’d somehow found himself replying, acting a little intimidated, a little eager as he looked up at her. 

Her face had then taken on for ten seconds the patented mask she wore most of the time.  “Do you like your job?” She had asked in a questioning tone. 

“Yes.”

“Do you want to keep it?” She had asked him softly. 

“Yes.”  He was on fire today, his body language perfect; a little apprehensive, slightly embarrassed, a little angry that he was intimidated.  The character he played would only have respond with one word answers. 

“Good.  Now stand up and drop trou,” she had grinned victoriously.  “You just look too yummy to resist.”  She acted like she had some sort of mind control over him. 

What the fuck did she do to the others?  Hypnotize them?  To his disbelief, from the few that would talk, it seemed that none of them could even hesitate when she went into tiger mode like this, let alone resist her.  But even he had had to admit, this was just toooo much over the top to qualify as mere office politics.

However, still in character, he’d stood as she’d demanded and dropped trou……

Who the shit ever said drop trou anymore?

She had run her hands down the front of his underpants which were beginning to bulge.  What the fuck?  Turned out he was human after all.

“My, my,” she had said appreciatively.  “Aren’t we the big one?”  She’d knelt in front of him with a tiger’s lazy smile as she pulled his shorts down around his knees.  His huge erection had lunged out at her face and her lazy, bored-with-it-all smile had suddenly disappeared. 

She’d leaned back quickly to look up at him, “Whoa!  You really are a big one, aren’t you?”  She had licked her lips in sudden anticipation and then tried to take him in her mouth.  Even though she was obviously an expert at this, she was only able to bury the first quarter before she had inadvertently gagged on the bulbous tip of his suddenly huge erection.  However, she had then worked that part of him like a professional and to his embarrassment he had cum quickly in her mouth, far too quickly for it to have been satisfying for either one of them. 

“You can do yourself up now,” she had told him a few moments later, sinuously arching her back from the vivid red tips of her toes in her open-toed stilettos up to her outstretched fingertips as she had risen into a full, rather overdone stretch that emphasized her breasts.  She’d sat down on her desk top then, spinning and kicking her legs over the side to slide into her seat; he remembered thinking she had looked like something out of a fucking nightclub act. 

“You might be a very interesting acquisition; I do so love a little quickie in the morning,” she had said as she’d daintily wiped her lips with a tissue.  It was then that he had suddenly realized that he’d been nothing but temporary amusement for her, nothing more than a cheap and tawdry toy.  A little windup figure for her to use and discard.  And now that she’d used him, she had then dismissed him like a serf that had just done something that only slightly pleased the Mistress.  Only once had she allowed her defenses to fall enough so that he could see the loathing in her eyes, the total disgust she felt for him and for the other small, insignificant males like him that worked for her. 

Then the loathing had seemed to retreat into a small cold thing over which she had again reasserted total self-discipline, forcing the beast inside back inside its tightly disciplined cage.  Everything back under steely control once more, as if working with a slightly slow five-year old, she’d then made a little shooing motion with her hands as she picked up a folder, “All done.  Go on, I’ve got to get this thing back to Operations today.”

He had left her office then.  But at that moment, he had somehow known he was going to take her down even though to all of the others he had looked like nothing more than the guy who’d just been both mind-fucked and blown by his boss at the same time.  She’d caught the look on his face.  Misinterpreting it, she had said, “I just wanted to lighten up your day with a little present because I like you.  Have a great day.”

She had then licked her lips in an exaggerated fashion, “I truly hope you enjoy working here with us.”

Better To Play With A Bengal Tiger or Character and Discipline Only Gotten Him So Far

Having gotten what she’d wanted, the bitch had then totally ignored him for the next week.  Somehow, everyone had immediately known exactly what had happened in that small, closed office and no one ever let him forget it. 

This infuriated him.  He was The Man!  He took from others.  He used others; he was not the one who was used himself.  Openly mocked by colleagues he despised, naked disgust evident on the face of his female peers, he had come to loathe the weak face he’d donned as camouflage for a work environment he had never really needed in the first place.  Even so, he continued to accept it all and pretended he felt used and abandoned by Naomi, acting as if she’d taken any masculinity he’d ever had and ground it under her spiked heel until it was nothing but a disgusting bloody pulp. 

Enough!!  At the end of that week, he finally discarded the con he’d been setting up and now focused solely on destroying the arrogant bitch Naomi. 

Well used to hiding his true nature and generally considered a fairly nice guy by most of the women he had allowed to know him superficially up to this point, he now permitted his tightly controlled imagination to become much more aggressively sexual in nature.  While his outward behavior changed little, his fevered imagination ran wild at night and he’d tossed around numerous ideas and even made a few initial plans for revenge.  The best part was that he knew everyone at work now thought him too soft, a weak man incapable of standing up to a strong Alpha-female boss.  That pathetic persona he had always shown them would stand him in good stead now. 

Regardless of style though or lack thereof, after a couple of drinks early one evening over a month after his humiliation at Naomi’s hands, he had impulsively stalked her, tracking the ice-queen back to her apartment on the fourth floor of an expensively upscale apartment complex.  He rarely lost control like this because it went against everything he’d taught himself from seven years of age on. 

But none of that mattered then for this was how crazy a woman could make you.  This was why he’d stayed away from relationships.  That, and when he let his guard down even just a little, women were able to sense there was something wrong with him after only a couple of minutes. 

After making a return to his car, he had gone back.  There had been a doorman so it had not been easy to gain entrance to her building.  But he’d found a service door that had been propped open so that the maintenance staff and maids could go outside and smoke without being locked out of the building. 

Boldly, burning with the twin stoked fires of resentment and too-long delayed revenge, still a little drunk, he had knocked on her door.  Annoyed, still dressed in her work clothes, the Ice Queen had answered and then reluctantly allowed him inside a huge apartment that had been decorated in stark black and white. 

Typical.  He wondered what a shrink would think this décor said about her? 

But the Ice Queen had also let him know in no uncertain terms too that he’d just committed a major fuckup.  Still feeling a slight buzz from the alcohol, his partially layed plans swirling in his head, the woman’s threat hadn’t mattered to him at all, for the unexpected chloroform on his handkerchief had made short work of the female dragon’s threats and complaints. 

He’d gagged the cold-hearted bitch then and tied her unconscious body into a vicious hog tie, then left for more supplies.  He’d been forced to knock her out one more time, and then wound up smuggling her unconscious body out of the apartment building inside a cheap metal and cardboard trunk he’d earlier picked up at a thrift store.  Despite the danger, he’d smiled to himself at the time because he knew she’d have been horrified to know he’d used something so…..common…so pedestrian, to affect her kidnapping. 

He was thirty-seven and although he’d been thinking of doing this since adolescence, this was actually the first time he’d ever taken a woman in this way.  He’d killed one teacher and a young woman, and robbed many older women of their life’s savings, but he’d never kidnapped a woman before. 

He had prepared his bedroom for her arrival in a desultory sort of way, never really expecting it to happen; rubber sheets on the bed and also on the floor under a rack he’d devised for one wall, ropes, handcuffs, nipple clamps, lubrication, dildos, piercing needles, the whole works.  He remembered he had felt excited….and more than ready.  After hitting Naomi a couple of times to take a little of the fight out the twenty-five year old woman, he’d hung the still gagged but woozy woman on the wall rack by thick leather wrist straps that hung from the ceiling.  He had next realized that there was no longer any need for hurry and that he was tired; it seemed appropriate he go to bed then, leaving her hanging there, and he had. 

He’d awakened once in the night needing to piss and it had all seemed a nightmare at first.  But in the morning when he awoke, she was still been hanging limply from the cuffs with her legs still tied wide apart.  Shit!!  He’d actually gone and done it.  He’d gotten drunk and kidnapped the Ice Queen alright.  And as he looked at her, he took in her business attire; the tight, navy blue knee-length pencil skirt now hitched up to the top of her luscious thighs, severe white blouse, the fashionable navy high heels with no stockings. 

Despite what a terrible person she was, he still felt arousal begin to tingle in his groin.  Her brown eyes stared into his for a moment and then she glanced down to his groin.  Her eyes seemed to take on an additional sparkle then, like that of a tiger getting ready to play with its food. 

Well fuck that!  She was the one tied up, not him.  If he had to be going down, it would only be after having his way with the office queen bitch.  He’d vowed to himself then that she’d never forget what he was going to give her. 

There’s confidence and there’s arrogance, and then there’s blind stupidity, which is closer to the first two than most people imagine.  Doing everything to her that he had ever imagined was going to be no problem at all. 

She wasn’t going to ever forget this……not in a million years. 

She Was Gonna Hate Herself In The Morning or The Writing Was On The Wall, And So Was She

A magnificently furious Naomi had hung from his wall all that evening.  She’d had no sleep for over twenty-four hours; her shoulders hurt, she was totally exhausted and extremely pissed.  She’d been angry when the new office idiot had first showed up at her front door last night, but that had paled into insignificance with what she felt at this moment.  She knew that she was potentially in trouble here, but also felt sure that she could handle this buffoon if given even half a chance. 

She had almost smiled as it began.  After the barely believable threat that he would beat her if she didn’t behave, he had slowly untied her ankles and then her wrists.  Her arms and legs had not work very well after being bound all evening so she had decided to wait until she felt better before acting.  She had stood motionless at this point and watched, almost bemused, as he’d wrapped her in one arm as his other hand went to the buttons on her blouse and then opened them, slowly, one at a time.  It took all of her willpower to remain motionless as he touched her.  She had felt the fabric of her blouse give way after a moment and collapse onto her skin like something defeated, a concept totally unfamiliar to her.  After a pause, he had slowly opened the delicate silk of her blouse like a starving man unveiling a banquet, exposing her chest and her bra.

She’d felt his eyes on her, drinking in her chest and then his hand reappeared and closed experimentally on her bra, clutching her breasts through the slightly padded fabric one at a time.  He’d been strong, stronger than she’d thought at first.  Naomi felt the strength in his fingers, and then a sudden frisson of fear had rippled down her back as she had for the first time seen in his eyes something she’d not seen there before; him fighting the urge to hurt her, to crush breasts in his hands. 

But suddenly it seemed that she had been wrong; now, she saw instead what she read as a perverse kind of gentleness in his eyes and that made her feel bold, perhaps too bold.  She summoned all her strength and tried to move her arms, but he held her motionless with embarrassing nonchalance, as if he were consumed with her breasts, hardly even aware of her sudden struggles.  The viper that she’d recently hired wasn't an especially large man physically, no more than six feet tall, but he seemed terribly strong and focused at this moment.  Yet she had also sensed a weakness, sensed that he was still lacking confidence in what he planned for her. 

Probably regretted his actions, and wished that he, or she, was anywhere but here, she thought to herself.  Instead of brutality, the idiot seemed almost worshipful.  All she knew was that once she gotten out of his place, she’d show him worshipful.  Ha!  She’d have his ass in prison so fast he’d never know what hit him.

Her captor’s hand left her breasts and slid back up to her throat and caressed her cheek.  His touch brought sudden panic in Naomi, as for the first time she finally realized the seriousness of her predicament.  She’d been kidnapped and was now being held in her kidnapper’s apartment; she’d been tied up all night and her arms and legs were only now beginning to tingle as blood worked its way into her veins, but it would be a long time before she was at full strength; she was trapped alone with a maniac employee that she’d been manipulating and purposefully humiliating just to train him to her standards, one who had just opened her blouse against her wishes and begun touching her. 

That she might have been the root cause of at least some of this never entered her mind. 

Naomi suddenly couldn't control her breathing and her breasts began to heave as she began to hyperventilate; there was literally nothing she could do about it.  His hand went to her throat and squeezed lightly, as if prepared to keep her quiet if she tried to scream.  Her body continued to shake and her long legs quivered like a young colt’s might.  Finally, she calmed down……or perhaps she had just given up for the moment.  After another moment, his hand left her neck and his fingers lightly slid over her chest and back to her breasts; from there he traced the edge of her silk and lace bra over the mounded flesh of her cleavage. 

Naomi stood absolutely still, not even breathing for a second.  He repeated the motion, this time sliding his fingers inside the cups, insinuating himself into the warm, sweaty space between her flesh and the tightly fitting foundation garment she wore.  Although Naomi heard sudden screaming in her mind, she stood absolutely still, silently accepting his sudden dominance. 

Stunned, Naomi closed her eyes in abject denial at what was happening.  She had never before NOT been in control and while she’d felt an immediate attraction towards this man when she’d first hired him, this was…this was….her breasts were exquisitely sensitive and erotically charged; yet this was rape and there could be nothing pleasurable about it. 

She wouldn’t allow it. 

He grasped the top edge of the bra cup and slowly slid it slowly down over her breast, as if fascinated by the slow exposure of each aureole.  Naomi desperately tried to control herself as the soft fabric dragged over each nipple, but it was too enraging or the sense of horror was too much, or perhaps some final sense of survival as a woman that prompted her to try one more time to resist this violation of her privacy.

She twisted in his arms and raised her shoulders to protect her breasts.  He didn’t react to this provocation and after another moment she tried to kick him, but again the man she had previously treated with the typically casual disrespect she felt for all men of his level thwarted her with humiliating ease, handily pinning her arms and brushing her legs aside.  It was like a switch had been turned on in his mind and all his attention now was on her body, as if she herself were nothing more than a minor irritation on the way to achieving a major goal.

Naomi groaned with impotent anger and fear.  He was too strong to fight, but like a martyr she needed to look directly into his eyes, needed to let him know she was unafraid to witness whatever he decided to do to her.  Thus, she watched impassively as he pulled the second bra cup completely down so that both breasts spilled free, and she watched too as his head came down and he tongued both of her nipples.

Naomi hated the fact that his breath was on her flesh, that his tongue slowly circled her nipples in deliberate, wet circles.  And despite herself, or perhaps because of who she was, Naomi felt a hideous, frantic surge of pleasure between her legs as his lips formed a ring around her areola and he sucked, softly at first and then with more urgency.

He was disrespectful…it was filthy and disgusting….and she lowered her head, almost as if in shame, almost as if she could somehow deny the terrible pleasure she initially felt by just not looking at him.  It was so sick!  She knew she could not allow herself to feel this desire, but she couldn't deny it either.  And besides, she rationalized, what choice did she have?  Her arms were useless, trapped, and this man she’d thought she had known was hunched over her, slowly gorging himself on the warmth and meaty tenderness of her breasts.

Naomi honestly didn't know what to feel.  It was clearly assault, nothing but rape if it went on.  She shook her no; she was the one that had always been in control before.  But her shock and her disorientation must be too great, and his physical strength and desire must have overwhelmed her, almost like a physical force.

The man had an uncanny sense of just where and how to touch her, as if he somehow already knew all of her body’s secrets.  His was a strange physical intimacy that spoke directly to her body and cared nothing of what went through her mind.  The way he lingered at her breasts, working them, sucking, licking, teasing them, lightly catching her hard, rubbery nipples in his teeth, it all was far more detailed than what was necessary as a prelude to simple rape.  He seemed to instinctively know just what she liked, how erotically charged her breasts were and exactly how she liked them treated.  These were things that no man in her office knew!  But he somehow knew just how to squeeze, just where to touch.  And he knew just when to punctuate the effect of a tongue that teased her nipple with the sharp nip of his teeth.

One nipple and then the other.  She loved it.  She hated it.  No, she adored it!  The slow circles, the fluttering tip of his tongue, the long, lurid licks.  Finally, he inhaled most of her breast into his mouth, all the while biting her softly and sucking as he made urgent, animal sounds of pleasure deep in his throat.  He finally released his grasp on her throat and now teased one breast with his mouth while he pinched and rolled the other nipple with his fingertips.  He smeared his saliva around the aureole and dragged his nails over the fleshy mound until Naomi was covered with goose bumps and her body quivered with desperately hidden need.  It was at this point that she dimly realized that she'd totally forgotten her promise to feel nothing from what he did.

Her nipples were stiff and aching, even as her breasts felt full and swollen.  She’d felt like this before with other men, but she didn’t want it like this, not from him, not when she wasn’t in control, when it wasn’t by her choice!  Naomi looked down at him still working on her chest, but still all she could see was the top of his head and his strong hands holding her arms, arms that to her own shame had stopped struggling.

She couldn't just surrender like this, so she tried to wiggle free of the maddening licking and sucking of her naked breasts, but all she could move was her legs.  In the end, all she succeeded in doing was making her wrinkled skirt slide further up her thighs.  The man noticed this and instinctively slid his thigh between her legs, forcing her knees even further apart.  And once she had stopped struggling, he moved his hand up under her skirt, sliding it up the inside of her firm thigh as if to show there were numerous ways to breech her defenses.

This second assault on her sex assumed too much in the way that it took the whole thing to another level.  Now Naomi began to fight again, but much harder this time.  But it was a strangely tense and silent struggle; her labored panting and struggling for breath punctuated only by an occasional groan of resistance; the soft sound of silk being displaced, her heels making hard, clicking tattoos on the floor; the lewd suction of his mouth on her flesh; his animal growl of unanswered lust that gave her an unexpected and unwanted, yet weirdly scandalous thrill.

Her struggles accomplished nothing, but suddenly he stopped, released her bonds and then carried her over to his bed.  Naomi vainly hoped that perhaps he'd stop now; that maybe he'd taken her far enough to get some kind of revenge for the way that she’d treated him.  Maybe, she thought, that's all he'd wanted.  Maybe now he'd stop and feel that he'd taught her a lesson and humiliated her; maybe he’d laugh and tell her to get dressed and leave. 

But he showed no sign of letting her go.

She Was A Reluctant Lover or But It Was Still A Beautiful Twisted Relationship

Naomi lay nervously on his bed, shoulders paralyzed, one arm pinned underneath her body, confused and ashamed at her sudden feeling of anticlimax.  Her clothes were a mess, her blouse was open and bra pulled down, her exposed breasts were red and chaffed from his rough, unshaven cheek and her nipples painfully erect; her tight skirt was up around her thighs.

Suddenly, she realized that he had no intention of stopping.  Instead, he was admiring her, allowing Naomi to feel her own helplessness, allowing her in some ways to feel what it was like for a man to work under her, to lose all control of everything you had always thought was you.

He crouched to one side of her on the bed as his hand reached out and slid up under her skirt, caressing the soft skin of her inner thigh next to her vagina.  Naomi jerked and cried out with a sudden and renewed sense of outrage and violation.  She managed to work her right arm free and tried to push him away, but he laid his weight on top of her, pinning her.  He then caught her right wrist with his left hand and held it easily, leaving her defenseless. He still had one hand left free to plunder her body, and it did, while his mouth returned to her naked breasts to finish what he had begun there.

"Relax now," he said. "Just relax..."

With his weight resting fully upon her, Naomi could feel his massive, rock-hard erection pinned between them.  She remembered how large he was and how huge it gotten at the end.  And while she liked sex and was far more experienced at it than most women her age, his size literally scared the hell out of her.  The head of his massive tool stabbed at her like a blunt knife and incredibly, as terrible as it felt, as much as she feared it, it….also……somehow…..felt…..good….as if attempting to take him inside her suddenly seemed like a challenge she should face, not run from….almost like it was a child’s perverse dare.  She didn't know why she was so surprised at this, but she was.

Under his control…the thought of being dominated by a man like this for the first time in her life flashed into her mind.  I'm going to be taken by a monster, a mutant, and there is nothing I can do about it.  She knew that one such as he wouldn’t be able to control himself even if he wanted too!  She could suddenly see now that his need was like a force of nature, urging him on, controlling him, something not to be denied.  What was going to happen to her was inevitable, it was beyond his restraint and her control, and for the first time, Naomi felt really frightened.

"No! No!" she cried once more, but this time with real feeling, even as she tried to escape again.  But she was so securely pinned by his one arm that he removed his other hand from beneath her skirt and casually finished unbuttoning her blouse down to her waist.  But now he was taking his time, confident that she had absolutely no way to stop him or get away, nor that she even really wanted to escape her fate.

Despite Naomi’s struggles, he began to lightly stroke her flat, bare stomach, dragging his fingertips over her sensitive flesh and causing her abdominal to muscles to clench in response.  Eventually, he slid his hands down over her hips, released the button at the top of her skirt and pulled the zipper down.  He pushed the opened skirt and slip down over her hips so that he exposed her thong panties and then his hand began to move softly, teasingly over her bare skin and silk-covered mound.  Naomi found herself breathing far too heavily as he slowly caressed her and scolded her with his fingertips, coaxing her into arousal despite her wishes.  The feel of him touching her there, the ease and rightness with which he touched her covered mound and the casual way his hand toyed at the juncture between fabric and flesh literally took Naomi’s breath away. 

But no, this couldn’t be, it mustn’t be!  She pushed and heaved and bucked her hips, but he was like a machine made of steel, too strong and too heavy.  Suddenly, Naomi realized that to him her gyrations and struggles were actually erotic and suggestive, rather than fearful and horrified.  To him, she was only making herself look more hungry for his attentions.  Finally, she just stopped fighting him, just gave up.  She would, she rationalized, save her remaining strength for when she really needed it, to prevent the actual rape.  The man’s efforts to kiss and suck on her breasts had never stopped, but there was no doubt that the focus of the sexual battle for both of them had shifted to the area between her legs…..the part of her body which was even more hungry and needy, and in which the feelings ran far deeper and were correspondingly harder to control.  Naomi was throbbing both with shame and painful need.

As pathetic in this as anything else he tried, the flunky she’d mistakenly hired seemed to be in no hurry to consummate the act though.  He played with her belly and hips, slid his fingers under the waistband of her panties, teasing her there, playing over the waxed pubic area until her pussy ached with his soft touch, until she wanted to feel his hand there against the suddenly empty hunger she felt there.  Naomi closed her eyes in frustration and anger and finally…..finally…..his hand left her belly and dove under her skirt and coming up and touching her between her legs from below.

His fingers pressed the moist crotch of her panties up against her sensitive flesh and Naomi bit her lip to stifle a cry of undesired fulfillment.  Her traitorous body arched and quivered in response, but she immediately fought it, trying not to move, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the terrible effect this stupid, stupid man had on her.  But his fingers seemed so curious, so fascinated with her…..and the places he touched were so right, the pressure, the strokes so perfect.

But, for all the furious passion of his mouth on her breasts, his fingers working so hard between her legs still seemed like those of a fearful boy—curious, watchful, quick to learn which spots made her respond with a quick jerk of her hips or a little moan, a sharp intake of breath or subtle shiver—a soft massage of her labia, a teasing finger sliding up and down her slit or probing into her opening.  They glided in circles over her clit or pressing firmly and rhythmically against it, or occasionally took her entire vagina in his hand and squeezed in an act of pure male possession…an act that touched something deep and primal inside her and made her want to cling to him, to trap his hand between her thighs and never let it go again.

This terrible man who was nothing but a clerk, a glorified mail boy really, was also a sexually clever and perceptive male, masterful and patient, dominant and somehow giving too.  Soon, despite her best efforts to deny him any success in his kidnapping, Naomi felt the sharp and jangling adrenaline-soaked fear leaving her muscles, only to be replaced by the depressingly familiar, deep and profound ache of pure unreleased sexual tension.  Incredibly, she found herself giving everything over to it; the delicious sexual tightening that both relaxed her and at the same time made her harder and more solid under his probing fingers.  His hands knew her pussy intimately now, as well as she knew it herself, and she gave up struggling against him, gave it up entirely as the smell of her aroused sex filled the room around them.

Naomi felt him moving the crotch of her panties to the side and she spread her legs for him as much as she dared, as much as was permissible without making it looking like she was intentionally cooperating.  Unlike ever before, she suddenly hungered for an intimate prelude, a personal touch, a kiss that told her he not only wanted her, but actually liked her too.  But she knew she wouldn't get anything like that from one such as he, so she turned her face to the side as if she were denying him herself, the real her housed in her physical body.  The worst part was that her concentration wasn’t on him anymore, rather it was on her body now, on his fingers working in her cunt and his lips and face on her tits, and her hands lay limp on the bed, her legs frozen and as paralyzed as if filled with nothing sawdust.  She lay on his bed like a half-naked rag doll.

With her panties out of the way the intimacy of his touch was even more intense, flesh on flesh, all of her feminine secrets fully revealed.  No longer struggling, Naomi felt as though she were in the hands of a relentless master musician who played her like a fine violin, bringing forth high trills of pleasure and the low, rich tones of body racking desire. Incredibly, this unknown man she’d hired as a throw-away was the maestro now and she’d somehow become his instrument.  She felt helpless, having no more control or responsibility than a violin has in the hands of the virtuoso.  This man played her and she soared with his music of sexual domination, yet the hot, animal throbbing of his hard cock against her hip was like some wildly obscene metronome, setting the tempo for both, yet always urging her on, higher and higher

Her hips began to move on their own. She couldn't stop them even if she’d wanted to…..and what did she care anymore?  She was going to be raped by a stranger she’d just hired.  She had contacts, knew people.  Once he let her go, she’d have him destroyed, maybe murdered.  So who in the office would ever know or give a damn about what had happened here?  Why shouldn't she milk it for all the pleasure she could?  Naomi didn't care what he thought of her, and he already seemed to be able to read her mind and wasn't going to stop till he drove her over the brink, so why not?  Why not join in?

Why not fuck his hand since he wanted it so much, and if she were being honest, she did too?  Raise her knees and open her legs.…just…..like….that?  Let him push her skirt up so he could see her pussy humping his plunging finger, watch his finger disappear inside her as his thumb slid over her clit.  Why not let him see her pant and softly gasp through her teeth as the first tiny firecracker orgasm rumbled down upon her?  Why not let him see the second orgasm that immediately followed the first, but this bearing one down upon her like big, fiery, incandescent, blinding wave; something that was selfish and glorious and all hers?  Maybe that would satisfy him, make him stop this madness.

"Oh!  Oh!  Ohhhh!  OHHHHH!!!!!!"

Naomi arched her back, thrusting herself up against him, opening her legs obscenely wide, her knees up and her toes curling in her heels as hot liquid pleasure gushed inside her like an obliterating fountain.  She felt the pending release coming in waves like an internal ejaculation, as if she were cumming inside herself.  And Naomi allowed herself to literally wallow in an act of pure selfishness that she'd never allowed with any other lover.  This was the true Naomi, entirely caught up in her own pleasure and not giving a damn about pleasing the man who had brought her to this stage, even if had begun against her will. 

The drone she’d mistakenly hired never stopped, but instead stayed with her, continually manipulating her through her first full orgasm.  He showed a shocking sexual expertise with her body, somehow knowing when to ease up, when to back off and slow down, ensuring that her body saw soon the insistent stimulation as soothing caresses of comfort rather than demands of further action.  And when Naomi had calmed down sufficiently, when her shuddering and helpless spasms had stopped, when her breathing had begun to return to normal and she at last opened her eyes, half afraid of what she might see, he was on his knees between her widely spread legs, a smile of victory on his face as he slowly lowered himself upon her. 

It Was A Crisis of Her Control or Really, It Was A Demonstration Of His Power

For some reason, Naomi found herself unable to speak, unable to move; she couldn't say anything, couldn’t scream or shake her head no.  Worse, in some weird, perverse way, she didn’t want to either…..and she could hardly claim rape now.  And there was something else, something terrible to the controlling task master that lived inside her.  She’d made an awful mistake with him, made a terrible misjudgment.  Not the typical woman that desired contact and intimacy along with sex, Naomi was more male in her sexual drive than female at this point…..she wanted him now, or anyone for that matter!  God!  She needed a man now just to finish her off!  Later, she’d find out why he'd done this to her, how he had come to know her body so well. 

And then she’d get rid of him. 

But not now, she'd just climaxed and she wanted more, but she needed a little time for her body to recover.  Naomi knew exactly how big he actually was and she was far too sensitive to take him now; surely he knew that?  She'd always been that way.  She needed at least a few minutes......

And with that, the drone moved his hips and began forcing his way inside her body again.  The tip of his cock pushed against the muscles that protected the entrance to her vagina…and they were losing!  She was wet and her body was ready for a man, but not one of his dimensions; and although she had tried to mentally prepare herself for the first penetration, it still was so shocking!  Terrible!  Too much for a human woman to withstand!  The man was destroying her, literally killing her!  He was too big but wouldn’t stop no matter how much she begged and she felt her eyelids suddenly begin uncontrollably twitching, but as more of the big head pushed past the well-used, yet still far too small entrance to her vagina, as the tight muscles that guarded her womb were stretched and pushed further and further apart, her eyes began to bulge unattractively. 

Within a minute, her eyes bulged wide in horror as the monstrous man continued to push inch after impossible inch of steel-hard cock inside her belly.  She tried to scream in amazed and horrified pain, but he quickly muffled her and Naomi’s shrieks were in vain.  She shook her head no; begging him.  God!  Please!!  No more!!  And then, eight and a half impossible inches were buried inside her. 

The smell of his sweaty body filled her nostrils, but that thought wasn’t really important for all she could think of was that she wasn’t wide enough, wasn’t deep enough, and her flesh couldn’t stretch any further to accommodate any more of his erection.  And still it came, pushing, exploring, and driving itself inside her to unfathomable depths.  Over eight inches of mutant, unfeasible cock now….and, just when she thought that he couldn’t do anything worse to her, he gave her the final, dreadful inch. 

Naomi felt the last push and immediately tried her best to muffle the involuntary shriek the horrifying sensations drove out of her one more time….and then she went silent. 

It Was A Brutal, Brutal Fucking or He Pumped Her Chock-Full Of His Love

He had been truly content at that moment.  He had laid upon her, unmoving, uncaring of the pain he’d caused the beautiful woman that he so despised, letting her body adjust to the initial push he’d made inside her body; he had hesitated then, waiting for the right moment, because he’d had much more left to give.  After a minute of staring into each other’s eyes, he had realized that the pussy of his whore-boss was finally stretched out now and it was time.  Continuing to make her look him in the eyes, he had pulled out until just the tip of his brutish cock remained in her pussy.  He had looked deeply into her whorish sociopathic eyes as he had hesitated for a long five count.  Then he had plunged back into the beautiful whore that had hired him and buried himself in the helpless bitch right up to the base of his shaft. 

The bitch-whore had arched and bucked under him, screaming, screaming even though there were no sounds, perhaps because he had been choking her.  But that had been okay with him too.  He had pulled out once more, deliberate and slow, hesitated for a moment, and then had driven himself back inside her a second time.  She had screamed again but softer this time, and it had been a very satisfying sound. 

She had been either weakening or learning to control herself. 

Either would have been acceptable.

Preliminaries over, he had proceeded to fuck the woman he held captive for over thirty minutes; this hadn’t been for sex, it had not been for relief, this had been a true grudge fuck and he had wanted her to suffer.  Of course, if he got his nuts off at the end that was just a little something extra in the pleasure department. 

Fucking her as he had fucked her over!

Whenever he had felt like he was becoming ready to explode, he’d stop fucking the bitch and just lay on her with his cock buried in her wet, hot, wonderfully tight feeling pussy.  He’d looked down at her stunned face and over his shoulder down at her long, gorgeous legs.  He had pushed himself up and locked his arms, allowing him to look down at her fabulous chest, allowing himself to admire the firm, gorgeous tits that were tipped with rock-hard, nipples that stuck up and which had pushed so erotically into his bare chest. 

And then, once the urge to cum had passed, he had resumed fucking the slut he’d finally taken.  And at the end, when he had inevitably cum inside her, it had been a sweet, sweet release into a beautiful woman that he had both hated and wanted to hurt.  He had pushed into her as far as he could, as far as her unresisting body had physically allowed, and then he had clenched and delivered a bucket-load of bitch-killing cum. 

When that spurt had finished, he’d pulled back and then driven himself in even further for the next delivery of the “Fuck-You-Naomi Special”.  Twice more he had pulled out and then returned to the depths of the slutty supervisor’s body for sustained release.  When he was done, he had laid upon his boss’s well-used body to catch his breath.  After all, there had been no worry about her screaming anymore since he’d now introduced her to her immediate future…….and Naomi now knew she was fully capable of handling it.

As for Naomi, when the monster had finally achieved orgasm after raping her with his impossible tool for what seemed like days, it was as if the semen from his multiple ejaculations had combined into a flood of cum that had scoured her clean of any ideas she’d had about him being weak.  She’d been with many men, knew that many men would probably testify that she had never been a virgin, wasn’t even born a virgin, but she had never before felt anything like this. 

Naomi was exhausted.

Work Seemed Better Now or The Boss Appeared Pretty Much Wide Open To His Suggestions

He’d gone back to work after fucking the boss office-bitch until her wheels had come off.  He’d stripped her of pretty much everything but her pride and her heels.  She’d screamed and cried and fought him, that is, until he’d brutally raped her a second time, entering her again without warning, without preparation.  She’d frozen for just a moment when he pushed his massive tool inside her hot, tight, wet, still inviting pussy.  Unbelievably, that had all changed when he’d pushed inside her until his nuts had racked up hard against the crack of her tight ass. 

There had been no more fighting, no more frozen body beneath him, no more rape victim.

The bitch had become a wildcat slut then, fighting him, clawing his back, pushing him away and then pulling him back on top of her, fucking him like her life depended upon it.  They’d fucked and fucked and fucked, with the boss bitch somehow demanding almost more than he could give her, despite his massive size.  Didn’t matter in the end though.  She’d performed quite satisfactorily throughout and when they were finished, she had laid silent upon his bed, a sated and amazingly docile slut.  Then he’d given her a small drink of water before putting the gag back in her mouth and handcuffing her back on wall rack once more. 

There was a small smile of satisfaction on his face as he drove into work that morning.  Oh, she’d struggled a little when the gag went in and the cuffs went back on alright, but he’d already ensured she wasn’t at full strength when he did so. 

The workers in the office had buzzed with excitement and expectation.  The Ice Queen hadn’t come in and could not be reached.  It was totally unlike the uber-efficient bitch and upper management had finally became a little concerned.  By late afternoon of the first day, corporate security had come around the office, interviewed most of her staff and then left.  The manager to her apartment had opened it up for the police even though they had not had time to get a search warrant, but somehow, through sheer stupid luck, there had been no security video of him at her front door and he’d left nothing of himself behind.  He cursed his drunken stupidity then, along his inability to wait and his uncharacteristic lack of prior planning.  He had known then that he would never again do anything quite that dangerous in such a sloppy, impulsive way. 

He’d left her hanging during that first full day back at the office but when work had finished, he’d entered his bedroom that evening in an anticipatory mood while carrying a thin, supple bamboo cane.  The bitch had finally regained her senses and the cooperative fucking was over now, finis, gone forever; he had been able to see that much in the shiny glare of her eyes.  Or perhaps it was the dramatic struggles and the curses that she had tried to mouth through the gag. 

In any case, she’d been a very naughty girl and as punishment during the next two days, it had been his pleasure to give Naomi exactly one small drink of water each morning and each evening.  Enthusiastically continuing with that theory, he had given her nothing to eat too, but he had continued to beat the beautiful bitch regularly, methodically, lovingly, with the cane.  Nothing slowed down a steam roller bitch-cunt like this more than being a little thirsty and a whole lot hungry.  Soon, the lack of food, dehydration and sleep deprivation, combined with the psychological and physical torture, it all had begun to take a toll on the once imperiously arrogant and beautiful young woman. 

Over the next couple of days, he had used the richness of her pain and the poverty of her obedience to train the female fuck-bitch exactly the way he wanted his women to be.  While not a perfectly trained slut when he had finished with her, she’d nonetheless become a very, very careful piece of ass while he was around. 

She had learned better than to make any loud noise when he was with her.  It had been acceptable for her to gasp and groan and moan when ungagged.  But ungagged screams and shrieks, along with arguments and discussions over her status, these had all been forbidden under pain of……pain.

Early on the third evening, the still hanging woman had barely been able stand on her own feet.  Even though he had put an adult diaper on her by then, the room had still stunk from the dribbles of urine that had run down the insides of her legs and from the smell of shit that leaked from the Depends he had fastened between her wide-spread legs.  Her belly and upper thighs at this point had been lovingly covered with a crisscrossed pattern of red stripes from having been whipped with the bamboo cane.  Her lower back, ass, upper thighs and the back of her knees were covered with a similar pattern of bruises and welts. 

Conspicuously, he had spared her tits and face the indignities he’d inflicted on the rest of her body.  She still possessed a perfect body, gorgeous in itself.  The bruises and marks he’d given her would eventually heal and she would soon return to her previously unblemished condition, but for the moment, they had only added a strange, immediately savage beauty of their own. 

It had been easy to manipulate the starved and greatly weakened twenty-five year old woman into his bathroom to clean her up.  Running a tub of hot water, he had gently cleansed her ravished body of the filth she’d generated over the preceding three days and then had washed her hair and dried it.  By the time he had begun to brush her hair, the broken woman had been sobbing uncontrollably in his arms; she had become remarkably docile compared to the tiger he had first brought into his apartment. 

Finally, he had guided her back towards his bed, the place in which he’d first removed her contempt for him and then her arrogance; it was the place in which he had finally taken away forever her misconceptions about being untouchable.  But surprisingly, despite her nature, he’d found that in a small, odd way, he had sort of come to like the bitch.  One thing he thoroughly enjoyed though was the cosmic irony of a Naomi that was willingly accommodating him and his every need.  At the same time, he had not been taken in by her apparent docility either and so he remained always on guard against the bitch trying to con her way to freedom.  So he’d kept her bound all the time. 

But even then, the whore-Naomi had remained quite the cooperative bitch with her wrists tied to the head of the bed and her legs bound wide and spread apart, his massive cock keeping her fuck hole continually filled to the brim.  She didn’t seem to mind being treated like that so much after a full week of training.  It seemed as if she had learned her lessons well, and as he fucked his boss’s brains out that that night, she worked hard to make him aware that she had fully accepted that he was now always the one in control. 

He had experimented, using this still-developing control in numerous ways over the preceding week.  The sexual permutations had been virtually unlimited, but always involved something kinky and often downright painful for her whenever he got the urge.  And he’d felt the urge a lot, but she had become an amazingly cooperative partner no matter how much pain she was in or how big he got.  For as much of a bitch as she had been at work, the two of them seemed to have discovered an unexpected aspect of Naomi’s personality; a deeply hidden, highly repressed part that had liked to be dominated, that had liked to be hurt and punished and had actually seemed to enjoy being trained to do always better for her master each time she was given the opportunity to improve. 

Little had changed for either of them as the days passed.  He would awaken early each morning with her lying next to him, one of her wrists bound to the headboard.  He’d use his huge early morning erection and fuck her hard, but the newly awakened, fully enthusiastic, office manager-slave woman who still moaned in initial discomfort at the size of his cock had never seemed to mind.  Next, he released her so that she could clean up with a washcloth and soap or sometimes disposable towels, and then he allowed her to eat a light breakfast and brush her teeth.

Depending upon her request, he had either left her fully tied up on his bed or hanging from the rack in the corner, but always gagged to ensure that she could not scream for help.  She had learned to accept either position gratefully now…..unsurprisingly, she had become grateful for a lot more things in life now.  Then he’d go to work, pretending that nothing unusual had happened in his life. 

His work during those days became more and more erratic, for he was continually thinking of the now submissive Naomi waiting impatiently for the attention that always came her way in the evening.  And when he did arrive at his home, he always ensured that they pretty much remained in bed until midnight.  He was sure that the virtually unlimited and unregulated sex was necessary to relieve the stress and release the pressures that had built up during the day for each of them.  Of course, Naomi herself didn’t really have much to say about being fucked every way but loose. 

It got a lot more serious after that. 

He Was Uncomfortably Thorough In His Degradation or She Was No Longer A Female of Distinction

In the second week, he began to torture her even as he continued taking his sex with her; this was one truly fucked up for bitch for she remained a fully cooperative partner in bed even after this.  Initially, the weakened woman had screamed her pain and misery into her gag, chewing on it non-stop, but after she’d been his guest for a few more days, it was her eyes that let really him know how she had felt about losing control of herself, about how she had recognized inside herself the need to be controlled by a dominant man.  She was his then!!

In the beginning, the gag had ensured he didn’t have listen to her initial threats, but over the first few days her silent eyes had continued to promise him volumes of pain….until he’d begun to beat her in earnest.  The problem he’d had then was that, once begun, the sexual torture was hard to stop because she had deserved so much fucking pain and humiliation….but best of all, there was a part of her that had come to like it as much as he had doing it to her. 

He’d beaten and hurt her initially because she’d tried to shame him and had used him; he liked to tell himself that his acts at first were for personal revenge only.  But as he heard the men at work talk about what it had been like working under Naomi, he’d then began to hurt her more and more for the way she’d generally treated her male employees.  At the end, he had fully believed that whatever he did to his ex-boss was totally righteous; the bitch Naomi deserved everything he gave her…..and more. 

And then the bitch’d flipped, going from needing to be in control to desiring to be dominated by him.  He had found a dark side within him, a black part of his soul that had truly enjoyed dominating this woman, training her in ways to please him, showing Naomi her true role in society. 

She had truly become his fuck-slave at this point, and they both knew it.  But every emotion he felt became harder to maintain by the end of the second week; it had become work trying to keep her clean and attractive and desirable enough to continue fucking…..he was becoming bored.  Despite the boredom though, he had still managed to continue for another week.  However, despite the pleasure he had still derived from giving her pain, despite his best efforts to remain excited, despite her unfailing obedience and increasingly soft compliancy during the latter week of increasingly brutal sex and erotically painful payback, the boredom had become increasingly hard to ignore. 

The bloom was off the rose, as it were. 

Even at the end of the third week, he had still been emotionally ambivalent about how it must turn out.  But that was okay too, for by then his cock had actually become sore from banging her pussy so much and his nuts had felt as soft as boiled eggs – he’d needed a fucking break from the fucking. 

He had seriously thought about strangling her at first, cleaning her up in the shower and then choking the bitch to death just like that sweet little co-ed.  But then he’d have to figure out a way to discard her body like the well-used piece of trash she had become.  He had dreamed of that almost every night, of how she’d try to fight him at the end and of how he’d be forced to hit her in the face again and again, just to subdue her.  And finally, when all else had failed, how she would softly beg for her life as his fingers had wrapped around her neck and he had squeezed harder and harder.  How she would claw and punch helplessly at his wrists, how her diaphragm would have to heave to suck in air that would not come.  Of how her larynx would finally have been crushed under the awful pressure and he had blocked the flow of blood to her brain. 

Finally, he dreamed that her strength had drained away like water and then it was done.  In his dreams, over and over again while he choked her and even after she was gone, he had heard himself asking, “How does it feel, bitch?  How does it feel?”  But even in his dreams the contrary bitch had refused to answer his questions. 

But in the end, he had known that way would have been too quick, for he still wanted something worse, far worse for her.  So, at the end of the first week, he’d begun a preliminary search for ways to permanently dispose of Naomi.  Ways that would keep him safe and which would not involve her death.  Eventually, he had heard whispers of a man that worked the Gulf of Mexico, a man that some people had called a modern day pirate.  It had taken another couple of days, but he had finally made a connection with a man who was linked to a man that knew a man.  Once these people were sure he wasn’t with the police, one of the pirate’s consultants had arrived to evaluate Naomi. 

His ex-boss wasn’t at her best, with a whip-bruised belly and pudenda as well as thin red stripes on her back and buttocks, but both men knew she was still a remarkably good looking piece of ass.  She’d stood as motionless as a horse at a hitching rail, just as well trained too, while the newcomer had removed Naomi’s gag to check her teeth.  Then he had professionally evaluated her eyes and hair, had checked the skin around her breasts and upper thighs and ass for elasticity, and finally demanded her age and weight.  He’d made her stand and walk around the bedroom for them wearing only her high heels.  Evaluation completed, the two of them had then gagged Naomi once more and then had tied her back to the rack on the wall; after all, the property had to be kept safe from herself while the terms of sale were discussed. 

Woman, Purchased or Was That Really What She Was Worth?

Suddenly realizing her probable fate, the young, terrified office manager first tried to demand her freedom from the two men, garbling wildly through her gag.

After a moment, the one that had first become her master stepped up and removed her gag.  He had a thin smile on his face, a new type of smile she did not recognize, but that didn’t really matter for she was too scared to notice many small details.  She had gambled everything on her ability to somehow reason with him and when this failed, Naomi suddenly found that for the first time in her life, she was not too proud to now beg for her freedom.  But both men showed only subtly derisive smiles at her histrionics. 

Surprisingly, the man she first thought an office drone suddenly removed her gag.  Too well trained by this time to even consider raising her voice, nonetheless Naomi did her best to reach a deal with one or the other of the men.  She offered all of the money in her considerable savings account; even promised to never tell anyone what had been done to her if only they let her go…but only if at this very moment, you understand! 

Even as this last left her mouth, she knew it had been a mistake, for both men snorted aloud at the believability of that promise.  The new man looked at Naomi with new eyes in appreciation of her spirit and upped the price he’d be willing to pay for her by another twenty-five hundred dollars. 

And that had been the bitch-Naomi’s final selling price.  All he remembered thinking was, Burn, you mother-fucking bitch, burn. 

The other man had taken the well-used whore that night, and as far as he knew, she had never been heard of again.  With the bitch off of his hands, all that had been left for him was the cover up.  He’d put her in the shower before she’d been removed for good and flushed her vagina and rectum with soap and water, and then he had cleaned under her fingernails to ensure that he’d left nothing of himself on the woman or in her stomach.  Once the two of them had departed, he had cleaned his apartment of everything that remained of his ex-boss.  Then he had gone through and done it a second time.  Finally, he had driven for three hours while disposing of the tell-tale material all over Savannah. 

Later, once he had some spare time, he’d paused to examine how he actually felt about what he’d done.  Although his heart had pumped a little harder with pleasure at the thought of where she might be headed at that moment or of what she might be being forced to do, overall he had actually been quite surprised at how little guilt he felt or even thought about the whole thing. 

Had it really that easy?  Maybe he’d been in some kind of shock….naahhh.  Either way, he’d done it and he hadn’t lost his nerve.  The idea came to him at that moment and it was simplicity itself, kidnap loose, spare females, good looking girls and women, take them off the market and sell them to the highest bidder.  This had seemed the next logical step up from being a conman, and it had required all of the skills he had developed over a long period of shucking marks from their dough.  And now he had a contact with which to dispose of the merchandize, and he was motivated.  Boy!  Was he ever motivated!! 

Finally, he quit the company a week later.  The best gift of all was the fact that no one at the office had really seemed to miss the cold bitch, and he certainly had not been suspected of anything associated with her disappearance.  Further, it was totally believable that one of his meek persona would be too upset to continue working at his old place. 

There was nothing left here anymore for him.  The sting he’d planned initially wasn’t going to work now.  He had actually saved up a small stake from work but the place bored him to death; if he left now, there nothing that he’d want to remember plus it would be crazy to push his luck anymore.  But the truth was that he would always owe this place.  This would always be the place where he had learned so much more about the realities of himself and, if possible, had become a much harder man in the process.  He had become a man who now knew the truth about some women, the feminists that enjoyed hurting others, especially men, just for control. 

Having fully enjoyed what he’d accomplished with the bitch-woman Naomi, he had finally gone into business for himself.  The idiots that claimed to understand or love the world never realized that no one could truly do this, for the world was too large.  On the other hand, he had embraced it after Naomi at a level that allowed him to see its exquisite design in each portion of the whole.  He embraced it in a way that allowed him to view the ball-busters and bitches and users at a microscopic level, and then to take them. 

He worked for rich men, specializing in recruiting only from the ranks of the hardcore female manipulators and haters that were made up of cold bitch-professionals, man-killers and ball-breakers.  He had especially learned to enjoy taking the icy-cold female professionals that were the worst of the worst.  He truly hated professional bitches now whether they were lawyers or doctors or engineers or college teachers or street activists, bitches that were not strong enough to get what they wanted without manipulating the law and using the very weakest of the men they all hated to enforce it. 

He had especially liked recruiting cops and lawyers…….feminist cops and lawyers. 

Of course, his had been a subjective evaluation….but then, you might be amazed too at the general agreement among men of how many bitches like Naomi there were in the southern U. S.  One thing they all had in common though at the end, when he’d finished selling their ass, was the look in their eyes when they realized just how powerless they really were when removed from the safety of society’s rules. 

Eventually, quite a few successful years later he had received an anonymous email from a man that was recruiting personnel for teams involved in a very special kind of corporate headhunting.  That was how he’d gotten into business with The Albanian. 

She First Met Him While A Teenager or She Was The Candy Everybody Wanted

Rescue the weak and needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.

Psalm 82:4, King James Bible

It is the destiny of the weak to be devoured by the strong.”

Otto von Bismarck

Ogden, Utah; Fifteen Days Ago

He’d zoned out again.  The Pickup Truck Man shook his head to dislodge any further thoughts about the stupid things he’d done in his past.  It was time to track down any remaining details about his naïve little blonde angel.  And if she still qualified after they’d learned all there was to know about her, they would then come up with a way to harvest her.  He was a little embarrassed over his reactions to her in the bookstore, it had all been so….unprofessional.  His behavior embarrassed him, hitting him hard in his pride.  Still, it seemed that Sunday was always a day of celebration in her family and hopefully the young teenage girl had no reason to be suspicious, no reason to expect that strangers were about to investigate her and her family, preparing to make decisions regarding the rest of her life. 

His suddenly attention drifted back to the radio.  Police have finally released a description of a man who was last seen with Miss Hunter shortly before her disappearance.  The man they seek is between thirty-five and fifty years of age, light complexioned, with a heavy build and no scars or tattoos.  A police spokesman said that further details might be released as the investigation progresses. 

“If anyone knows where our little girl is,” Martha Hunter, Gabrielle’s mother, pleaded this morning, “we ask that they come forward.  She never hurt anybody.  All we want is to see her again.”

Scores of local residents volunteered to join the search, but at this time the police…”

He sat back and went over his actions; his previous car had been wiped clean and returned.  The identity he had been using no longer existed.  The description of him, if that was all they had, was generic and vague.  They could not trace him from that. 

The only potential problem was if anyone on his team made the connection.  The thought was a little vexing for his breed were silent, unknown, unexpected.  And if they found out, he wouldn’t know until it was too late.  But, and this was a big but, the odds were stacked far in his favor.  So, he finally decided to go ahead with the takedown. 

The young target was nothing if not predictable.  Any Midnight team was most vulnerable during the surveillance phase of the job, but to someone with total lack of situational awareness like the girl and her family, they might as well have been on the far side of the moon as far as she was concerned.  Of course, if the team did take her and she wound up working for The Albanian or whoever, she’d have plenty of time to think about what she could have done differently while on her back with a man lying between her firm, beautiful, wide-spread thighs, filling her firm, eighteen-year old Mormon belly with cock and semen. 

Seven days of surveillance and the only soft spot that they’d found was her regular-as-clockwork trip to the gym early each morning.  Faith parked at the same place every morning, in a slot on the side of the unremarkable two story building made of galvanized metal. 

And so the trap was set for the next day.  Early Wednesday morning the team fixed a thin, nearly invisible wire that ran at ankle height across the sidewalk between where she parked and the entrance door.  Their Suburban was parked 100 meters away in another part of the parking lot as she pulled in. 

As usual, Faith parked on the side, got out and locked her car door before beginning the hundred foot walk to safety inside the gym.  And as usual with someone who could never imagine they could be a target of others, she ignored the barely heard sound of the approaching SUV.  Forty feet from her car, Faith tripped over the wire and fell to her hands and knees.  She gasped in shock as two members of the team swooped out of the bushes that lined the walk next to her and grabbed her.  She was so taken by surprise that she didn’t even begin to struggle until she was halfway inside the back of the Suburban that had quickly pulled up beside them.  Mouth quickly covered by a man’s large hand, no sounds had been made that indicated a young woman had just been kidnapped. 

Travelling only on back roads, the team was over a hundred and fifty miles out of Ogden and on their way to south Texas before anyone realized that sweet, young, beautiful Faith was missing. 

Things Will Get Better or Time Passes; It Always Does

South of Houston near the Gulf of Mexico; Thirteen Days Ago.

The off-white suburban containing the newly recruited candidate reached its destination near the south-central Texas Gulf late in the afternoon.  Conscious, but barely able to move after having been kept almost thirty hours in a tiny box built into the frame of the big SUV, the beautiful young Mormon was easily transferred to a small panel van for the last eighty miles to her new home.  After an additional two hour's drive, the van pulled into the compound that had been her final destination from the beginning. 

Belts were unleashed and straps undone; the new girl was pulled unresisting from the van by her hair.  The adult diaper and waist belt which had been put on her unconscious, naked body at the beginning were removed and her wrists were cuffed behind her back.  Still gagged and eyes unable to focus in the newly bright light, the naked young woman was dragged and partially carried by two men through a door, down a hall and finally into an elevator which descended into a hot, muggy basement.

Pinned to a table by her two escorts, Faith screamed her pain into the gag as she was forced to accept the first, but not the least, of the indignities that would be visited upon her in this place; a small brand that was discretely burned onto inside of her left bicep near the armpit.  The brand was a number that signified her position in the long line of females that had been recruited by The Albanian prior to her arrival. 

It was a successful business model and she was number seventeen hundred and eighty-seven. 

The sprawling subterranean room in which Faith finally found herself was only the end of the beginning of her journey. 

The room was chaos; men were screaming at her in an unfathomable guttural language they spoke with incomprehensible malice.  Humiliation fought with shock and won; she wanted to die of embarrassment, never having been naked before in front of a man.  Even though there were far too many men to fight, the eighteen-year old girl still struggled to at least to cover herself as best she could, but the men were too experienced at controlling young, recalcitrant females and nothing worked. 

Soon she found herself bound upside down against a wall of rope, and the men stepped back to both admire their work and the charms of the new talent that had just been recruited.  After being slapped into submission, Faith underwent the normal humiliation of being hosed down and then having her body roughly wiped dry.  The men’s final task was to ensure that the new recruit felt welcomed by the presentation of a “house-warming” gift of sorts. 

It was called The Gargantua. 

The Gargantua was by far the largest dildo ever used by the old European's men.  Made out of heavy dark-brown latex, the beauty of this tool was its ease of insertion into the human body while in the deflated mode.  But once inside a female, it could be inflated with air to however big they felt the lady had earned with her behavior.  Hanging silently first on the rope wall, she screamed her outrage when the monstrous thing was quickly inserted inside her never-before violated rectum.  But when the men began inflating the thing inside her colon, the shrieks changed from anger and outrage to howls of actual fear and when it was half inflated, the screams it drew were finally of agony and absolute horror.

A special-order lady, the dildo was slowly pumped to slightly over half size over a period of thirty minutes.  Each incremental increase at this point was always, always accompanied by the ungagged shrieks and screams of the indignant and terrified Mormon girl.  No one begrudged her these moments to vent her concern, for when fully inflated the Gargantua was approximately fourteen inches long and over two inches in diameter at the base. 

It was Shiva, destroyer of egos; it was Kali, herald of death……it was a pure, one-of-a-kind guar-an-fucking-teed ass-killer.  And she suffered its embrace for uncounted hours before some finally stood in front of her once more. 

Things She Hadn't Learn In Home-Schooling or Together ‘Til The Bleeding Stopped

His features were coarse and ugly.  His eyes were permanently accentuated by purple-gray parentheses of baggy flesh and his nose was bulbous and covered with red veins.  His smoldering stare seemed to say, “You are worthless to the world and I’d shoot you, but it would take too much effort.” 

Although she was full-bodied and normally strong, as he had planned, the young girl’s strength was mostly gone now after hours of upside down struggles against the embrace of the uncaring rope.  Besides her obvious beauty, he noted additional pleasing details.  She had beautifully pedicured feet; her nails looked almost professionally painted, her toes straight and not deformed by having worn fashionably tight, toe-pinching high heels beginning at too young an age.  The Master was correct as usual, it was best to begin with the young ones that had not yet suffered from their futile, even pathetically sad attempts at high fashion. 

He was Bashir, the head Meatbreaker, the man that led the men that….changed….the women forever.  He was that man.  He was the man before whom a seemingly endless line of poor, forlorn American girls were dragged.  He felt surprisingly little emotion towards them, never really considering them as even human. 

Most of the American’s that came through his hands basically deserved anything he and his men did to them; they were true sluts.  Of the pitifully small remainder, most were innocents unluckily caught up in something far beyond the worst experience any had ever had or even dreamed of up to this point.  He sometimes wished the naïve ones could know that it really wasn't personal, but he also wished that they knew from the beginning that he WAS going to break them. 

Amazingly, this unique flower appeared not only beautiful but unplucked….it seemed this Faith could still be a virgin.  If so, she had remained an unclaimed beauty for far longer than was typical for one her age.  But this “condition”, this defect, would soon be rectified and his Master might even make some real money from it. 

Faith’s legs felt numb and head felt like it popping.  Looking out from her vantage point near the floor, nothing had the solid look or feel it was supposed to.  She ached everywhere but the pain in her bottom, while still ferocious, seemed to have lessened….or worse, perhaps she was getting used to it. 

Time dragged on and on for the naked girl and she felt like she’d been in this basement forever.  But suddenly, a masculine figure materialized from the gloom and for the first time Alexandra could clearly see the man that seemed to be in charge. 

Some of the men Faith had seen here looked soft, but not this one.  He was large; no longer middle-aged, he still carried himself in a way which suggested authority.  His huge head rested upon a wide, but short and thickly corded neck that anchored to a set of heavy shoulders.  The oversized, mismatched pieces of his face seemed to perfectly fit the penetrating, deep-set dark eyes that looked at her with a steady, unblinking reptilian stare.  Radiating power and intellect, they were at the same time soulless; as empty of anger as they were of empathy.  And when they rested upon her naked body, his desire to possess her, to devour her whole, radiated from him in white hot waves. 

His skin was taut and shiny, dark and yellowish.  His head was entirely hairless; he had neither eyebrows nor eyelashes, but he did have moles along one side of his face.  The lips below the long wide nose were fleshy and thick, and only opened when he spoke.  Only then did they flare wide, too wide, revealing in the process strong, feral white teeth and baby-pink gums.  When he spoke in anger, and he seemed angry all of the time, his eyes bulged, seeming more animal than human as they blazed with an otherworldly fire.

Even in the reduced light, his eyes held a clear black flame that seemed to wither her soul.  Faith felt a stirring of instinct that had been first honed when humans huddled at the edges of campfires, terrified of noises in the dark.  He was something more, and less, than human.  A hunter, a marauder, a raider.  There were reasons that humans are genetically programmed to fear the dark. 

And she was looking at one of them. 

He began to speak.  And as he spoke, she could feel his will eating away at her, pushing her towards capitulation or death, and the deepest fear yet filled her. 

“Here is the truth if you can handle it.  My only pleasure in life is making miserable the lives of those I own.”  He nodded towards the others that surrounded her in silence, “Me, the men here, we are all part of the same organization now.  And you are now too…once you have accepted your life here.  You’ll work here and you will live here, and we’ll take care of you in return.  You, the flower, will stay here with us here.” 

“Forever.” 

Faith sagged on the net suddenly, all strength gone as the terrible reality they planned for her hit in all of its finality.  The man leaned in, brushed her hair away and spoke into her ear. 

“Okay,” whispered Bashir. “Now it begins, and whether or not you suffer, it’s all your choice.  Yours’ alone.”

Her Family Meant Everything or The First Day's Training Is Always The Toughest

The terrible man pulled a packet out of his back pocket and removed some photos from the envelope.  He displayed them like playing cards, fanning them with a supple twist of his wrist and then pushed the photographs one by one into Faith’s face.  “You recognize them?” he asked silkily.  “You’re looking at them upside down, but you should know them well.  They’re your family.  But they never noticed our team watching them, taking photos, keeping track of their daily schedules.” 

A chill of terror ran down Faith’s back.  Her family, her perfect, wonderful, loving family.

He moved them one at a time in front of her eyes.  “Your mother, still a handsome, beautiful woman.  Very feminine, very sexy for her age and the number of children she’s had.  Your father.  Very handsome, very masculine.  It is easy to see why you are such a beauty with two such as these for parents. “

Faith was shaking her head no, no, no, but no sounds came from her mouth.  The man stopped for a second and stared at another photo before showing it to her.  “The oldest of the girls; your sister Karin.  Beautiful.  Supple.  Happily married at twenty-three.  Hoping to begin a family soon.”  He selected another picture and showed it to her.  “The second oldest girl, her name is Katya.  Another beautiful woman and only twenty-one years old.  Only one more year and she will have her degree in marketing.  Oh yes, and then there’s your brother Mark.  Such a handsome young man.  Nineteen and in his second year of college.”

Ignoring the shocked terror evident on Faith’s face, the man lifted the photo of her brother Mark to his lips and kissed it softly.  “It’s mostly the women that we keep here, but every now and then a boy of remarkable beauty comes along.  And then we must decide what to do.  Oh yesss, we must think about it very carefully.”  He remained silent for a moment, allowing Faith to think about exactly what he had implied. 

This brought him to the last photo.  He stared at it for a full minute and then shook his head sadly.  “And that leaves only your youngest sister, Kathryn.  She’s only fifteen I think, but already such a young, fresh beauty.  Home-schooled like you, like all of you, but already showing such academic promise.  If you refuse us, if you fight us, you should be aware that they all will be joining you here.” 

Now he looked at her fiercely.  “They would never know we were coming for them until it was too late.  No more than you did.  Your whole family picked up in less than sixty minutes.  Disappeared from the face of the earth.  If you force us to bring them here, their terrible suffering will be all…be…your….fault.  Your still quite attractive mother; your beautiful sisters Karin and Katya, and your handsome brother Mark.  Your father.  All of them turned into sexual chattel, existing only to please an unending line of sweaty men.  But mostly, I think that mostly it would be hardest on young Kathryn.  Can you imagine how a naive fifteen-year old girl would handle being turned into a sex slave?  Her young body used by all sorts of men.  And it would be entirely your fault.”

He looked at her for a second and then continued, “Hmm, perhaps I’m wrong?  What do you think?  Perhaps it would be hardest on your brother?  How would he accept being turned into a prostitute; being used as nothing but a male ass-whore that also sucks  cock?”

He hesitated for a moment more, “All.  Your.  Fault.  Alone.”

“And your father….  What of him?  How do you think he would respond to seeing his whole family slowly destroyed before his eyes, one member at a time?” 

The monster’s eyes were bloodshot and his strong, blunt hands were on her naked body now and she saw what he meant to do; how he meant to cause her enough pain to make her give him anything he might want.  As he looked into her eyes, all of Faith’s fear welled up inside her and she felt the sudden need to vomit.  He nodded to one of his men and suddenly the huge thing in her rectum began to grow even more in size.  Her abdominal muscles and diaphragm had suddenly locked up and she had what felt like a concrete block in her belly.  The pain was incredible; the size of the huge dildo seemed, solely, intensely, irreducibly focused on splitting her pelvis in half.  She felt as if she were being riven in two, her body being pulled into fragmented, bleeding halves. 

Ohchristohjesusohmylord he’s completely insane and I’m going to die here, I’m going to die just like that.  My God why have you have abandoned me, left me desolate, forsaken.  God, please help me.

And then the true torture began. 

In the end, the beautiful Mormon girl had realized the truth of what he said.  Her willingness to join their….team….only came at the end of many hours of hanging upside down on the web.  Other things…..terrible things…..had been done to her during this time and the eighteen year-old blonde virgin had finally given up, in the end actually enthusiastically agreeing to their every demand.  But now, as with all of the others, it was time to begin the final round of ‘motivation’. 

The eyes she turned upon him were sunken deeper in a face that already seemed more angular now than it had only a few hours before.  She was done, ready to fully embrace their program and their needs.  He knew he was not a fanciful man when it came to speculating about his emotions.  But the anticipation of success with this girl; the reward of making the broken teenager admit to her true nature as that of an arrogant, undisciplined Western female, it gave him such a heady feeling, a feeling of being totally in control of his life and hers.  Even if he was not allowed to make her finally submit to his every demand as a Muslim man because of her special status, this one pleased him in many ways. 

The terrible man casually reached out and clamped his hand around her jaw.  His grip tightened harshly, painfully, around her face.  He began to speak, his flat, cold voice never rising above a soft conversational level....as if he was already bored with the whole situation.  He kept his eyes locked on hers until she nodded.  He released his grip, a faint smile breaking across his thin lips.  At that moment, they both knew Bashir had won.

Soon, Faith realized the depths to which he’d won.  She finally began to dimly understand the horror, and the implicit responsibility of having to pay so heavy a price to keep safe those for whom she cared.  Even then, she only vaguely understood how her love for her family would allow him to turn her into the complete negativity of everything she was now, of everything she believed in.  Lastly, perhaps worst of all, she also came to understand that this….revelation….this understanding…..this commitment to save others did not exempt her from actually having to pay the price demanded. 

Faith knew that had she not submitted to him now, given only a few hours or days more he would have turned her into a whimpering, soulless thing that would still have obeyed his every whim, and that he would then have made her suffer endlessly after having accomplished it just to punish her for her obstinacy. 

During this brief moment of unparalleled clarity, Faith glimpsed the void where all she was….all she could ever have been….it all amounted to nothing. 

A Reluctant Whore At Best or It Was the First Taste Of The Rest Of Her New Life

South of Houston near the Gulf of Mexico; Nine Days Ago.

The middle-aged man stood in the middle of the sterile white room, watching his latest date, the one for whom he’d paid so much, slowly squirm on the bed.  The young woman’s hair was the color of burnished gold, polished and shining, flowing down for the first few inches before turning into a mass of naturally wild curls that poured down around her pale shoulders, almost long enough to cover her breasts.  The breasts themselves were perfectly shaped and not too large, round and smooth-skinned with only a small scattering of freckles on the upper surface of each mound; the nipples were a pale translucent shade of pink usually seen only on the hidden inner surfaces of some exotic seashell.  Her arms were long and stronger looking than might be expected from a young woman who was only five foot seven.  Her hands were delicate yet sturdy-looking, as if long used to physical exertions; the fingers long and thin as a child’s, the nails neatly clipped and short.

Her rib cage was high and arched beneath the firm, high-rising breasts; the stomach flat, pierced only by a teardrop shaped navel above her pubis.  The hair covering her there was a darker blonde….she was without doubt a natural blonde.  And in the way of many blonde women, it grew in a naturally trimmed and finely shaped wedge that only just covered the soft secret flower between her thighs.

Her back was smooth, sweeping down from the long neck that was always hidden by the flowing hair.  Her legs were muscular, long and beautifully shaped, the calves strong, her well-shaped ankles turning down into a pair of small, high-arched and delicate feet.

The face normally framed by the cascading waterfall of blonde hair was almost as perfect as the body.  The forehead was broad and clear, the cheekbones high, the mouth full without artificial puffiness, the chin curving a little widely to give more than a trace of strength to the overall sense of innocence that almost overwhelmed him the first time he’d seen her.  Her nose was straight and firm and not too large.  Her eyes, at least to him, were stunning; large and almost frighteningly intelligent, a deep jade green in color.

But right now, her facial beauty could not be seen.  Lying on her back, she was naked except for a pair of shiny, black stiletto-heeled pumps.  She’d been delivered to the room by her escorts, and while totally inexperienced at sex, she had certainly known exactly what was expected of her.  He’d laid her gently on the bed the first time and stroked her body and talked to her in an attempt to soothe her obvious fear and dismay. 

And then, he’d gently, irresistibly, eagerly taken her hymen and she’d lost her virginity. 

Smoothly, softly, he had worked with the young woman that he knew hated him, hated where she was and what he was doing to her.  But she was strong, she had endured.  There must have been, he thought to himself, strong motivations to make a beauty like this allow him to do what he had to her.  At the moment of penetration, she had screamed softly in pain and perhaps a sense of loss, and had then cried for another fifteen minutes as with little experience she had attempted to satisfy her client’s most pressing physical needs.  He’d paid extra for the privilege of taking her virginity without protection.  And then, he’d achieved physical release by dumping his cum into her virginally fresh, waiting vagina.  Waiting until he had regained his strength, he‘d then begun satisfying the slightly more extreme of his needs. 

The two of them had already been together for quite a while tonight and he knew that she had to be uncomfortable, hog-tied as she was; her wrists tied behind her back while her ankles had been cuffed together and then pulled tightly back and bound to her wrists.  Lying on her back as she was, her ass rested on the backs of her feet.  She had finally accepted the ache this caused, but to him it was a wonderful thing because it pushed her hips into the air and laid her wonderfully hot, fresh teenaged pussy right where he wanted it.

Her narrow waist was emphasized by the heavy nylon belt to which her wrists and ankles had been locked in back.  Although wordlessly obeying him at first, she didn’t seem to like his toys now---but that didn’t matter anymore for she was exactly where he wanted her.  With the black, three-inch wide belt buckled in front and her efforts to move severely restricted by the way she was bound, all of her attempts to achieve freedom were in vain. 

Her head was presently encased in a shiny, tight, black rubber helmet that faithfully mimic’d the contours of her face and head.  After cuffing her wrists, the gag had gone in and hood had gone on.  The rubber head covering zipped shut in the back and there was a small hole at the top for her hair to protrude from the fitted hood.  When her hair was tied into a pony tail like it was now, it extended almost to the middle of her back.

Saliva drooled out of the center hole in a three-inch long penis gag that was buried in her mouth and which was held securely in place by straps that Velcro’d to the sides of the mask.  New to being fucked, she was also new to this game too.  The way she had fought him after he’d bound her confirmed that she’d apparently never had a gag like this in her mouth before; it had taken almost an hour for her to become comfortable and accept the presence and taste of the hard, cold black rubber.  It was a pity he hadn’t had the time to properly school her in the etiquette of being gagged. 

Perhaps next time?

A small, triangular opening in the mask by her nostrils allowed her to breathe and once she’d recovered from her initial struggles, she again was breathing normally through her nose.  She’d been in her dark prison for a long time now; perhaps he’d kept her there too long?  He knew she must be exhausted, for the muscles on the inside of her blood-stained thighs continually quivered now from fatigue; but he couldn’t help himself, he always wanted more.  And the best part was that it appeared that she had finally accepted the role that they both knew she was born to play.

He thought back to when he’d first decided that he wanted her to do this.  Actually, it was nothing new---he always demanded this of his “girlfriends”.  It was just that it had cost him more money than he’d thought it would to convince the old European of the depths of his needs. 

Almost passive at this point in their relationship, the beautiful blonde girl finally accepted his dominance now and passively lay on her back with her knees spread wide.  She’d allowed him to softly wipe away the virginal blood on the insides of her thighs with a wet wipe.  At first she had not seemed aware that this position offered him everything in her now limited world---but when he began manipulating her there with his fingers, his tongue and then his mouth, she had quickly accepted the totality of her mistake after testing one more time the firmness of her bonds. 

He lowered himself onto her wonderfully flat belly from between her wide-spread thighs.  His weight on her hips and stomach must have caused her bent knees considerable pain, because she cried out softly as he lowered himself onto her.  He remembered how tight she had been when still a virgin.  He knew that this ride too must have been painful for her at first; the girl that now lay beneath him, his current lover, was not a large woman and hadn’t been equipped by nature to easily handle large cocks.  He smiled as he looked down at her hooded face.  The old man that owned her would ensure that she would soon be able to handle any size cock though through repetition and sheer continued sexual experience. 

Even though he knew that he had hurt the beautiful teenage blonde with his initial penetration, she reacted like a professional, resolutely and stubbornly accepting him inch by inch until her vaginal muscles had stretched enough to finally accommodate his totality once more.  Buried in her up to his nutsack now, he started giving her long, slow, deep strokes with his hips.  She began to let down her love juices again, and at the end he’d been sliding in and out of her fresh, eighteen year-old pussy with ease, slamming into her soft yet firm body like an iron-blooded jackhammer designed in flesh.  He had finally cum deeply in her vagina a second time, jetting another full load of scalding hot semen almost into her cervix.  The way she’d jumped and shuddered beneath him when he came the first time and now too, he knew she must be enjoying it.

Her lower back and hips forced into an arch off the bed by the way he’d tied her feet underneath her buttocks, she bucked like a maniac at the end, grinding her hips and belly into his at the moment of his ejaculation, thus making up for her previously uninspired behavior.  And when he relaxed once more on her sweaty abdomen to catch his breath, he discovered that she had difficulty breathing with his weight resting on her chest and belly; but at that exact moment, at least for him all was well with the world.  It had been great sex, and even if she hadn’t responded as enthusiastically as he perhaps would have liked in the beginning, he knew that at the end she must have been taking great pleasure in being thoroughly fucked by him just by the way her whole body had shuddered each time he’d gotten his nuts off in her pussy.

Stretching The Limits of Her Experience or It Was A Multi-Layered Approach To Love

He reveled in the now familiar tired feeling in his groin---he had enjoyed her helplessness several times already and it was time to savor her body one last time before the night ended.  He approached the bed and gently touched her between her once-again bloody thighs.  In an attempt at coyness, she did her best to keep her knees together, but bent and arched as she was, it was almost impossible for her to keep them tightly closed for long. 

She was fatigued and her knees shook a little from the strain of keeping them together; he easily pushed them apart.  He imagined the love triangle between her legs, the thick, hot dark hair that had been so soft and silky at first, but which now was matted and seemed a darker blonde color, wet and sticky both with her blood and sexual fluids and his semen as it had drained from within her.  The area begged to be touched again and he did; and as he stroked her there, her breathing suddenly changed as he knew it would, adjusting from smooth, long inhalations to quick, shallow gasps of sheer anticipation. 

After a moment, she slowly opened up more for him, spreading her thighs as far apart as her bound ankles would allow.  He stroked the insides of her thighs with his left hand as his right explored the delights she hid beneath her pubic hair.  She made small, animal-like noises between each quick breath as he continued to touch and stroke her there.  Then he mounted her like a raging stallion and slow-fucked her for at least twenty minutes before cumming a third time in her young, now over-flowing pussy.  He knew she had trouble breathing with all of his weight on her, so he rolled off of her belly and chest at the end this time.  He lay next to her gasping; finally his breathing slowed down as he got his wind back.

His current new girlfriend had tonight played modest at first, her face and body language insisting that she had not particularly wanted to play the sex game with him.  And her reluctance had teased him as he had prepared her for their tryst.  Her clothes now in tatters on the floor, she had submitted to the first rape without looking at him even as she had clumsily tried to satisfy him.  Later, the insides of her thighs stained for the first time with a man’s semen as well as her hymeneal blood, she had willingly accepted her initial bondage on the bed only with difficulty; the position was complicated and apparently she was not as flexible as everyone had at first supposed she might be. 

Even naked, wrists cuffed behind her back and the hood on, he felt she still tried to be the tease as he laid her on the bed that first time.  This annoyed him because he’d gone to a lot of trouble and expense to ensure that everything was perfect for tonight; he’d finally been forced to bring out The Discipline to ensure that she understood how serious his needs were.  Of course, all of this had been cleared with the house management before…at the cost of several thousand more dollars.  The Discipline was a cord-like whip which resembled a narrow sheet of macramé; and after he flipped his beautiful blonde teenager onto her stomach and used it on the sides of her buttocks, arms and upper back for a couple of minutes, she had again regained her enthusiasm for him and an appreciation for the preparations he had made.

After the way that he fucked her earlier, the anticipation in his belly and sense of urgency in his mind was gone now; the last time he had ploughed her had been a slow and easy fuck in order that she might appreciate it too.  Even bound as she was, he had felt her body tense beneath his in gratifying expectation as his steel hard erection had been slowly immersed in her flat, hard, young belly, gradually burying itself inch by rock solid inch in the hot, moist crease between her legs.  Soon he was stopped only by the mysterious fleshy folds at the top of her still fresh seeming vagina; but even as he continued pressing and pushing at the very pinnacle of her womanhood, she continued to groan with satisfaction.  This last fuck-session had gone on and on and on.

But he’d caught his wind now, and after fucking her a third time, it was time to experiment a little.  She was susceptible to his “persuasion” and after a few short moments of urging, beneath the leather hood she had tearily consented to the insertions.  He rolled her over onto her belly and worked on her for a few minutes.  When he was finished, all that remained to be seen was a thin, wide base plate that prevented her anus from totally engulfing the butt plug.  She really did not like this and seemed to have changed her mind about participating, having tightly clenched her butt cheeks from the beginning in a pathetically futile effort to prevent his success. 

However, he’d been unrelenting in his slow, irresistible insistence; forced into an unnatural immobility by her bonds, her body had nonetheless shuddered all over as the final protective ring of anal muscles that defended her there had eventually given in to his dominant need and drive.  He was thrilled at her response, for once her ultimate defenses had been violated she made either high-pitched squealing sounds or soft moans the whole time he had been slowly burying the long rubber butt plug deeply inside her rectum---it seemed the numerous one and half inch wide rubber balls that rose half an inch from all sides of the rod were what had caused most of her disapproval, but he really didn’t care about her concerns at this point. 

But he wasn’t yet finished.  Her pussy had been a little sloppy after the last fuck; so even though her body language let him know that she really wasn’t too happy with this either, in the end it had been easy to completely introduce her to the sensations of the vibrating dildo too. 

As a result of this second insertion, she was currently enjoying a fully buried eight-inch long penis-shaped vibrator that was an inch and a half in diameter at the base and two inches thick at the tip.  Here too, she’d been almost painfully shy at first, but had finally accepted all of it.  The length was perfect as it pretty much seemed to fill her pussy, but he was a little disappointed in that he’d hoped to be able to provide a wider shaft for her pleasure.  However, this was the best he could do on so short a notice.  There were multiple soft rubber projections along its length too and the two ‘D’ batteries that were stacked inside it one on top of the other ensured her long-lived pleasure as it ran at the slower of two available speeds. 

It was then that he had decided to run a one-inch wide nylon crotch strap tightly between her legs.  It was firmly secured between her legs, hooked in back to the waist belt and pulled tightly along the crack of her ass with enough force to separate her butt cheeks.  From there it went over her vagina, snugly enough to push apart her labia to either side, and then it buckled to the waist belt in front just below her sexy belly button.  

The inside of the crotch strap was graced with multiple connections for attachments, located and spaced to ensure perfect placement over each body opening.  His current date had not really wanted this between her legs or perhaps more realistically, what she felt it probably represented for the next several hours; but after wearing it for several minutes, she’d finally calmed down and radiated nothing but measured acceptance of her fate. 

His new girlfriend’s perineum was rather small so he had been forced to use the rear snap closest to the middle to ensure that the butt plug had remained firmly seated.  The other two snaps in front were positioned so that they could hold a vibrator in place and he’d used the one on the end to keep that toy firmly anchored.  The strap worked beautifully, for now as his hand slid up the inside of her thigh and approached that special place between her legs, he could feel the firm muscles of her interior upper thigh vibrating at a strong, steady rate in sympathy with the big vibrator that now filled her vagina. 

She Liked it---She Really Liked It or There Was Only Slight Discomfort At First

She was young and healthy, and even after being fucked three times, she had over time still fully responded to his advances upon being plugged and strapped.  This in spite of the way that it seemed she had initially tried to reject this particular circumstance.  It seemed either that she had extensively leaked from her pussy or she’d cum at least one time.  To him it didn’t matter which it was, for he caressed the now sopping nylon crotch strap that secured the vibrator and butt plug so firmly and so deeply in her two body cavities. 

Both toys had performed as desired; even so, he still tugged on the wide strap one more time to ensure that it was tight.  And as he did so, she gave out an intensely personal moan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest. 

This sound of satisfaction, so deep that one felt it rather than heard it, made him smile.

Her skin glistened with perspiration as he watched her begin the latest struggle to excite him, pretending to try and reclaim from him her vagina and anus; those orifices which he had conquered and now kept artificially filled for his own satisfaction.  But as with every other attempt, she failed this time too; and with that failure and the helplessness that it represented, he desired this young woman even more.  She was his girlfriend, she was his lover, he was her first; she was defenseless and vulnerable, she was perfect and she was his….at least for the moment. 

Her beautiful chest gleamed with a fine dew of sweat as he leaned over and slowly licked the soft skin between her full breasts.  With that salty taste still strong on his tongue, he slowly took her left nipple into his mouth.  She moaned in anticipation, but without vision could not know what he planned next.  Working the nipple until it was erect, he lifted the thin chain that rested by her side and laid it on softly her chest.  On both ends of the chain were clamps made vicious by small, yet sharp teeth; these he carefully positioned near each target nipple.  He grabbed her left breast again and with multiple smooth, firm milking motions his cupped hand slowly progressed to her nipple in a way that made her full breast even more engorged with blood and the light pink nipple painfully more erect. 

Her nipple now huge, he firmly squeezed until it was almost flat and then rolled it several times tightly between his forefinger and thumb.  He knew that she liked this part because his girlfriend moaned even louder and it seemed she arched her back to present him even better access to her breasts.  Finally, he pinched hard and then applied the clamp to the waiting nipple; her flesh was as secure now as if he had her in a vise. 

He was disappointed a little at her muffled scream of pain, but not surprised---it was okay; even though she was ALMOST perfect, he knew she wouldn’t want to see him again after this.  And as much as it pained him to admit it, the reality was that she was like so many of his previous girlfriends in that she just didn’t appreciate his needs. 

With one nipple captured, it was the work of only moments to bring her other nipple first to attention and then to heel as he squashed it with the second clamp.  Both nipples now decisively imprisoned in a jail whose freedom only he controlled, he stood back and watched as she arched her back again and again, trying to declare to him the throbbing, wonderfully overwhelming sensations she was feeling. 

With the gag in her mouth preventing her from fully proclaiming her emotions, it must have felt like every sensation she perceived was dammed up inside her body, continually building pressure as they was unable to find release or freedom; soon she was twisting from side to side as she sought a means to express her passion, but the wrist cuffs held her securely in the position that was the most provocative for him.  She even rolled onto her stomach at one point in an attempt, he thought, to perhaps rub and put more pressure on the clamps she wore.  He cautioned her at this point for he did not want her to permanently injure herself.  The jaws of the clamps were tight and the teeth sharp enough that she could inadvertently remove a nipple if she continued.  

Finally regaining control of her emotions, she rolled onto her side and within moments she was on her back again; huffing for air through her nose and waiting for him with knees spread wide, offering herself to him once more.  Only her head moved now, the faceless black hood making deliberate and rhythmic back and forth movements that were as cadenced as a clock…..slowly……running……down.

Epilogue

November, 2002

Outskirts of Guatemala City, the Representative Democracy of Guatemala 

The woman wore nothing but a rough cotton pajama top as she lay on a small bed in a small locked room in a very bad part of town.  There was nothing in the cell-like room but a small mirror on the wall and a bucket in the corner.  Naomi had no idea where she was, but it had to be somewhere in Central America.  She’d lasted over six years as a sex slave and that was a remarkable record considering all the things she’d been forced to do. 

The men she had been sold to had immediately hooked her on Meth and it had been better than any physical leash ever devised.  She’d never before been a user, but had immediately come to need the feeling it brought, had come to love the quick, crashing physical relief it brought that was only then followed by the subtle and gradual shifts in perception and feeling.  Involuntarily hooked at first, she’d later enthusiastically become what the police called a high intensity user.  And while she needed the concentrated high it gave her, it had side effects too.  The insomnia and hallucinations and paranoia, the dry, itchy skin and acne and sores, it was all part and parcel of the same package. 

At first, they had offered her to good looking men, wealthy men; Hispanic men that liked to hurt an attractive North American woman and do other awful things to her.  It had been especially titillating for them at first because she’d tried to fight them, fueled mostly by the aggression that Meth brought.  But men like these loved nothing more than taking something that wasn’t being offered freely and she’d soon learned to cooperate all over again no matter what was being demanded of her.  Worse, she soon came to like the pain and learned to accept it, to welcome it even. 

For after the pain came the next fix, and she needed that. 

After a year or two, as her looks fled more quickly due both to the Meth as well as what was being done to her body, the clientele changed, rapidly going down in quality even as it increased in quantity, until this last year she had been fucking nothing but Indians, sometimes twelve to eighteen, sweaty, unclean and uneducated native laborers a day, day after day after day. 

As was normal, she hadn’t slept well last night and she lay in her bed for another minute, knees pulled to her chest, breathing heavily like a frightened animal.  It was almost time for her next hit of Meth.  Finally, she got up and looked at herself in the mirror.  Every one of her joints hurt and itched like mad.  Fingers, toes, kneecaps—everything was on fire and crawling with bugs and aching so bad.  She felt both hot and cold, and her cheap cotton pajama top was stuck to her back from sweat.  She kept swallowing around this awful tickle in her throat that wouldn’t go away.  It was like someone had reached down into her esophagus and was casually, madly tickling her with a feather, laughing wildly the whole time. 

It hurt to walk more than a few yards at any one time and beneath the simple top she wore, her breasts sagged at least six inches lower than when she’d first been taken.  Nothing mattered anymore though, nothing other than from where the next fix would come.  She stopped in front of a cheap mirror. 

She suddenly found herself breathing hard and closed her eyes at the sight of the rough looking face centered there.  The overall expression was somewhere between chronic exhaustion and complete mental breakdown.  Exceedingly angular and severe features, as if they’d been sewn into a tapestry.  Black hair still long, but thinning now and heavily streaked with grey.  Bleary brown eyes and a few scattered sores on her face.  Her lips were cracked and compressed into a thin, expressionless line in the mirror.  She did this to hide her teeth.  Not quite Meth-mouth, but close enough to still be disgusting.  Naomi knew she looked ancient and far, far away, despite her actual age of only thirty-one. 

The door to her cell suddenly opened and three men entered.  They immediately began setting up equipment; umbrella shades and bright lights, three expensive cameras aimed at her bed from different angles. 

Although normally quite paranoid, Naomi ignored them for the moment as she brushed her hair before she began to put on what little makeup she’d been allowed.  She was quite used to being filmed now, having performed in front of cameras with one, two, three, and even four men at a time, along with several different dogs and one donkey.  Naomi fought back a shudder as she remembered how badly that damned animal had hurt her with its fifteen inch cock the thickness of a small baseball bat. 

Finished preparing herself as best she could, Naomi turned away from the mirror and gazed at her current co-star.  He was a big, good looking guy with dark, almost tawny skin.  But there was something in his honey-colored eyes that told her he liked to hurt people. 

The director of this nasty little third-world fuck-film entered the room at that moment and spoke Spanish in a low voice to the man that would soon be fucking her.  The director then turned towards her and in a heavily accented voice, told her exactly what he expected of her.  It was nothing more than she’d already done a thousand times before and she was ready to get it over.  The director told her she’d get what she so obviously needed at the end of this scene and then pulled the crew together for a final, rather short pep speech in Spanish and broken English.  The crew was finally ready to film.  He looked at Naomi for a long moment and then yelled, “Accion!”

She breathed in sharply as the big man moved towards her.  His movements were calm, almost lazy, as if they had many hours to kill doing nothing but this.  Naomi no longer cared that she hadn’t shaved down there in over a month, or that her legs were rough and stubbly, or that her hair looked like shit.  She got her next fix after this scene and that was all she was really looking forward to.

The man drew her towards her unmade bed and slowly lifted the pajama top over her head without unbuttoning it.  In return, she reached down and grabbed his dick.  It was semi-hard and needed some work.  She opened his pants, pulled it out and began tugging on the skin gently.  He made a small sound of pleasure and closed his eyes temporarily.  Then he slid his boxers down, pushed Naomi down on the bed and straddled her.  She reached for his cock again and wondered at how warm it felt.  She almost giggled at the thought, and Naomi hadn’t giggled in years and years.  He slowly pulled back and put a condom on.  He manipulated her for another minute and then she slowly guided him into her. 

He was big and despite all she’d been through it still felt good.  “Uhhh---fuck,” she whispered; it was the most articulate thing she could manage.  His fingers were wrapped in her hair and the rhythm was slow at first, then faster, and then slow again.  Naomi shifted position, trying to get more leverage; he reached down, his fingers going to work again and she gave a little start as unaccustomed fire traced itself along her thighs.  It had been so long since a man had taken the time to pleasure her.  Two of his fingers seemed to linger outside, gently prodding her.  But the other two were buried inside her rear.  Naomi wrapped one leg around his waist and kissed his ear, and when he groaned, she used her weakened teeth. 

The man sped up, his breathing getting more ragged.  Naomi used her thumb on his anus and he gently ground his ass against her hand.  Taking this as a fairly clear invitation, she found something more to do with her hand.  It was clearly the right decision.  He bucked against her and she came hard, no acting this time.  Her head struck the wall at the head of the bed as her back arched and her legs turned to jelly as fire washed up every part of her body.  The man on top of her made a crazy, unexpected noise---somewhere between a grunt and a low throaty whisper—and Naomi felt him cum into his rubber, his erection almost vibrating with urgency.  Then the man collapsed on her, panting into her neck. 

The scene was almost finished as the director yelled in accented English, “…and we’re done!  Cut!  Cut!”  The man on top of Naomi reached under the thin pillow for the razor-sharp knife that had been hidden there by one of the film crew, pulled it out and drew it quickly, deeply across her throat. 

The last scene of the snuff/porno movie incorporating this vignette was that of a thick sheet of ruby-red blood hanging motionless in the air over the tattered bed.  The film quickly disappeared from the general Central American market, only to develop a cult following in rural Guatemala as many of the Indians there recognized the female lead as a woman that they too had fucked.  They all agreed that no matter how disgusting she might have become, this was probably her greatest role. 

And the special effects at the end had to be seen to be believed. 

Righteous But Still Ruined or Even When Giving Her All, She Was Still Surrounded By A Strong Sense Of Regret

Revenge is a common passion; it is the sin of the uninstructed.  The savage deems it noble; but Christ's religion, which is the sublime civilizer, emphatically condemns it.  Why?  Because religion ever seeks to ennoble man; and nothing so debases him as revenge.

-Bulwer Lytton

If an enemy strikes your left cheek, offer him your right.

-Gandhi

If I were going to set out to oppress other people, I would surely prefer to select for my victims’ persons whose first response is forgiveness rather than persons whose first response is revenge.

-Jeffrie G. Murphy

South of Houston near the Gulf of Mexico; Present Day.

He was in a bad mood, but the old Eastern European still allowed a thin predatory smile tinged with grudging admiration to flit over his face for a second as he looked into one of several monitors that gave a view of a room that looked like a relatively barren, low-end hotel room.  In the monitor, he saw one of the “Graduates” of his training, a beautiful young woman with a supremely athletic body preparing for her next client’s arrival in slightly more than an hour’s time.  She was a truly beautiful girl, of medium height and well-built, very well-built indeed as she moved with an athlete’s cat-like grace.  The girl had fine features, shoulder length whitish-blonde hair and beautiful green eyes.  When combined with her perfectly toned body, her high tight bottom and firm belly, her muscular yet shapely calves and thighs and slender ankles, she represented the perfect Northern European feminine ideal. 

He turned from the young girl and snapped an order in Albanian at one of his men.  Only hours ago, he had learned that Hani Abdul Khader, one of the brotherhood to which he had pledged his life, had been captured in the UK and secretly turned over to U. S. authorities.  That these atrocities still continued even under the new president did not surprise him.  From London, the captive had been taken to a black base in Poland where he had undergone….all it could be called….was psychological torture. 

It seemed they thought he was a big fish, a mujahedeen of such importance they called him a “whale,” and they wanted information from him.  They had tricked him, first interviewing him using a sham fellow prisoner; from this they had discovered what he thought his execution would look like.  But more importantly, they also discovered what Abdul Khader thought Paradise would look like. 

Then they arranged his execution….. 

Of course, instead of killing him, the Crusaders had just put him under---deep under using one or another of their miraculous mind drugs.  Then it seemed they had transferred him to a specially prepared deprivation tank, pumped hid him full of what was called MDMA variants and opiates, gave his body some time to acclimatize…..

The agent they had in place reported that they then had awakened him.

No sound.  No light, smell, touch.  Vacuum sealed in his skull, and as they say, higher than an Afghan child’s kite.  The brother had tried, screaming, thrashing, all the stuff required of a brain in sensory limbo—automatic attempts to generate feedback stimuli—but the merciless bastards, the Crusaders had also induced motor paralysis to better prevent him from sensing himself.  Besides, he’d had no choice but to feel good because of the drugs they’d given him.  And when the MRI had shown his visual centers spontaneously lighting up, they’d introduced him to the one they called Allah, an overly slick Sunni turncoat intelligence specialist from Bahrain.  Of course, their unsuspecting brother had literally thought he’d died and gone to heaven.  He had, also, told their enemy everything as he must, for when God asked questions, the faithful answered. 

The mujahedeen still did not know how much damage the Americans had done to The Plan. 

The old man forced himself to relax his jaw muscles.  In response to his last order, in one of the monitors he watched a screaming young woman dragged from her cell by two of his men and carried down a hallway.  He’d had this one for almost four years now and she was certainly past her Best-By date.  He had eight men that’d had nothing over the last two weeks to play with and she would provide all of the entertainment they needed for the next thirty-six hours. 

Then he would dispose of her. 

As he watched the pleading woman be thrown into the large room filled with sex-hungry men, he felt slightly better.  One did what one could to continue the fight. 

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he turned his attention back to the original monitor that showed the beautiful young blonde woman.  Finally broken after a few hours of attention from the man called The Meatbreaker, at her physical and emotional end, the captive young woman had agreed to their every demand once she’d been shown how his organization threatened not only her but her family too.  Realizing that this terrible thing couldn’t be allowed to happen to her brother and sisters, it was only then that she had agreed to be whatever they wanted her to be, as long as they left her family alone. 

It had taken much of the next ensuing week to train her up to his exacting standards.  But in reality, most of that time had been required to ensure that only the most discriminating, and richest of his repeat customers had been notified of his most recent acquisition and her upcoming availability.  The auction of Faith had been held three days after she’d been broken.  The winner had paid a truly staggering sum of money to be the first to service her; to the winner it had been worth a king’s ransom to be the one to take her virginity and to welcome Faith into her new life.  While the old man would not allow such a valuable property to be permanently harmed, The Albanian saw no problem in allowing the winner his fantasy of introductory bondage and light sexual domination, and so it had taken another few days to set up the room for her inaugural rape. 

No matter how much a young girl like her might think she knew what she was doing, the old man knew they always broke in the end, even while still in complete ignorance of that which they’d just actually sanctioned be done to them just by agreeing to cooperate.  The old man knew that later, sometimes upon learning the full and intimate extent of the performances demanded and the full range of acts planned for them, some girls protested meekly.  But that didn’t matter, for all he had to do was mention their previously granted "blanket consent" and then flaunt in the young woman’s face her proven inability to physically resist his demands…..as well as the inadvisability of doing so – the safety of her family you understand - and they always caved in once and for all. 

But her new master had perfectly demonstrated her complete lack of power by flaunting to Faith her inability to either prevent or control the abuse she received.  He had forced her to center stage and then given her the starring role at the deflowering ceremony of Faith. 

The young Mormon girl was fucked now, mentally AND physically.  She’d needed at least a week to recover from being raped as a virgin, followed immediately by sadistic sexual torture and finally, from having been sodomized…..feeling rather magnanimous, he’d given her forty-eight hours.  Somehow, she had pulled through as he’d known she would and then the kidnapped girl began her new life as a trade-whore for the organization that had taken her.  And as the old man watched her putting on the sheer black stockings and high heels of her new trade, and then slipping the tight black dress over her head and putting on minimal makeup and jewelry, he was in some ways angered at what he saw as her weaknesses. 

Because she’d been so perfect and beautiful and unspoiled, he’d just assumed she was less corruptible than his other American women.  But she had broken just as quickly as all of the others, perhaps more quickly than most, and then had agreed to his every demand.  In anger and disappointment, he had been determined to find and even push the naïve teenage girl past her ultimate limits of shame and humiliation and degradation, to finally demand of her what should have been impossible for a young woman of her faith and upbringing to give. 

But in other ways too, she refused to act like the others.  Oh, that might come in time, but for right now the girl was remarkably docile rather than resentful or trying hide her anger at her fate.  All she ever did when she was alone was pray.  And even when in the afternoon one of his men brought her the next outfit she would wear, the girl just said that she forgave them. 

If he lived to be a hundred, he would never understand these people. 

In the end, they both knew it was too late for her to stop giving of herself now, for even if she’d said yes to everything she could ever imagine herself capable of doing, they both knew it wouldn’t be enough for him and that she never again be able to revolt against him and his demands.  Her submission and implicit consent had been obtained in spite of herself, not only for the inimitable pleasure that he derived from it but also so that she always might be aware of what he had done to her.

She Wished She Could Cry or Still Nothing But The Old Mans’ Toy

Two hours later, as the ever-watchful owner of quite valuable property, The Albanian looked at the beautiful teenage Mormon girl lying on her back with her wonderfully shapely legs spread wide for the elderly, Viagra-powered man that crouched between her thighs and licked her fresh, clean-shaven, eighteen year-old pussy almost raw.  Amateurishly at times, she faked her delight at his every move.  When he finished with that, if all went as it had on three previous visits, the client would then fuck her twice, leaving his thin semen to stain her beautiful young vagina and then go to sleep while lying on the bed next to her. 

At that point, it would be time for the final act.  His men would go to the room in which Faith had just received her double helping of elder-cock and escort her along the demeaning walk back through the Meat Market on the way to her tiny cell.  The Meat Market was an in-house bar which was normally filled with male and female clients, some waiting for their whores to be delivered to one of the pleasure rooms, while others just enjoyed seeing the hard-used women escorted past them after they’d been raped and beaten and forced to service the men that had purchased them for the evening. 

His men would ensure that Faith toured the bar carrying her tiny black dress over her left forearm, leaving the young girl wearing only her garter belt, stockings and heels.  She’d never been given panties or a bra to wear, and the final trip of the night through the bar was always specifically designed to cause maximum humiliation to every young girl that had been forced into prostituting themselves for him.  Of course, it was also a wonderful advertisement for his product line too.  But, as all of his whores were aware, this was not specifically designed for one girl alone; every one of his Tier-1 whore’s made the same walk at the end of their time in a pleasure bed. 

He sighed with contentment.  All was well.  It always went as planned, and it was always planned well. 

The old Eastern European snorted to himself as he watched the old man lick her labia and clit almost cherry red.  He’d had three girls from Utah during his time as a whore-master, and they’d provided some of his most attractive trade.  Men just couldn’t seem to get enough of them; in an amazingly short period of time, they had all developed some of the most loyal clients of all of his girls. 

The salt of the earth, these girls from Utah.  Apparently, they actually did taste like salt.  He didn’t know if it was the salt flats or the air or what, but all he knew was that to his clients, these girls really did taste like the best of potato chips……..

You really couldn’t eat just one.