The Desert Nexus
Nexus nex·us nek-sus - noun, plural nex·us·es
- a means of connection; tie; link.
- the core or center of an operation.
This story is set in the same universe as The Hotel, but only touches tangentially on that tale, although readers of that older story will certainly recognize various major players and locations. This is a long, multipart story with bondage and female slavery as the context focus - it is NOT a page after page masturbation fantasy.
For those who haven't read The Hotel, a few notes...
Sheik Hassan - The man whose tentacles of slavery reach into every country.
Suliman's - An erotic school in Turkey that turns out exquisite courtesans whose skills are indicated by the color of their silk neckware. These are not usually slaves or bound women and are known as silk girls. They are extremely expensive.
Tarkan's - A slave market, also in Turkey, where any and all kinds of women are collected, bought, and sold. These women range in value from a few hundred dollars to a million Euros each.
The Delivery Service. Run by a Frenchman. For several thousand dollars he can deliver any woman from any place in the world to any other. Somehow.
I opened my eyes and began wondering where I was. That was a definite mistake - not the wondering bit, but the part where I was staring directly into the Iraqi sun. That definitely did not help my splitting head at all. I instantly closed them and concentrated on making the throbbing go away. That was better. If I could find a cooler place to relax...
My eyes snapped open again almost with an audible click. Not to stare at the sun again, but at the still burning remains of our CH-46 Chinook helicopter. I didn't exactly jump to my feet, but I managed to assume a somewhat vertical stance as I looked around at the disaster. It didn't resemble a flying machine at all - just several piles of burning machinery surrounded by pieces and shards of metal. Including over a dozen inert lumps that had been the crew and my squad. Since I had been standing in the open hatch, I must have been thrown clear on impact.
It didn't take but a few seconds of observation to see that none of them were in any condition to be assisted by me - in fact, it would take a coroner just to determine who was who.
I began to cycle into survival mode. I knew that whoever shot the missile (or round, or rock or whatever got us) would soon be along to make sure the job was completed. I had to beat feet rapidly. My bandolier was still around my neck, so I looked for and found what appeared to be a serviceable M-4 rifle. I had long ago learned that the most important item for desert survival, beside protection, was water. The crash had been violent and pieces of 782 gear had been thrown everywhere. I found a web belt, and began to look for and collect any canteens that had survived the impact and the fire. Shortly I had seven attached to the belt and thrown over my shoulder. On an impulse, I grabbed the tarp that we used to keep flying sand out of the ready ammo.
From the skid marks left by the falling chopper, I knew which way we had come from. Obviously, back that way would be the bad guys so I needed to get gone in another direction - now! To the south the terrain looked somewhat more rough, so I headed that way. Unfortunately, a blind man could follow my footprints in the sand. Hopefully, I could find some harder terrain. I continually looked over my shoulder and then around in all directions for any pursuers, but saw no one. Finally, I came to a small hill, climbed it and settled down behind some rocks. It was time for some rest, a couple of pieces of grunt candy - ibuprofen - and some major planning.
It was about six hours to sundown, and I would wait here until then, unless the tactical situation required me to haul ass, suddenly. Walking fast in the Iraqi sun causes massive sweating, and requires a corresponding massive input of water, which I didn't have. Walking at night is much more comfortable, and in my situation, safer. There were no sticks or wood within a zillion miles of this place, but I stacked up two pillars of rocks to make a small tent shelter with the tarp to get out of the direct sun. I could barely make out the remnants of the smoke from the crash far in the distance, but still no movement. That was puzzling - there was no way that the bastards that shot us out of the sky wouldn't check for survivors. Unless... Maybe the chopper had had a major malfunction and just suddenly crashed. The problem with that theory was, that if I waited by the wreckage for rescue, and, if I was wrong, I was dead.
As I watched over the horizon for any movement, I ran over my few options. A direct walk to the north back to Baghdad would take me through the active uprising area. I probably couldn't get through there alive with an entire company for escort. Going around to the east was unknown territory for me - I would have no idea which of the few towns were friendly and which were not. A detour in a big circle to the west would be much safer, but I knew for a fact that there were no sources of water in that vast desert that I could find and seven canteens would take me only a part of the way.
That left south - a somewhat safer area. At the Saudi border, directly south, was a series of unnamed and shallow water sources. Lakes, I guess you could call them, although I had no idea where the water came from. The problem was, that the distance I estimated to be about two hundred kilometers. I could make that, but I would have to hurry and really watch the water. If I made it... I started again. Once I made it to the lakes, my water problem would be reset and I could then plan the next course of action.
As the sun was setting, I saddled up and got ready to move. By now my muscles were informing me of what I had been through a few hours ago, but they should loosen up in a while. With my compass, I selected a star that was just becoming visible in the direction I assumed I needed to go and started off at a fast pace. Nothing happened during the night as I piled up the klicks. Fortunately, I ran into no sandstorms or bad weather, although one of the infrequent massive rains would have been helpful. I rested the next day, and started again. And again...
I only had three MRE's for food, but it is water that counts in the desert, not chow. If I started getting weak, I could easily shoot something and cook it over a fire made of the very sparse brush that I passed on occasion. If I didn't find water in a few days, food wouldn't matter.
I missed the lakes - not a surprise since I had only a vague idea where they were and where I started from. I was finally down to no water and counting steps one hundred at a time, then the next hundred. I could see the shadow of a mountain in the distance and used that as my point of reference. What the heck - that was a good a destination as anything. The sun was up but I didn't stop because I knew that if I quit now I would never get up again. I thought about the girls I had known to keep my mind off my swollen tongue.
Surprisingly, the mountain was getting closer fast. Very fast. I must have really been putting the klicks under my exhausted legs.
Then I ran into the mountain. It was hard...
I awoke in Heaven, which really surprised me for two reasons. First, I had never believed in an afterlife, and second, there was no way that I would be let in even if it existed. But here I was - laying on an unbelievably soft bed, under what seemed to be silk sheets, with two angels standing beside the bed. And to add proof that it was actually the promised land, Heaven was equipped with air conditioning. Now all I needed...
Snap! Suddenly my brain started functioning again and I actually woke up with the exclamation of "What the hell..." which wasn't really the proper expression for what was really a nirvana - even if it couldn't be the real thing. A second or so later, I was reconsidering the fact that maybe I had made it after all. On each side of the bed was a girl right out of Hollywood and the Arabian Nights. One was black, the other white, but their attire was the center of my attention. It was pure harem girl fashion, with transparent silks showing everything - EveryThing! Both just stood there and looked at me with no discernible expression, which was fair since I was assaulting them visually with wide open eyes. This can't be happening - I'm still laying out in the desert having hallucinations as I expire. My body didn't think it was a dream. It was reacting even as I watched. At least that proved that I didn't leave my cojones out in the sands. Then I realized that under the sheets, I was totally naked - not even wearing a flimsy hospital gown.
The black girl turned, walked to the wall, then came back to the original position. It was then I noticed that both were wearing golden chains. Loose chains, one to each wrist and ankle from some kind of neck collar, but long enough not to restrict movement in any way. I made an effort to shut down the out-of-control thoughts I was having. At least I hadn't woken up in a Taliban cave chained to the wall. There was lots of intel here, but not enough was understood to be able to make any tactical moves. Female nudity I didn't object to, but I wasn't used to it - especially in this part of the world where most women spent their entire day covered from head to toe. I relaxed, and continued to enjoy the scenery while waiting for the next move of... who?
The black girl's foray to the wall must to have been to push a button or pull a bell rope or something. Very shortly a man entered and stopped at the foot of the bed. His English was understandable, but not all that good and I won't attempt to recreate his halting sentences, just the meaning.
"Ah, Mister Sergeant. You are awake at last." He held up his hand as I started to reply. "Please wait for your questions until later. I am not qualified to answer them. First you must eat. Then the chirurgeon will look at you again." He clapped his hands - I kid you not - just like in the movies, and though the door? curtains? came yet another babe in transparent clothes pushing a food cart. Another motion by him and my two original angels helped me to a sitting position and deposited a gigantic pillow behind me to lay back against. A bed tray was set over me and filled up with plates of not totally unknown food, although, at this point I would have eaten boiled leather. There was certainly nothing wrong with it, especially when served by two sets of tits bobbing back and forth as the owners moved plates and dishes around. I went easy on the wine. Wine? Alcohol in the Middle East? Hmmmmm. Anyway, I wanted to have my wits around me - this was too much like being fatted up for slaughter.
Once the meal was over, I took stock of my physical self. It was obvious that I had barely squeaked through my adventure. I could feel blisters on my feet, my face was hot from probable sunburn and I had just enough energy to lay back on the big pillow. I noticed both girls backing up to the walls, then saw the reason. A doctor had entered the room. And this one looked just like any medical person anywhere, including the white jacket and listening thingie hanging from his neck.
"How're we feeling, Sergeant?" he asked as he stopped beside the bed. No Saudi this - his accent was pure British. He started probing around my midriff, poking and listening.
"Better than anytime in the last few days, for sure," I answered. "Say, Doc. What the hell is this place?"
It didn't work. He put his finger to his lips and smiled. "Rest now, questions and answers later, old boy." He looked at the bottom of my feet, seemed satisfied, then continued, "No need to worry. You're in a place of friends. And the proper American authorities will be notified that you are still among the living. I suspect that your host will speak to you later this evening."
What the heck. Go with the flow, I decided. "Can you at least tell me where I am?"
"Certainly, old boy. This is the residence of Sheik Abdul Hassan, in northern Saudi Arabia."
Later that day
I was sitting up by now and had been provided with a robe. There was nothing seriously wrong with me - I was young and in top physical shape - just beaten to hell by several days and several hundred klicks of desert walking. When I indicated to the girls that I had to take a leak, they handed me a bowl, then removed it when I was finished with no more expression than they had shown when serving the meal. Hell, I could have filled it with a garden hose for all they seemed to care. My appreciation of them had settled down to general admiration of the female form.
The dude that had originally greeted me entered again that evening. I assumed it was evening - at least it was many hours since I woke up. "Greeting, Mister Sergeant," he began. "Are you adequate to a speaking with his Excellency?"
"Sure, as long as I don't have to walk very far."
"No walking at all," he replied and clapped his hands again. Another girl pushed a wheelchair into the room. I settled into it and out the room we went.
It was apparent very quickly that this was no ordinary house, but rather was a massive mansion. I was wheeled up and down hallways too fast to make any kind of examination, but it was obvious that so far the total of the treasures that I had been pushed past exceeded the total worth of my hometown. I didn't know what to do with that fact, so I just let it rest for later consumption.
Eventually we came to a very large study, expensive books in expensive bookcases, furniture polished to a shine that would satisfy a drill instructor and so forth. Standing in the middle of the room was the Great Man. I was rolled into the room, and immediately my pusher girl and her main man disappeared.
The man in the room was middle aged, dressed sort of half Middle East and half western. Immediately he said, "Sergeant Harris. Are you up to a drink?" Perfect English with no accent.
"Thank you, Sir," I replied. "Anything you have."
"Scotch?" I nodded and he walked over and unlocked a cabinet. Shortly, I had a glass of the smoothest booze I had ever tasted. It suddenly occurred to me where I was.
"I'm not complaining, Mr. Hassan, but isn't alcohol a no-no in these parts."
He smiled. "Yes, of course. It can get you flogged just for possession, let alone consumption." He sat down in an overstuffed leather chair in front of me. "I am afraid that I, like my father before me, have been corrupted by western values, Sergeant. At least, that is what the common people would think if they knew."
He looked though the amber liquid in his glass for a few moments, then continued. "I am a Sybarite, Sergeant." I didn't know the word, but I could guess its meaning. "I take and use the best from every part of the world, wherever I can find it. The world would be a better place if that were done by everyone. For examples, your country would be for the better if you were to adopt our attitude for crime - few criminals would chance being subjected to our kind of justice. This country would be enhanced if the people would realize that western antibiotics are better for a wound than camel dung and so forth." Another swallow. "I am trying to bring the common people that I am responsible for out of the past and into the present. It is slow, but it will happen." His American English was too perfect to have been learned by living in the US. For one thing, it was totally lacking in slang. It had to have come from lessons and a teacher.
"But," he changed the course of the conversation, "I am interested in your recent adventure. From my... contacts, I know who you are and most of your past history, but the part between your departing on your mission and your arrival in this country is blank. Would you grant me the boon of giving the story."
"Sure," I replied. "It's the least I can do for your kindness so far." I gave him a fairly complete description of my adventure, even though the last part of walking to the mountain was fairly hazy. Then I asked him to fill in what happened afterward.
"That part is simple and short. You triggered an alarm at a water well. Apparently by trying to enter the building. A security detachment was detailed to investigate and found you unconscious beside the structure." I thought about that for a few seconds. So my mountain that I had seen on the horizon and then "walked into" was the side of a barn, or equivalent.
I set the glass down and said. "There is no way for me to repay you, Mr. Hassan, but I can assure you that I am grateful for your saving my life. And I can guarantee that my superiors will be told that in no uncertain terms."
He smiled. "The American authorities have been notified of your... survival and whereabouts. Tomorrow you will be transported to the airbase at Riyadh and turned over to them. But for tonight, could I discuss a possible future for yourself?"
What the heck was this? This guy was a gazillionaire and I was a dumb grunt with a high school education. He could hire the most expensive help on the planet out of petty cash, so what possible value could he get by hiring me? If that is what this was about. What could I do but nod?
He sat back, reached over and picked up a folder. "A day or so is too short a time to compile any kind of complete dossier on someone, but I have friends in high places, as the saying goes. Many friends and very high places." He opened the folder. "You grew up in a small town in the southern part of Texas and you are fluent in Spanish. And you are twenty two years of age, unmarried, irreligious, not homosexual and an expert marksman. After grand school, you apparently had some contretemps with the local authorities."
I assumed that he meant high school - that was the first time I noticed him to flub his English. Anyway, it was more a statement than a question, but I answered. "Yes sir. There were no jobs available at the time, even if I had a skill. I drifted into the pay of the local, well, it wasn't a gang as we think of it today, but I am afraid that much of their income was not exactly from legal sources. The Judge gave me a choice between the Army and going up the river. And here I am. It was a good choice."
After saying that, I wasn't sure if he would connect "river" with "prison", but he nodded and said, "It appears that you are a lot like me - an amoral person. That is, you wouldn't deliberately bring harm to another man, but silly religious and moral beliefs are not for you. Plus, you have risen rapidly to a role of leadership in a difficult, shall we say, career? And after three - what is the word? - tours of duty?" I nodded "...you are alive and unwounded and highly thought of by your superiors. In the American idiom, it appears that you have replaced a lack of higher education with an ability to think on your feet. I have need of a representative of that mettle in America."
I waited for a few seconds for him to continue. "Doing what?" I hesitated then added, "If I may ask."
He smiled and got to his feet. "Do you like women, Sergeant?"
That was unexpected. But I have to admit that I have always considered the pleasure of shooting a gun to be exceeded only by the use of pussy. Preferably more than one or more than once. "Er... yes, of course," was all that I could come up with.
"I have taken the liberty of assigning a therapist to you for tonight. You are still recuperating, but I am sure your body will welcome some attention by a skilled practitioner. Good night to you, Sergeant."
After being wheeled back to my quarters, my valet, as I began to think my unnamed male servant, did his clapping routine and he, my girl pusher and my two bedside angels instantly disappeared, leaving me sitting in the wheelchair. Immediately, into the room came my "therapist." Holy shit! A slight girl, maybe 5'3", without an ounce of fat, tits of a perfect size for her and hairless from the neck down. That was easy to tell, since she was totally nude without even so much as a ring on a finger.
I had been tired of sitting in that damned chair, so I stood up and pushed it out of the way. I had no problem with moving, as long as I didn't have to hike somewhere on my blistered feet. She took me by one hand and slowly guided me through a curtain-lined doorway behind the bed. Inside was a sumptuous bathtub and shower. Ok, bathtub is not a good description. Gigantic hot tub with tons of marble and gold fittings describes it better. She pulled me to the shower, pushed some buttons on a panel, and then pushed me into the warm water stream. I won't describe the shower, but suffice it to say that she scrubbed every part of me with soap and some kind of abrasive sponge. Of course, by now my johnson was at full attention so I hoped that she wasn't easily offended. She wasn't - heck, I could have been a marble statue for all she noticed.
Afterward, back in the bedroom, I watched as she opened a cabinet, pulled out a sheet of something, then spread it over the bed. Then she pointed to it for an obvious reason. Hmmmm.
In my halting Arabic, I said, "I can understand your talk if you speak slow." But she just shook her head, pointed to me and again indicated that I should lay on the bed. What the heck, I certainly wasn't going to fight with a naked girl that wanted me to lay down. I started for the bed and she shook her head, then pointed to my robe and then to the floor. Ok that made sense - off it came. I climbed into the bed and began to lay on my back, when she rotated her wrist as an indication that I should flip over onto my stomach. No problem. Then she brought what looked like a huge salad bowl and set it beside me. It was half full of liquid - I thought. With my head turned, I watched her cup her hands, dip into the bowl and lift out a double handful of what?...
Jeez! It was clear, but looked like the slime in a horror movie, or that stuff that kids play with at Halloween. Her hands came up full but the stuff trailed down into the bowl as she dumped the load onto my back and began to spread it around. It was warm and slicker than rifle lubriplate. Shortly, she began her massage. Soon, both of us and the bed were covered in the pleasantly scented goop. It was a strange feeling, laying there in, and being covered with the stuff, but I decided not to complain.
Now, I have never had a massage in a parlor, either by a legitimate therapist or a hooker, but I decided that I might have been missing something. This girl used every part of her body as she moved from the back of my neck to the soles of my feet, slithering back and forth, up and down. Most interestingly, even though the massive eroticism of the act was apparent, I shortly began to just enjoy the massage. It felt wonderful. My rod actually began to subside in the pleasure of her actions with the goop.
Well, it didn't actually subside for very long. Eventually, she waved that I should turn over. Now I could actually see her as she went through her routines. Instantly, my brain had to supply a considerable supply of blood to a lower part of my body. This was a very young woman, but she had more experience and ability than any of the thirty something 'hos that I had used in the past. Far more. She wasn't coy - every now and then, my pecker was the target of her ministrations until she thought I was about to blow, then she would move to massage some other spot. Sometimes she would have her tits dangling just above my face, and then would turn around to work the other end of me and her twat would be in full open view - on purpose. By now, both of us were totally covered with the slimy goop, which only added to the sensations. She apparently had an intimate knowledge of the human body - nerve endings or response points or some such. Her actions were not touched by any particle of affection, or feelings, or tenderness - just pure, raw, intensive sexual stimulation.
Finally, minutes or hours later, she straddled me and slowly began to impale herself as she looked me straight into the eyes. By now, I had no conscious will left and just enjoyed laying there in an intense haze of stimulation as her tight slit moved up and down my rod. When I went off, I was surprised that she wasn't lifted into the air from the force. My nuts actually began to ache from the intense orgasm.
As we lay there, her slight body on top of me and her head resting on my shoulder, I realized that I now had a problem. After this little fireball, screwing any of the bitches that usually serviced me was now going to be like jacking off into a watermelon. I could recognized that she had far surpassed the line that separated mere competence from total mastery of a skill.
I dozed for a while, then she began to rise, pulling on my hand for me to follow. Into the shower again and she washed every last bit of the goop from our bodies, but... She focused more attention on my groin than it needed in the act of cleaning - including some extra close refurbishing with her mouth. Before I knew what was happening, I was blind with lust again and shortly was blasting another load into her.
Somebody had been watching. When we re-entered the bedroom, the bed had been made and all evidence of the slime, and our sex act, was gone. She gently pushed me onto the bed and immediately disappeared behind the curtained door that she had come in. She hadn't spoken a word in my presence. I just crawled under the sheet and collapsed.
I was standing on a street in Manhattan, looking up at the street signs. Two more blocks east and about four south would bring me to the office building I was looking for. It had been about three months since my adventure in the desert and I had been a civilian for two of them. My return to my outfit in Baghdad had been fairly uneventful. My debriefing took several days and as it turned out, we hadn't been shot down. As I had speculated that day, the crash was an accident, either pilot error or a machine malfunction. I never found out, since I was long gone from the country before any determination was made. If I had stayed with the chopper, I would have been found the next day. Well, I did what I had to do and it turned out ok in the end.
I mustered out a month later when my enlistment was up - a free man, both from the Army and the judicial system that put me in it. I had no regrets - the Army - and the war - had been both good to me and good for me. Now I was following up on an offer made by my previous host, Sheik Hassan, that he gave me as I left his domicile.
The visit to the office was short and only concerned the receptionist who gave me a set of instructions and a plane ticket.
My entry into the country was about par for the course - at least at the beginning. Middle Easterners aren't all that fond of Westerners - they like our money, and fear our power, but there is no love lost between the average citizens of both regions. I was treated with the same cold courtesy showed to all strangers in that part of the world until I showed my document with the name Abdul Hassan printed and signed prominently at the bottom. Suddenly, I was elevated to just about royalty status. My luggage was returned in haste, my passport stamped so quickly I was afraid that the little official dude would spring his wrist, and a smiling lackey escorted me to the private loading area. There a limo was waiting and very shortly, I was heading up the road at some ungodly speed across the desert.
Several hours later, I recognized the compound that passed as Hassan's home. It was more like a small town, hundreds of miles from anywhere, with a stone wall right out of the history books, water gardens, the main residence and dozens of other outbuildings of unknown purposes. On the front steps was my old "valet." He waved his hands and my luggage was instantly claimed by a helper, then to me he said, "Welcome back, Mister Sergeant. Please follow me." Shortly I was in a suite with a half dozen servants all trying to be of service, even though with only one suitcase there wasn't much work for them.
"Please, relax for the afternoon, Mister Sergeant. His Excellency requests that you join him for dinner this evening. Until then, Shasha will see to your needs." He pointed to a young dish, brown and with long shiny black hair, naked and waiting in the corner. Interesting. She had golden bracelets connected with a like colored chain, and anklets hooked the same way. The chains were light enough and long enough to allow most normal uses of both her hands and arms, so I assumed that the purpose was symbolic - to indicate to others - and her - that she was a bound female.
I nodded, and he and all but the girl left.
Ok, so I was asked to have dinner with the Man. His "request" for my presence was exactly the same as a General who "asks" for something. It was an order, pure and simple. Meanwhile... In my halting Arabic I told the girl, "I need a bath." Instantly, she moved across the room to a curtained doorway, and waited - the bathroom, I assumed. It was.
What a bath! I just lay back in the deep tub, soap suds a foot high on the surface of the water. My little bath girl sponged and rubbed - far beyond what it took to get me clean. What the hell, I decided. It was obvious that this wasn't some strict oriental bath shop, where the attendants were off limits. She rubbed everything she had against me, so I rubbed back. While she cleaned, I felt and probed. She didn't complain - just giggled and squealed as I nipped and pinched here and there. Finally, I had all I could take, pulled her around in the water, facing away from me and wondering what would happen once she realized where I was maneuvering her. What happened was, that she reached down and guided my now throbbing cock into her warm and sudsy wet slot. I had never tried to screw under water, and the movements were much slower than I was used to, but by reaching around and using her tits as handles, we did pretty well.
An hour later, refreshed in more ways than one, I relaxed on the bed for a short catnap. My internal clock was still on North American time and I wanted to be ready for whatever I was here for. As I dozed off, I decided that this kind of life could be gotten used to. I wondered what the bill would be.
Like before, the evening meal was simple but sumptuous. Sheik Hassan greeted me in an apparently sincere welcome and introduced me to Jean - pronounced Jhon, which led me to believe - correctly, as it turned out - that he was French. During the meal, most of the conversation was in the form of questions to me as to my exit from the Army and what I did when I got back to the States.
Finally, in private and over forbidden cocktails, he got down to business. The longer I listened, the higher my tendency for totally disbelief rose - I had to remind myself over and over that this man didn't play games. Especially with some no-name ex-sergeant. I was being considered for the position of his agent for America. I also found out that Jean was also one of several in Europe. He apparently understood English, but said absolutely nothing the entire time we were in the study except for an initial polite greeting.
My host was saying, "You will be an associate of Jean for a few months. That will give both of us time to determine if we want to work with each other. Obviously, until you become a full member of my organization, there are certain aspects to my operations that you will not know about. During that time, you are free to decide at any time not to continue. It has happened." He refilled his own glass. I wondered where he got the stuff, then reminded myself that a person of his power could stock the cabinet with plutonium if he wanted. He continued. "Obviously, if you and I decide to make our relationship more permanent, then certain forms as to confidentiality would come to the fore." He was very politely telling me that I was a dead man if I ratted. I nodded.
About an hour later, he got to his feet and motioned us to follow. "Let me give you a short tour of some of my facilities." Jean excused himself and I followed my host through the door and down a long hall. A long flight of stairs - down - led us to a small room with a large window. Beyond was a huge room - I mean, probably the size of a basketball court. It appeared to have a translucent ceiling, but since it was now nighttime, I couldn't be sure. Not that I spent more than a millisecond looking up.
The room was a garden of sorts - water pools and a couple of fountains, tropical plants and bushes with winding walkways around and through. In the distance I could see furniture of some kind. But I didn't pay much attention to the flora either. It was the fauna that got me goggle eyed.
Women. About 20 or so that I could see. The room was big enough for hundreds. All kinds and types - black, white, oriental. Some were totally naked except for a halter, some wore various - well, I could only call them Hollywood harem garments. I looked at my host for some explanation.
He smiled. "This is my private seraglio." I assumed the word actually meant harem. "As women come and go through my organization over the years, I naturally - what is the phrase... cherry pick...?" I nodded. "...cherry pick the very best for myself. He pointed to a buxom white girl sitting on a bench about 20 feet beyond what I assumed was a one way mirror from her side. She was reading something. "Look at that woman closely."
I looked. A beautiful girl, Caucasian, in her apparent twenties, totally naked except for some kind of weird bra that held her tits up without hiding anything. A great figure - not skinny, not chubby. I certainly wouldn't kick her out of bed. She reminded me of... of...
"Holy shit!" I wasn't sure if I said that out loud, but I looked at the Sheik with my mouth open. He nodded. This was the actress that had the drinking problem, or drug problem, whichever it was, that got high or overdosed one night and fell off a cliff into the ocean and was never found. We had read about it in the Stars and Stripes. Muther frack, I muttered, this time fortunately under my breath. All at once, the realization set in that the "hobby" of my host was real, and in spades! I had assumed that he trafficked in third world women - ones that wouldn't be missed or that wouldn't have any effort made to be retrieved. Or maybe even sold by families. This put a whole new light on the... what?
My host anticipated my question. "We get all kinds of women from all over the world. They range from those who have never seen an electric light to royalty. Some actually wind up in far better and longer lives than they would have had if left alone, and that doesn't always include ignorant females from the third world. There are lots of women out there who are both rich and very unhappy and wind up in better circumstances. But, as always, the feelings of the slave mean nothing - it is her luck of the draw, I believe the saying goes."
He motioned to me and we continued down another hall, down stairs, more halls and finally up again. Apparently we were now in an outbuilding. At this time, I first saw what most of the world assumed disappeared hundreds of years ago - a real slaver establishment.
First, and on the lowest floor, probably four levels below ground, were small cells only big enough for a woman to lie down and stand up. A sleeping mat was on the floor of most, along with a pot to be used as a commode. At the moment, I only saw two women in residence. The level would have held dozens.
The women were attached to the wall with a plain iron collar and a chain that would have restrained an elephant. It must have just been for psychological reasons, since the barred door on each cell was obviously far more than sufficient to hold a single person.
Hassan explained, "We keep any new captures here while they get used to the idea of what has happened to them. It might be a month, or several months. He pointed to one of the naked females - a very nice looking brunette. Well, her body and face were nice, at least. At the moment she wasn't exactly turned out for the prom, with wildly disarrayed hair and no makeup whatsoever and her expression as she looked at us wasn't exactly affectionate. "Interestingly enough, usually the educated females like her stay down here the shortest amount of time. Once the rage and threats subside, boredom sets in and it isn't long before she will agree to just about anything to get some mental stimulation. On the other hand, some lower class women consider that being allowed to just sit or sleep all day, and be fed without having to work for it, is a vastly superior life to what they had been living."
We climbed the stairs to the next level. Here were much larger cells, but not much more luxurious, although these had actual doors with a window, rather than bars like the lower floor accommodations. There were few women here - only three that I counted - but again, collared and chained to the wall.
He went on, "These will get rudimentary training on how to act as a chattel. Nothing rigorous, but you can tell that they have learned to be deferential to anyone in view." That was so. As each heard us and looked up and saw us at her window, she immediately dropped to her knees and bowed her head.
On the next level up, he continued. "Here, the women are sorted as to their final... ah... vocation, if you will. Most will become sexual domestics, a few will be sent off for rigorous concubine training, and rarely, one is chosen to fill a spot in my own collection." He shook his head. "Alas, no new women have reached that level of perfection in the last couple of years."
Above this section was a floor of miscellaneous rooms of different functions, including the kitchen that serviced all of the women in this area. Since it was fairly late at night, it was totally empty of either chattels or staff. There were "classrooms", a medical office, and... and... a room with all kinds of interesting stuff... or equipment. In a few moments, I realized that it was a punishment room. The clue was the wall on which hung several different kinds of whips. Other indications were chains and manacles attached to various walls and furniture. Wow! It was just beginning to sink in as to just what I was getting into. There was much more I saw on this level and the one above, but a lot of it made no sense to me. I assumed that someday it would.
Back in his private lounge, he continued, "Some of the women will be sent to be trained, either here or in other countries." To my questioning look, he answered, "I have an intensive training establishment here that can turn a women into a courtesan, cocotte, harlot, tart or a wife. There is an establishment in Turkey that can do wondrous things with a woman and allow her to keep her identity and spirit. And others in Spain, Vietnam, and the like."
He continued, "Others will be sold to dealers all over the world. But, not much of that is done by me. I only deal in high quality females - it is seldom that I have to dispose of an inferior product. At any rate, when you become a full member of my establishment, you will learn much more about my activities."
More? Shit, how much more could there be? Well... an entire underground world's worth, as I found out as time went along.
Later that night, laying beside a "superior product" who had drained me dry, sleep wouldn't come. In fact, my mind was roaring with thoughts and impressions and what-ifs. Most of what I had seen I wouldn't have believed existed before tonight, and all of it was totally illegal almost everywhere in the world. And if I accepted the offer, I would be a part of something that most Americans would deny that even existed in our modern times.
How could something like this be going on for decades - heck, it had been going on since prehistoric times - without hitting the headlines at least once? Surely, in all the years since slavery was made illegal in most of the world, someone, somewhere would have exposed a slaver organization, or an operation that captured females. Or some high class woman in all those years would have escaped to blow the whistle on her captors. It didn't make sense, unless it was so powerful all over the world that it feared no government or justice anywhere. And just who was "it", anyway? Sheik Hassan? Did he control the world's market in bound females, or did multiple copies of him occur all over the world?
And what was I going to do?
Paris, France, or parts thereabouts.
Jean did speak English. When we left Saudi he was just a cardboard cutout to me. I knew nothing about him except that he was now my boss for a while. He had a major accent, but I had no problem understanding him. In the weeks and months that followed, I picked up a fair amount of French, mostly through immersion.
His chateau was outside of Paris, about halfway down the road to Orleans. It wasn't an entire kingdom, like the Sheiks's, but it definitely wasn't a mere middle class house. A really nice mansion, with gardens and a huge lake. Also hot and cold running girls, but these weren't from Hassan's stock - they could come and go as they pleased. I found out later that they were on Jean's payroll as entertainers - either of Jean or any guests that might be in residence. I discovered early on that, while I liked girls, and liked them best when they were under me, he was a satyr. At any given time of the day, if he wasn't working, he would have a girl stretched out on the couch or bent over a desk.
For two weeks or more, I just hung around as on vacation - or, "on holiday" in the local idiom goes in Europe. I started learning French from the girls I was servicing, and since I had no other occupation, I serviced a lot. It was a wonderful life, but I knew that eventually it would wear thin.
I was engaged in my usual warm up activity before starting the day, i.e. I was inserted deeply into the broad that warmed my bed that night, when another cunt appeared at the door. "Monsieur Sergeant. Monsieur Jean wishes for your presence in the lounge." I switched my fantasies to the fast track, unloaded into her and started pulling my clothes on.
"Ah, Bonjour Rodger," he greeted as I entered - actually his pronunciation came out as Rowjere, but I wasn't offended. "It is time to get you trained." He motioned me over to a large table, loaded with paperwork. "I was waiting until a new operation started up so that you can see how one goes down from the top." He picked up a large 8x10 photograph and handed it to me. "A nice looking beech. Hold on while I order coffee."
The picture was of a young woman exiting a shop of some kind. A real looker. I'd do her for sure, but what about her made her valuable as a female capture? Ok, slave. I was having trouble with that word. I assumed it was the American in me.
When he sat down he picked up a folder and handed it to me. I opened it and began to read. Madam Cosette Dupont. Twenty four years of age. Famous soft porn French movie star. Married a wealthy industrialist who conveniently died a couple of years later. After the usual lawsuits by unhappy siblings and relatives, she wound up with the whole pile.
"Who does your intel collecting?" I asked. We were speaking English since my French was totally insufficient for anything but asking where the bathroom or train station was.
"First things first. Sometimes, I get a request for a specific capture, like this one. Usually, its a famous or wealthy woman and is sometimes impossible and I don't even try. But when the request comes in, I begin the search the for a set of possible operations. On occasion I will pick one on my own to sell - any high class European woman will bring a fabulous price within the Sheik's network.
He sat down across from me. "Some of the Sheik's agents will take the first woman that fits the requirement. I have a set of rules that I never bend, one of which is that I never capture a woman who has children that she is responsible for. Or one that is in a happy marriage - not that that is a major problem these days.
"Now, the first procedure is to find out everything about the woman. I have a worker who begins to compile a beginning dossier on her - starting with Internet searches, then possibly followed up with actual visits to the appropriate registres d'état-civil - which would be the equivalent of county courthouses in your country."
"Who does the legwork?" I asked. "Obviously a trusted employee?"
"Ah, Bon," he replied. "That brings up a most important - THE most important point. That is, selecting the members of my, and someday, maybe, your organization. The female quarry that we hunt is a minor consideration. The world is full of targets. But... And it is a very important but, your team members have to be dedicated and trusted. All it takes is one to ruin your whole life."
I nodded. It was obviously that he was talking about characteristics that organized crime had learned decades, if not centuries before. The rewards of working outside of the law have to be very high, and so do the punishments for breaking the trust. He gave me a rundown on his organizations. First was a woman who did intel gathering. I gathered that she was an expert in tracking down every last iota of info on any given person or subject. She was a cell of one - that is, she reported directly to Jean and knew nothing of anyone else in his organization. Neither did anyone else know of her.
There was a man who was a ferret. He specialized in disguises and infiltrating any other entity, be it a company, political unit, place of residence and so forth. Suffice it to say that there were very few locks or alarms in the world that he couldn't open or bypass in seconds. Also a cell of one.
The only other men who were on Jeans payroll were the heads of field teams. Each was responsible for recruiting his own agents as needed for any field operation. Both teams had their areas of expertise. Again, neither knew of the other or anyone else connected to Jean.
He continued. "I pay very well for performance and each knows that I expect expertise from them and anyone under them." A scantily clad female came in with coffee and the mail, which he took and rewarded by sticking his hand up her brief dress and fingering her for a while as he sorted through the stack. A smack on the butt and she left. Back to me, he said, "None of my agents EVER come to my house and very seldom even meet with me unless there is an op going on. If you set up operations in America, I strongly suggest that you set up a secure structure somewhat like this."
I nodded again. That made definite sense. He continued. "Just as the Sheik has a hierarchy of agents, so do I, and so do most of the other of his agents, I assume. Although I know of at least one in Asia that is a lone wolf." He poured himself a cup of coffee and pushed the tray towards me. I shook my head.
"Anyway, back to the process. Once I have as much info on the target as I can find, then usually my ferret begins to physically observe her daily activities. Nothing intense or too illegal - just observations on where she usually goes, how often, how long she stays. And who she associates with, what her hobbies are - tennis, golf, museums, movies, etc. Finally, I sit down and try to plan an operation. Sometimes it takes a week to come up with a viable solution, sometimes months. On occasion, the woman lives alone and we just go in and take her." He shook his head with a wry expression. "And sometimes I never come up with one and move on to another target."
He opened a folder - a dossier, I assume. "No computer," I commented.
"No," he replied. "Remember, security, toujours security. Any computer can be hacked. And it is the first thing that the authorities will seize in a raid."
"But this had to come off of a computer, somewhere."
"Oui," he agreed. "I have a very good friend in America, who has a hobby somewhat like the Sheik, although not as grand... large. He is an expert in secure communications and set up a special laptop for me. That's it over there. I take it to some Internet connection somewhere, usually a busy cafe, and send an innocuous email to what looks like a friend. It is a trigger to tell the email computer, wherever it is, to send what it has. In a few seconds, in comes an encrypted package containing any information that one or more of my agents emailed to the server. I bring it home, decrypt it, then print it out. I click on an icon and the laptop destroys the original information. When we have gotten all the info we need, the paper will go into an industrial shredder and water mulcher."
I thought about that for a moment. "As I understand, almost any information can be retrieved from any computer if the desire and money is enough."
"Are you a computer expert?," my mentor asked. It wasn't sarcasm - he was really asking.
I shook my head. "Not if you are talking about programming or the like. But I have built a few, and I can get around one pretty well."
He waved his hand at the laptop sitting across the room. "Look at it after while and give me your opinion."
We spent an hour going over the information that his data collector had sent. There wasn't much there - just raw statistics about her childhood, schools, education, clubs and so forth. Obviously, we would have to wait until his ferrets got back with some info.
I spent the next couple of weeks touring France, and working on my language lessons - that is, when I could find the time when I wasn't between a shapely pair of legs. One thing about the immersion method of learning, it is fast even if my accent wasn't exactly pretty. But at least I could get around on the street now without being totally helpless.
During that time I took a look at his 'secure' laptop. I expected to see an ordinary computer with an ordinary operating system, Linux in this instance. Instead, I found a home directory with literally thousands of folders each having thousands of files. What the hell? Is that what his 'expert' was calling security. Yes, to a human it would be an impossible task to search all that, but a computer program could blow through and catalog everything in seconds. Or so I thought.
As I dug deeper, I discovered that every file had a random name, like 'eu87Dsjiv8sl' and '98widls9dugr.' But, the kicker was that I discovered that every file was encrypted - thousands of them. And, every file had exactly the same size and creation date. WTF??? I parsed through the system logs to try to determine if any were touched at a different time which would tell me which one(s) were real. Nothing, all logs had been erased.
An hour or so later, I decided that I was looking at the product of a genuine expert in security. Apparently, when the program downloaded the encrypted message from wherever, it then built several thousand dummy files of exactly the same size as the real one, encrypted them, and changed the creation date on all of them to be the same. Then it erased the log files to remove all traces of what had been done. It would take all the computers in the world a gazillion years to brute force decrypt all of those dummy files to find the real one. I couldn't find the actual program that did the work, but it had to be on there somewhere. Oh, well, Jean would either show me how or not, eventually.
I had just gotten out of the shower, alone for a change, and wondering where my bath girl had gone. Drying off, I heard a heated discussion in the bedroom - one that was way too fast for my still limited French. All I could tell was that the voices were female. Opening the door, I saw two familiar girls - very familiar. I knew all about them physically, inside and out. Anyway, they were standing tittie to tittie in a loud verbal disagreement. I gathered that the topic of argument was whose turn it was to service me tonight.
Man, this was a completely different life I was having now, from my pre-Army days. Being fought over by two gorgeous vixens was not something that was a problem as a pimply faced youth. I just stood and watched, my ego inflating like a life vest in a water landing. Finally, as I became afraid that the verbal assault was about to turn physical, I stepped into the room and said, "Now, now girls. What's the problem here." The commotion stopped - they knew better than to fight in the presence of the Master's house guest.
"Monsieur Sergeant," started the brunette. "It is my turn tonight in your bed."
She was a majority of one, as the redhead immediately begged to disagree. "No it is not, you beech! You were here last."
"She liar! I 'ave been with Monsieur Jean last night. You were..."
"Enough already!" I spoke English, but they knew enough to shut up. In stumbling French, I continued. "There is enough to go around for everybody. You..." pointing at the redhead, "...lay there, and you on the other side." With that I climbed into bed and pointed with both hands. They immediately complied, glaring at each other still, but with out any further verbal abuse.
What a night! Both tried to out do the other, and worked over my weakening body for hours. The next morning Jean noticed that I was less than alert, but didn't comment.
One morning, Jean called me to follow him, and we drove into the city. We entered an ordinary cafe with Internet access and sat down. Jean was an aberration in Frenchmen in that he far preferred coffee in a country where wine was the major drink. We conversed in my halting French, as he casually opened his laptop, plugged in a flash drive and then keyed something in. From watching him, anyone would have assumed that we came here for the coffee, not the Internet. I heard a 'ping', and we continued our conversation. After two cups of coffee, his machine pinged twice, he removed the flash drive and closed the cover. We continued our conversation for a while longer then casually got up and left.
On the way back to his chateau, I learned that the magic program was on the flash drive - that the laptop was useless without it. The first ping I heard was the incoming message, and the second pair of pings signaled that the program had secured the computer and had done a secure erase on the flash drive. It was now just an empty piece of temporary storage. He didn't say how or where he reloaded it for the next time. I assumed that somewhere in his home was a hidden computer with the critical program. I was wrong, as I found out much later.
Once in his office, he decrypted the received message - I don't know how he determined where it was and what it was called in that gigantic mass of dummy files, but shortly we had a stack of printouts from one of his ferrets and I assumed the original file was now history.
Madam Cosette Dupont lived alone, but in a secure and very upscale apartment complex that would be tough to enter and even tougher to exit with an unwilling woman. She was the owner of an industrial complex - or something like that - which I thought was strange for a twenty four year old young woman. Then I remembered an item from the original data on the girl - her husband had died and she had inherited the business two years before. I casually wondered if his death may have been assisted in some way.
She rode the Paris metro to her office and back most days - not unusual even for the very rich, given the traffic situation in the capital. She spent Saturdays at an exclusive club in the country. I have to say that his ferret was thorough. There was a two week list of her activities by the minute. Some of the observations were from inside her company, and some were from inside the club, which meant that either the ferret got in somehow, or paid someone on the inside for the info.
We read every line on every report. Jean made the point that this business required total concentration and if I was the type that tended to gloss over things or wanted to rush the operation, then I needed to find a different line of work. This would be, he said, like a heart transplant operation - everything had to go according to an excruciatingly detailed plan with no missing steps and no guesswork. Sloppy work would get the person a concrete bedroom for years. He told me that he had had several operations that had been aborted because of circumstances, but never one that went south because of bad planning. I could only agree.
We were becoming friends. One evening he sent me a new girl, named Fleurdemur which I translated as Wall Flower, so it had to be a nickname. She was one that he had acquired for his own use, and sent to some place in Turkey for an education in sexuality. Interesting, I thought, until he mentioned that the cost of said training was a hundred thousand euros - about a hundred and forty thousand dollars. I just stared at him blankly. There was no reason for him to be spoofing me, but that was ridiculous. You could get a doctorate at an exclusive college in the States for that kind of money.
When she left my bed, late that night, I just lay and thought about the new world that I had entered. One that I had never had a clue even existed. Not just modern day slavery, but the existence of women that, from a point of sexuality, made all of the women of the movies and glamour mags, and certainly any that I had used in my lifetime, seem like clumsy hick teenagers with spread legs.
This woman, wearing only a wisp of green cloth around her neck when she entered my room, had a knowledge of the male body that was clinical. She could push here, and rub there, and pinch that and play my nerve endings like a musical instrument. Parts of me that I never thought of as usable in the sex act, like the bottoms of my feet, and back of my neck, she manipulated to either bring me up, or if I was getting too close to shooting off, back down. She could have me in a blind rut, with my cojones feeling like they were about to explode, and not have come close to my privates. Where did a woman get that kind of knowledge? Was this what the Sheik was talking about when he mentioned his training of women? Or was it something else?
Jean and I were looking over some new intel in his study, when suddenly, we heard a crash of glass breaking, and some yelling and screaming. Jean reached under the table and pulled out an automatic pistol and handed it to me. I half pulled the slide back to see if a round was chambered - no - then let it go back to rest. I was ready to jack and load as we walked to the door, then through a small library toward the source of the commotion. As we looked though the next door, I flipped the automatic to safe and stuck it in my belt. Jean and I just stood there, enjoying the sport.
Two girls - the same two that I had the ménage à trois session with a couple of night ago - were rolling on the floor in a massive girl fight, hair pulling, face slapping and all. And accompanied by screams, yells and unlikely threats. A lamp was laying shattered on the floor, obviously the source of the noise that alerted us. Finally, as it looked like they were about to trash the room, Jean walked in and commanded, "CESSEZ!" Both girls immediately stopped their activity, looked up in fear, then jumped to their feet with their heads down. "Clean this room up, then come to my study!" They both jumped to obey, and, smiling at me, Jean turned and headed back the way we came.
Shortly, they were standing in front of his desk, very contrite, trying to explain the ruckus. Sure enough, it was about me. My ego was going to be blimp sized if this kept up. Jean heard them out, then lowered the boom.
"I will give you a choice. You can both have punishment under the whip, or you can leave my employ now. Which is it?" That was no choice at all for two girls whose only assets were their bodies. Going back to living in a dirty flat on the wrong side of the city and servicing pimply faced boys and old men for coins wasn't an option they would ever choose willingly.
With her head down, the brunette said, "The whip, Monsieur." The redhead nodded and quietly agreed, "Yes Monsieur, the whip please."
More information about our quarry came in from the ferret. We pored over it page by page and line by line, and then over it again. A large whiteboard kept a list of our musings...
Travel. She either rides the Metro or in a private chauffeured limo. She prefers the Metro - probably because it is much faster. Occasionally uses taxis.
Home. A secure apartment complex used by many high government officials with excellent security. Not a good choice for a kidnapping.
Work. Not very secure, but very busy. She is never alone. Her office building is a high-rise in the suburbs.
Play. Most of her weekends are spent at her exclusive club. Again, also used by important officials with the associated security.
Encounters. Dates only seldom and then only high class males. Unknown if she is straight or bi.
Misc. She isn't a hermit. She occasionally goes shopping, or the theatre, but not anything predictable.
Jean sat back with his ever present coffee cup and waited for me to finish reading. When I put the last paper down, he asked, "Ok. If you had to approach this yourself back home, what would you try?"
I looked up at the white board, not really seeing it since the facts were engraved in my mind. In a few moments I replied. "I would say that the only opening here is while she is traveling to and from work on the train. Every place else she goes is loaded with guards and cameras."
"As is our subway system," he replied. "But you are right, that looks like our only point of access." We began to outline a possible plan of attack. My duty as trainee was to build an operational plan.
The exercise room
I was never into the discipline gig - in fact, I had never hit a girl on purpose, but right now my johnson was rock hard at seeing 'my' two girls standing about ten feet apart in the middle of the floor, wrists locked together and held high over their heads by ropes dangling from the high ceiling. They had been in that position for a considerable time, just looking at the floor and shifting their weight from time to time. I just sat and looked, my imagination in overdrive. Jean hadn't come back yet.
My adrenaline wouldn't let me stay put for long, so I stood up and walked around and around them, just looking. I stepped up behind the redhead and ran my fingers down her spine. She jumped like she had been electrocuted the instant I touched her. So, the anticipation was not just running high with me.
Finally, Jean came into the room carrying a braided whip, which he handed to me. Holy shit! Was I going to do this? I felt of the thong - it was soft leather, and would squeeze flat, so it was hollow inside. It wasn't a bull whip - one of those would tear a girl to ribbons. It just looked like a smaller version of one. He pointed to it and said quietly, "That won't cause blood unless you swing it with maximum effort."
Walking up to the girls he said, "This is your last opportunity to refuse. Do you want to leave now, or take your punishment?"
Both just mumbled, "Punishment, Monsieur."
He nodded at me and said, "Go ahead."
Trying to look nonchalant, I walked behind the girls and measured my distance. Uncoiling the thong, I took aim at the back of the brunette, and swung it with a goodly amount of velocity, but, of course, using no where near my maximum strength. The girl jumped like she had been electrocuted, all the muscles in her legs, back and arms spasming. She also let out a loud cry, that she tried to cut off. Jean looked with approval as I stepped up to her and examined the welt across her back. No damage to her skin.
Another lash, a pause to let her feel the full effects, then another - about ten in all. Each were accompanied by her body reacting as before, and also the same sharp cry. She would move her head all the way back, then all the way forward, and shift her weight from foot to foot, just trying to alleviate the pain, somehow.
The redhead's threshold of pain was much lower than the brunette's. From the first lash, she screamed and begged and thrashed, kicking and trying to turn away from the lash. All that got her was a few stripes on her stomach.
We sat there, as another girl, with fearful eyes, brought our coffee tray. After ten minutes or so, Jean took the whip and walked up to the girls. He weighed their breasts, ran his hand down to their cracks and felt for a while, then stepped behind them and gave each ten more strokes. But, his were considerably more severe than mine. Now the girls were in real pain, jumping and thrashing, screaming for it to stop. When he was finished, they just hung by their wrists, their legs barely able to support them. They had red zebra stripes from their shoulder blades down to their upper thighs. He let them hang there for an hour, then sent another girl in to unhook the rope ends at the wall and let them down.
A week later, after long hours of skull sweat and even longer hours of actually investigating the physical area that would be used, I laid an outline before him. After a long appraisal, he returned it to me with a grade of a solid F minus.
"Rowjere, do you remember what your Honorable General Eisenhower said about plans?" I shook my head. "Something like 'Before the battle, plans are everything, after it starts, they are nothing.' You are too focused on the actual operation. If it was that easy, we could just write out the instructions and drink mint juleps until the target was delivered to us. Remember that in our business, the most important rule is the old adage of 'He that fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.' No target is worth the slightest risk if it can be avoided. The world is full of other females of value."
So, I started over. The actual operation was trivial compared to the series of 'What ifs..." that accompanied every step. He would point at a line on my chart and ask, "Ok, your team is here with the girl, but some other maintenance worker has come along and turned on the lights. What do they do?" I would have to come up with a set of counter moves. The plan had only one starting place and one successful ending, but dozens of aborted exits if necessary. However, this operation would have a critical cusp. If something went wrong before the girl was taken, we would just fold and start the game another day. If it blew up after she was snatched, then that was it as far as she was concerned - the team would scatter and the plan would be shredded - metaphorically - and certain evidence would be allowed to be found that would suggest a kidnapping for ransom.
"The van has a blowout here. Now what?" More alternative moves. Christ, compared to Jean's requirements, the ops that I was involved with in Iraq were planned as casually as a little girl's birthday party. Finally, I came up with an operational plan - with a lot of his help - that he approved of. The hard part was over, now all we had to do was initiate it. Well, so I thought at the time - actually, what followed made the previous month seem like planning a night at the movies.
Fortunately, the hard days were always followed by hard nights. Or, nights with a hard - you get the idea. He had a bevy of women at his chalet that were always at our beck and call. He had no favorites that were his exclusively and I was offered the use of any of them when I wanted. Naturally, I soon developed my own favorites that I came back to over and over. Since his was an ordinary, if very wealthy, residence in a modern civilized country, none were slaves, or bound women, or whatever the term that may be used for unwilling cunts in servitude. He wasn't into B&D other than casual play and had no interest in torture or captivity, although for a woman to reside in his very comfortable abode, she was required to submit to his will without reservation. Any refusal to obey would bring instant dismissal, although I have to say that in all the time I have known him and his household, I can never recall a woman leaving against her will.
On occasion, a girl and a guest would become infatuated with each other, and she would ask permission to take up residence with her new soulmate. Obviously, he or she didn't have to ask, but they always did - Jean being a very powerful person in his county that one would be unwise to irritate. Jean always graciously acceded to their request - it gave him an opening to install a new and possibly even more talented "employee." The range of talents of his dozen or so sirens was truly awesome. Some were trained to the n'th degree in screwing, others were just young and full of raw eroticism. And others fell at all ranges between those extremes. I had long since decided that Heaven actually existed - only it wasn't somewhere in the afterlife - it was just a few dozen miles from Paris, France.
The week of the possible operation came around. Jean's data collector and ferret were paid off and told to take a holiday somewhere.
Several days were allowed for the selected team to go over the physical operational areas and to get back with more questions and suggestions. There weren't many - at Jean's rate of pay, he expected nothing less than total expertise. I myself spent a considerable amount of time wandering the route that the operation would take, making innocuous notes about possible problems and advantages. Finally, we made several dry runs with the snatch team to iron out any kinks.
Jean had let me do all the actual planning, but of course with lots of "suggestions" and input from his experience. I had no doubt that every last element of my plan and operation was intimately scrutinized by himself in massive depth. I didn't have a part in the actual snatch, but would just observe as it went down - or south, I grimly reminded myself.
Now we just needed the right circumstances to come together.
It was a dark and stormy day - well, from a Parisian standpoint, anyway. Compared to some of the storms that I had seen in the Midwest of America, this was mild rainy winter day. From the weather reports the day before, we were acting on the good chance that the day would be usable for our operation. But first, I got a surprise the night before...
That evening before, Jean called me to his office via a message girl. When I got there, he was in conversation with a woman - a young woman, mid twenties or so. "Ah, Rowjere. I want you to meet Ekaterina."
I stepped closer to her and made the obligatory greeting of "Glad to meet you, Miss Ekaterina."
"Thank you, Roger." She nodded and continued. "Please call me Katja." Very good English, with an accent but a lovely one that I couldn't quite place. She wasn't from one of the western Romance countries, and definitely not from the Nordic area. The Balkans maybe. Or Poland.
Jean continued, this time in French. "Katja is here to watch the operation go down. She is an agent for the Sheik."
Katja dropped a sheaf of papers she had been holding. "I have been reading your operational plan, Roger. It is well thought out. Unless, that American miscreant of yours happens to drop by?" To my puzzled look, she smiled and said, "Murphy." Ah. This wasn't some beautiful bimbo. She was obviously intelligent, multilingual, and very good at it. She knew about the obscure - to a foreigner - Murphy's law which meant that she had a knowledge of at least one foreign culture - American, in this case. And there was the little matter that she was apparently agent without portfolio to one of the most powerful men in the world - the Sheik. I wondered why she was really here.
The next morning, we got up very early and drove into the city. A couple of phone calls got the teams ready to roll, then I left and relaxed in a coffee bistro next to a Metro station. I had long since checked the area around for cameras. There were some, but nowhere near the saturation level of London and most British cities. There were none at the coffee shop that I could tell, but still, Jeans fanaticism about safety meant that we didn't hang around as a group. Jean would just sit in a hotel room with a set of throwaway phones as a go-between for messages if necessary. Katja would wait at another bistro several stations up the line. There was actually no reason for me to be here since I had absolutely no part in the first part of the operation. Well, I did actually have a tiny part at the end. But mostly I was just an observer for my own education - an observer in a false mustache and wig and a workers hat pulled down low. If this thing went seriously south, I would be just another awed passenger on the train.
Paris - outside a Metro station
I erased the text message on my phone and walked over to the train platform, carrying a workman's lunch satchel - just another lowly wage slave going into the city to work. In a few minutes the front cab of a locomotive appeared with the destination name I was looking for - Denfert-Rochereau. I moved to the second car and entered, casually looking around. I could see Katja standing bored at the other end and assumed that I had entered the right car. Very casually, and trying to hold an expression of total boredom, I looked down the double row of seats for our target. At this point, I was sure that the people closest to me would hear my heart pounding. I couldn't see the woman we were waiting for - apparently she - No. There she was. In a seat facing away from me about a third of the way back. Standing next to her was a man that I recognized as being one of our team.
Station after station went by, we stopped and let people off and others on. I had memorized the sequence of stops, not that they meant anything to me, but I knew that the critical one was coming up. Unconsciously, I gripped the hand rail tighter. Then, suddenly, there was a double blink of the lights, and then darkness for a few seconds before the power came back on for good. During the time of confusion, as the train jerked and banged from loss of power, I saw our agent's hand move suddenly, then back to his pocket. Our target slapped her neck, and looked around, but not up at him. I didn't even see the pressurized syringe that he had used to inject her.
I looked at my cell phone. No bars. So, either the person in charge of the cell phone jammer had done his job, or we were so far underground that phones wouldn't work anyway. Either way, no calls would be placed to 911, or whatever the French equivalent was. We stopped at a station for a moment, then continued. I could see our mark shaking her head, and placing her hand to her forehead as the... whatever it was that she was injected with, went to work. By the next station she was just sitting there looking straight ahead. Our man reached down and took her by the arm and pulled her to her feet, whispering something in her ear. I knew - or rather I was told - that by now her mind would be just about totally blank and that she should follow any orders given by anyone. I heard him tell her, "This is our station, dear. We get off here." The train stopped and I watched through the window as she obediently allowed herself to be led stumbling to the platform and onto the escalator. At the top I knew there would be a waiting car which would drive our captive to the holding tank somewhere. I also noticed that her purse had been removed from her hand and was being brought back into the train by another of our operatives.
In the seat behind the one in which she had been sitting, a young man was slumped over, apparently asleep. Her bodyguard had gotten a different juice mixture than his boss. I assumed that he would eventually wake up somewhere down the line.
I sat down as the train started up again. Phase one of the op had gone well - at least so far. Murphy would really have to have a hard-on against us for that part to go wrong now. About ten minutes later we pulled into the station I wanted and I made sure I was one of the first ones out and up the escalator. Across the street from the entrance of the underground was the building where Madam Dupont had her office on the top floor. I walked quickly across the street and entered the lobby. I hadn't been there before, but it was laid out exactly as the pictures that I had been shown.
It had a moderately sized lobby with the usual newsstand, coffee kiosk and a flower shop. Leading to the elevators was a set of glass doors with a badge reader. On the other side I could see two guards sitting at their desk of video monitors and further down the hall were the elevators.
I purchased a cup of coffee and a paper and pretended to be looking for the classifieds or something until I saw a woman walk through the rotating doors. It was Madam Dupont, wearing her upscale female business suit, and holding her head forward so that the water dripping off of her wide brimmed hat didn't fall on her. She was attempting to close the umbrella as she walked to the security door and inserted her badge. The guards noticed her coming and immediately got to their feet, obviously mouthing some kind of appropriate greeting suitable for the person who approves the paychecks. I saw her return the greeting as she struggled to get the uncooperative umbrella closed. Finally, about the time she got to the elevator, she got it put away and entered the lift.
"Ahhh," I exclaimed as I pretended to have found what I was looking for. I left the building and walked back across the street to stand under the awning of a store, obviously hoping that the rain would stop, or at least slow down. Since it was a terrible day, weatherwise, no one was interested in observing some nobody sheltering from the elements. Eventually, I saw a woman exit the building, then cross the street and enter the entrance to the Metro. I followed.
Since the train I got on was heading back out of the city, it was mostly empty, with plenty of seats. I sat down beside the woman I had followed.
In a low voice, and not looking at her, I asked, "Any problems?"
"No Monsieur," she answered. "It went just as planned."
"Here, Monsieur." She handed me the black purse and I jammed it into my empty lunch satchel. From my pocket, I slipped a fat envelope to her. She was a professional - she didn't smile or laugh with joy at the thought of stacks of hundred Euro notes that were now hers - she just made it disappear and continued to wear a normal expression. I casually looked at her. Our makeup specialist had done an excellent job, although now most of the makeup had been disposed of. Since the woman was of the same size and weight as our target, all that had to be done to make her a copy of the quarry was a little facial rubber or whatever they used. Up close and looking directly into her face, she would never have passed, but on a stormy day, dressed from head to foot in the manner of Madam Dupont's dress style and wearing dripping rain wear, and with a wide brim hat drooping down as she hurried across the lobby fumbling with an umbrella in front of her face, she looked the part and no mere guard was going to stop the boss and ask for an ID. Especially when they had just seen her badge in at the doors. Jean had made the remark that people see what they assume they will see. It was a valuable lesson that I would remember.
In a lady's restroom on an upper floor, she reversed her coat to a show a new color and pattern and wadded the hat into a now unfolded cloth bag. The purse that she had been given when the original woman was snatched also went into the bag. The rubber, or plastic makeup went down the toilet. Shortly, while the guards were involved with some visitors at the front desk, she walked back through the front doors, just another anonymous worker leaving the building.
Eventually, our duplicate - now a hooker again - got up and left the train at a station that I didn't even bother to get the name of.
I sat back and thought about what had just happened. In fact, I was kind of proud of myself. Assuming that our quarry was safely deposited by now in her cell, then the op went without a hitch. In a few hours, somebody was going to realize that the rich woman had disappeared, but since both the security badge computer and two guards would swear that she had at least made it to work, hopefully what really happened would remain a mystery.
I didn't see Jean until the next morning. I didn't see Katja, either. He filled me in on the ending.
The car that left the Metro station, with the quarry inside, wound up in an old warehouse outside of Reims, about a hundred kilometers away. Before noon, Jean had driven there, and picked up the still stupefied woman and drove her to hidden place, known only to him. I asked the question of why take her way out of Paris then drive her back?
"Ah, think about it, Monsieur Rowjere," he answered. "It is dangerous driving around with a woman against her will, no?" I nodded. The same thing had occurred to me. "Especially for me, an upstanding member of the community. But, the woman was in the passenger seat, upright and looking no different than any other wife in an automobile." He smiled at the female who had just served us our morning coffee and slapped her on the butt as she turned away. "But, on the rare chance that I had been stopped by the gendarmes, I would just be a well known personage who had found an unfortunate woman wandering down the road and was trying to get her into the city and report the incident to the authorities. A good Samaritan as it were." A pause for coffee. "Katja left to make arrangements for her transfer - next week, maybe. It depends on how long the 'heat' stays on, as you Americans say."
I set my cup down. "That brings up a question. What and who is Katja, anyway? Other than some kind of agent for the Sheik, as you said."
Jean actually looked around before answering, even though we were in his private study. "Mon Ami. Be very careful with any questions about Mademoiselle Ekaterina. Be very careful about anything with her." My eyes opened wider in question as I waited. "She is a beautiful young fem, no? Very desirable and a real asset in bed to any man." An actual gulp of coffee.
"Mon Ami, she is a cobra. Actually worse than a cobra because that reptile can only strike once and then has to re-coil. I have a friend in Turkey, one Ilhami by name - another agent of Hassan. He and Katja were walking down a street in Istanbul when they were set upon by three thugs with knives who wanted my friend's purse and Katja's pussy. Ilhami said that he had barely realized that they had been accosted before all three were dead on the pavement and Katja had not even used a weapon. Then they continued down the street with her aspect not even changed from before the incident. She didn't even bother to comment on what just happened. There are many other stories." He shook his head, apparently at the memory of the tales.
"She was trained by the remnants of the StB - the Státní Bezpecnost. For what purpose, I have no idea." To my puzzled look, he amplified. "The old Czech Secret Police. Like the Israeli Mossad, or the Iranian SAVAK." I nodded. Note to self - don't hit on this woman. "I assume, and it is only an assumption with no real info behind it, is that she is the Sheik's troubleshooter - with the emphasis on shooter."
He stood up. "Anyway, Mon Ami, that was an excellent first operation for you, but now you will get to see one of the, how you say?... Ah, 'fringe benefits' of being an agent of the Sheik. Plus, you have a task to do. By the by, take along your shaving kit and a few clothes."
Somewhere down the road from Jean's mansion
It was still pouring cats and dogs as we motored along a road called Fr. 342 going who knows where. Eventually we pulled onto a much less traveled road, in what he called the mountains, but from my aspect, they were just foothills. Miles further on, we came to a private road, well signed, and more miles later we pulled up to a remote... hunting lodge? Whatever. That is what it looked like.
We dashed to the porch through the downpour, then into the building. It was nice, and actually looked like the wilderness lodge of a wealthy person. A big main room, lots of stuffed furniture, a pool table, card tables, a fireplace - not lit - everything for the millionaire getaway.
As I looked around, Jean explained somewhat. "This is real - it's owned by a company that leases remote villas and shore side retreats. If you had enough money and pull, you might be able to trace the corporation trail back to someone, but I have no idea who. I could guess that our desert friend is at the top, but I won't. Watch carefully."
We entered a small room off the kitchen, and he opened a panel labeled in big red letters, 'High Voltage'. He flipped one breaker on and another off. "Remember that and remember to always put them back when you leave. Mystified, I could only agree.
Back in the large front room he handed me a... plug? It looked like the male end of an extension cord, but with no wire attached. "That is the security key." he said. Then pointed. "Behind that sofa you will find a wall outlet. Plug that into the bottom hole." Jeez, talk about James Bond gadgets, I thought, as I pulled the sofa out slightly and plugged the male stub in.
I barely heard something, stood up and watched the entire stone fireplace move backwards almost silently. It stopped about four feet back and exposed a flight of steep and narrow stairs leading down. Holy Shit! Jean waved to me to follow and descended the steps.
Under the lodge
At the bottom was a long concrete hallway, at least three meters down. Jean stopped, and said. "There are sensors on the road and around the building. If you hear a loud beeping, it means a possible intruder, although it usually is just a large animal. If it goes off, you immediately go upstairs and pull the plug out of the socket." I nodded. On the wall was a switch which he flipped. I watched the fireplace silently move back into place above our heads.
Six meters along was a door, not locked, but when he opened it I noticed that it was about fifteen centimeters thick - about six inches - and apparently fairly light. "Noise deadening," Jean commented as I inspected it. Just beyond was another identical door. "Same here," he said as he opened it also. The other side was a room, about four meters square and just bare concrete with a wooden chest at our feet beside the door. But it wasn't the room I was staring at.
On a pallet in an opposite corner was the object of my planning for the last few months. She still had her clothes on, but with two additional items - two chains from bolts in the wall equidistant from the corner led to two manacles on her ankles. Either of the metallic constraints would have secured an elephant, let alone a female human. But, by now I was beginning to think like Jean. However remote the possibility of a padlock failing, it was still a chance greater than zero. Hence, the two separate chains and locks lowered the chance as close to zero as practical.
Jean had told me that he had deposited her here still stupefied by the drug, so we would be the first people she would have seen since waking up. Beside her pallet was a bucket with a lid for her toilet needs - probably not quite up to the gold plated standard that she set her ass on several times a day, but adequate and better than squatting in a corner of the room. Also, beside her was a large jug of water, some cans and packages of edibles.
She instantly saw us enter and jumped to her feet, the chains rattling. I watched as she tried to decide whether to hurl expletives and threats at us or to be fearful of what was going to happen. She took the middle road.
"I know what you are doing," she started. Good, that was somewhat more than I knew at the moment. "I won't insult you by making threats for what you've done. You know I'm very wealthy..." She waited for an acknowledgment that didn't come. "...and I can pay well for my release." She waited. No reply from Jean and there was no way I was going to talk right now. Finally, "How much do you want?"
Jean just walked closer and looked her up and down. Her thousand Euro outfit was wrinkled and somewhat worse for wear now, and her tussled hair and makeup would have horrified her if she had had a mirror. Warily, she looked at us, uncertain, and certainly taken aback by the offer of large amounts of money not being immediately pounced on by those she assumed to be her kidnappers. She tried again, somewhat less demanding, "Tell me what you want."
Jean finally spoke up. "It isn't money, Madam. We just came down here for a piece of ass." It took a few seconds for the expression to enter her mind, be translated, then reviewed as she tried to understand what she was hearing. Then the a look of incredulity took over her expression and the negotiating female disappeared, replace by a raging she-tiger with bared teeth.
"You wouldn't dare!" she hissed. "My associates would have you nailed up by your goddamned privates. Even the Securite Bureau couldn't protect the bastard that assaults me."
Jean assumed an injured looked. "You misconstrue us, Madam. We would never assault a lady. You will be here for a while and all we want is to use your pussy. It will help you and we to pass the time." He was pushing her hot buttons with a will. Hot buttons, Hell! If this had been the army, the buttons would have launched a nuclear strike.
I just watched. I would love to have a piece of that, but there was no way I was going to come within range of her teeth and claws. Right now, she would rip the jewels off any man that came in range. Jean turned around and walked to the wooden chest over by the door. Opening it, he fumbled around for a while and then came up with a short whip and some miscellaneous items. Walking back over, he pointed to her. "Hold her left arm - don't let her get her teeth into you." I grabbed it, turning my body so as to make sure that she didn't knee me in the cojones. He took the other arm and immediately snapped a manacle cuff on her wrist. Handing me the other, I did the same to the arm I was holding.
She went berserk - or tried to. She tried to struggle and tear away, but she was being held by two men. There wasn't a chance for a small female in that kind of contest. Jean next gently kicked her behind the knees and we sat her down on her mat, still furiously cursing and struggling. He took one ankle and pulled it up and back until the knee and elbow were side by side. With a small clip, he fastened the eye of the wrist cuff to the first link in the chain attached to the ankle manacle. Then he did the same to the other arm and leg. We let her go and she rolled backwards onto her backside.
She had stopped cursing but was looking at us with murder in her eyes. After all, this was a women who had always given orders and expected instant obedience. She had no experience with men saying no to her, let alone being manhandled against her will by two of them. And damn sure no expectation of ever being chained in a dungeon.
And an erotic scene it was. She was on her back, knees bent almost to her ample chest, wrists and ankles hooked together on each side - left to left and right to right. In that position, the natural position was for her legs to be widely spread, showing her white panties under her dress. With an effort, she could just almost bring her knees together, but the unnatural strain was considerable and shortly, her knees would part as her legs went back to the least strained position - that is, wide open. Now she was quiet, wondering just what would happen next.
I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. Jean would fuck any woman he could get his dick into and there was no way he was going to pass this up. I wondered how kosher the act would be. Did the Sheik want his merchandise unsullied, or did he not care? Considering how freely he allowed access to the captured women at his desert compound, it was probably the latter. Whatever. I backed away and headed for the door. Jean didn't even notice.
Upstairs, I explored the building. There was a nice kitchen, fully stocked, which was good since it appeared that I would be here for several days. Apparently there was no TV input to the building - not unexpected, given the remoteness of the area - but there was a TV and a DVD player. Looking around some more, I found a closet that was stuffed with movies.
A bedroom was fully made up and ready, the bathroom was stocked with new vanities. Apparently, someone had expected us, or maybe the building was always restocked after every use.
Two hours or so later, Jean came back up holding her clothes - apparently ALL of them. And quite satisfied, it appeared. "Have you looked around?" he asked. "I assume that the lodge is fully stocked." I said yes, and he continued. "Ok, you're going to stay here until we move her to the plane. You and I are the only people in the world who know where she is." He handed me an envelope. "You're a wealthy American who has come up here for some peace and quiet. With your real name and passport, of course. Nobody should come up here, unless it is lost hikers or the like. Your stay should be for just a few days."
He got ready to leave, then said, "You can do whatever you want with her. Just make sure that she isn't damaged."
"I was going to ask about that," I replied. "The Sheik doesn't care if his merchandise is... used?"
He shook his head. "No. Virginity in a kept woman isn't even a minor consideration, and Madam Dupont is a long way and time from being a virgin. But, the most important factor is that she isn't the Sheik's property - not yet. She will be, but for now, she is my woman. Au revoir."
Under the Lodge
The woman was as I had last seen her, except that she was totally naked and had a gag in her mouth and a blindfold over her eyes - her clothes just being a torn wad of cloth on the way back to Paris by now. The realization that I had up to a week with a woman who had no will suddenly hit me. It was a powerful and quite... quixotic feeling, maybe. My johnson certainly knew - it was already rock hard. As I walked over to the woman, I could tell that she could hear me approaching. I stooped down and inspected her beautiful tits, and the wide open crack that she kept trying to close, but had to let open again as her muscles tired. I wondered how I was going to play this.
First, I reached down and pulled the sleep mask from her eyes. Then I removed the ball gag. Since it was attached with an elastic band, I just moved it down and let it hang around her neck. She immediately let out a groan and began to work her jaws to relieve the pain from being stretched wide open for a couple of hours, at least. She was no longer the imperious woman - at least not for the moment. Finally, she asked in a low voice, "Who are you?"
"Just a passerby, as it were." My French was a dead giveaway.
"You are English." Well, almost a dead giveaway. I just nodded - why give her any info that she might, however unlikely, use against me someday.
"I'm here to guard you, Madam." That was sort of true.
"What are you going to do with me." Still a low voice.
I shrugged. "I'm just the hired help. How and where you go I have no idea." Half of that was true - the how part. I decided to act the part of a loyal, but not too bright hireling.
She looked around, or tried to. "Is he gone?"
"You mean the Patron? Yes. He won't be back until tomorrow - I think."
"Please unhook me. This is very uncomfortable." She rattled her wrists to emphasize what she was talking about.
I shook my head. "He told me to leave you like this during the day - that the confinement might temper your disposition." Totally untrue.
Her eyes got wide. "You are going to leave me like this for hours? You can't!" I shrugged and got to my feet and headed for the door. "Wait! Please!" She was really frantic now, facing an unknown period of horrible cramps from the doubled up position. I stopped at the door and looked at her.
"Really, Madam. I can't do anything. He told me to leave you like that during daylight hours. He's a person that you don't cross but once."
"Come back! Please don't leave yet." Still frantic. "You can turn me loose for a while if he won't be back today." I stopped and pretended to be weighing my options and risks.
"Why would I take the risk?" I walked back over to her and pretended to be inspecting her assets. Well, maybe not pretending as much as rutting over them as I looked.
In a quiet voice, she said, "You can have me, then afterward we can talk."
"Are you sure? I don't rape women." So far that was true.
"Yes! Yes! It wouldn't be rape. Turn me loose and you can have me anyway you want." She almost descended into crying. "But please unhook me for a while." I looked down the hallway, then pretended to be deep in indecision between pissing off the boss and wanting her body. Finally, with another look down the hall, I walked back over to her and began to unhook her wrists from her ankles. These weren't locks - just spring loaded clips that required more strength than the fingers on the single hand of a female could supply. She stretched her arms and legs out as they spasmed, but apparently felt wonderful. I began to take my clothes off, watching for her reaction. Of course, by now, she was going to put out or my perfect record on rape was going to be history.
She didn't try to weasel out - just lay back, bent her knees and moved her ankles apart. I lay between them and inserted my dong in her waiting twat and began to pump. The level of my rutting precluded any foreplay - I just wanted to get my rocks off. Finesse could wait till next time, and with a week or so to go, there would definitely be several next times.
Afterward, I slipped on my shorts and went back upstairs, telling her that I would be back in a little while. Using the pressure cooker, I whomped up some hot vegetable soup and carried it, with two bowls, glasses and, a bottle of wine down to the underground room. I was interested in just what she was going to offer me, besides tail.
Afterwards, she was in a much better mood than I had seen her in so far. She would be here for far too short a time for the Stockholm syndrome to fully develop, but she was already seeing me as her only hope. She probably hated my guts just on general principal, but she was putting on a friendly front. Especially after a couple of glasses of what I was told was excellent wine. To me, all wine - eighty Euro corked bottles or eight dollar a gallon bottle capped rotgut - was just drinkable kerosene, but I acted the part of a connoisseur.
Pouring me another glass, and smiling, she asked, "What's your name?" Sam was the first moniker that popped into my head. "Where are you from, Sam?" London was the only British city I could remember on the spur of the moment. "Do you know who I am?" I shook my head. "I'm a very wealthy Parisian business woman." I looked suitably impressed. She slowed down, not wanting to be too transparent yet. She knew that I was her last chance.
She brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, then looked up at the ceiling. "Sam," she started again. "Do you have any idea what he plans to do with me?" I nodded and acted like I didn't want to say. She reached over and lightly took hold of my arm. "Please tell me."
I pursed my lips, obviously trying to make up my mind. Then after a couple of false starts, I said, "He's sold you to a drug lord in Colombia." Hell, that news almost depressed me, but it hit her like a ton of bricks. I stood up and said, "I need to check the security cams on the lower floors." Nothing wrong with making her think she was in a high-rise in Paris. I left her alone to let the unwelcome news sink in and to come up with her next series of offers.
I suddenly realized that I was pooped for the day. I decided to leave her be for the night and crash.
With all the wine, my system made me get up after midnight and pump out the bilges. While I was up, I slipped down the stairs and quietly moved down the hall to observe my inmate. I had left the doors open so it was easy. As expected she was asleep, so she wasn't staying up all night worrying... Then I noticed the wine bottle - totally empty. She had killed the last half after I left, so I guess she actually was trying to get something off her mind. Of course, if I was scheduled to become the squeeze of the head a South American drug cartel, I would probably hit the bottle also.
I made a breakfast for two, and headed downstairs. She was relieved to see me - actually, she was probably relieved to see that it was me, and not my boss. I set the tray down, and we ate. I had also brought a comb and a toothbrush as a token of my concern for the poor woman. After breakfast, I waited for the spiel. It wasn't long in coming.
She laid her hand on my arm. "Sam," she began. "I've been thinking." I just bet you have, lady. About a mile a minute. "Like I told you, I'm a rich and powerful woman." Were, lady. Were. Right now you're a naked and chained cunt.
I shut off the interior monolog and waited for the rest of the tale.
"You could have a position high up in my organization." I managed a somewhat doubting expression. "Maybe, say, head of security. Office next to mine on the top floor. And, oh, let's say, two hundred thousand Euros a year. And a limo." Wow, said my expression now. She scooted over to me and traced her fingers down my chest. "And there would be other benefits. I'm not married and need access to a man, like any other woman." She let her knees fall apart slowly. Leaning over, she almost whispered, "This could be yours as often as you like." I was still wearing only shorts and it was obvious that I would never be able to wait until that promotion came through.
She smiled and lay back. "You like what you see - your body says so. She patted the mat beside her. "Lay down here." I shucked off my shorts and did what she wanted. Then she proceeded to try to convince me to accept the offered position. With deep French kisses, tongue work up and down and a good vacuum job on my rod, followed by a long and really sweaty session that ended with her full and me empty.
We lay beside each other, cooling down while she plotted and I waited for my nuts to stop aching. Eventually, she sat up and leaned over me, making sure her tits were dangling in full view and started tracing my chest again. "Sam. We have to act before he comes back. Once we get to my tower, we're safe. When I give my description of him, and the police start looking, he'll be gone and never dare to come back."
I propped myself up on one elbow. "There is a slight problem. I don't have the keys to the locks on your manacles."
She sat up suddenly, tits jiggling. "Then you need to go out and buy a saw, or a cutter thingie of some kind."
I shook my head. "I dunno. He's a powerful person in the continental underground. He might just come after both of us and nail us to the river docks by our hands and feet."
"Sam!," she started, suddenly worried that I was slipping away from her offer. "I assure you that my organization can handle any mobster that exists."
I got to my feet and picked up my shorts. "I got to think about it. Right now I have to go and send one of my daily messages. If they don't hear from me regularly, they are going to come storming over here to see what is wrong. Lay back. I have to hook you up again."
"What? No!" She shook her head violently, then attempted to back up to the wall.
"If he's coming back today, it will be in the next hour or so, and if he finds you unhooked, both of us are in trouble." She didn't cooperate but she didn't fight me as I reconnected each ankle to each wrist.
"Think about it, Sam," she called as I slipped the mask over her eyes. "You could be a big man in Paris society."
I nodded, but didn't really hear her. I was enjoying the sight of a helpless female on her back with her legs spread in the unnatural position. I was never into the B&D scene, but it was possible that I had been missing an interesting phase of sexual play. I pulled band of the ball gag over her head and waited for her to open her mouth to speak. As I let go of the ball, the elastic pulled it into position. It didn't stop her from talking - it just muffled the words and made them totally unintelligible.
By noon I couldn't take it anymore. The thoughts and mental pictures of the gagged, blindfolded and spread open cunt down below totally destroyed my concentration on anything I tried to do. I got a third of the way through a DVD movie and realized that I couldn't even remember what the name of it was. I have always liked reading, but a session with a book was a total failure. Again, two chapters into the book and I didn't even know what it was about.
What the heck. Go with the flow. I went back down the fireplace stairs and stopped at the last door, looking. My johnson was like a steel bar as I looked at the bitch in her uncomfortable position on the far side of the room. She froze as she heard me walk across the floor, obviously wondering if it was me or my boss. Hmmmm - suddenly I hatched an idea.
From a practical standpoint, she could lay on either side, on her back or sit up. All had disadvantages from a comfort standpoint, but at the moment she was on her right side. I stooped down, took an ankle and pulled it to place her on her back. She immediately began to comment, or protest or something. To me it was just "mumfff hummeff eeegaa" and so forth. Had she only been in the normal position of a beautiful and naked female lying down, her appeal would be immense. As a helpless and spread slave, with everything in the open and available, she was a ball buster. I began to feel of her boobs - an action which immediately increased the volume of protests, but nothing like when I began to work my fingers into her slit. Despite the fact that I had unloaded my nuts just a few hours earlier, I knew that I was on the verge of doing it again just from the visual and tactile stimulation. I got up and walked back upstairs for a few minutes to cool down, then back down to my unwilling toy.
This time I didn't hesitate. I dropped to my knees, wet my rod with a little spit, then inserted it into the wriggling woman. Even with my five minute timeout, I only lasted a short time. The stimulation was just too great - it was a "slam, bam, thank you ma'am" session. I unloaded and immediately withdrew and went back up stairs leaving her fiercely mumbling in rage.
Two hours later
"Sam!" she exclaimed. "Thank god. Please unhook me. The cramps are terrible."
I had come back down, immediately walked over to her - I made sure she could hear me approach - and removed her blindfold and gag. "He's gone," I lied. "Won't be back till tomorrow." I looked at the wet puddle on the floor. "Did he use you again?" Don't lay it on too thick, I told myself.
A long stream of profanity - surprisingly good - preceded her answer. "He's a sick bastard! What kind of man gets his kicks from fucking a helpless woman!"
Hmmmm. That would be me, I told myself. My first introduction to bondage was far beyond anything I would ever have imagined. I unclipped her wrists from her ankles, and she fell back on her mat, with her arms and legs twitching from the release.
That evening, I fed her, listened to another offer of the golden life if only I helped her escape, then enjoyed another and much slower piece of ass than the last time.
The next day
It was almost a mirror of the previous day. About noon, I came down and informed her that he was on the way, but that this time he wanted her hog-tied before he got there. Once again, she verbally protested but didn't fight me as I lay her on her stomach, then connected each wrist to the corresponding ankle, then a single clip to connect all together behind her back. On went the sleep mask and the gag, and I made a noisy retreat upstairs to wait for my Boss to "arrive". She probably really wouldn't like this next visit.
A couple of hours later, I returned to my captive as the evil Patron and, just to let her know who it was, I popped her on the butt with a short piece of wood I had found. Then some more feeling around, just to set the scene, after which I took off the clip that was holding both wrists and ankles together in the classic hogtie. Now she was still on her stomach, and each wrist was still hooked to its companion ankle on the still bent back leg, but now her thighs could be spread. I spread them as wide as they would go.
This time I put a massive amount of lube on my dick, and aimed at the little ass dimple that was plainly showing. As it hit the spot, and began the mission, she reared up like a stranded whale - or tried to. I put a hand on the back of her neck and forced her head back to the floor. That did nothing to stop the now frantic yelling around the gag. I still couldn't understand what she was saying, but I doubted that it was an expression of pleasure as I slowly fed my rod all the way up her poop chute. Once again, the erotic feelings of the situation overwhelmed the actual sex act and eventually - much too soon, but despite my best efforts, I couldn't slow it down - I gave her a creamy enema.
I sat back on the floor as she again thrashed around like the afore mentioned stranded whale. I could get used to this life, but I knew that I was going to have to slow down. Getting ass from her in the morning and evenings as me, then at noon as my evil boss couldn't be kept up. I was still young, but, nonetheless, I wasn't an eighteen year old stud anymore.
That is how it went every day. In the morning, I would let her take me to the top of the Mountain and offer me all the Kingdoms of Earth, then after squirting into her cunt, waffle about her offer. Then hurriedly bind her up and leave before the boss "arrived." Then back down that evening to commiserate with her about his cruelty, but now, for these late sessions, I would usually just feel around, rather than plug her again. Each day, I seemed to come closer and closer to accepting her offers. For her part, she was desperate to close the deal before my boss came back to deliver her, and her performance showed it. I doubt that she had ever before performed some of the actions that she engaged in with me.
I was just finishing a light breakfast, the alarm went off and I ran down the steps, closed the sound proofed doors, and, back upstairs, yanked the security plug out of the socket. The fireplace immediately closed up and I sat at the window watching for whomever would be coming up the road. Relieved, I saw that it was Jean.
He ran up the step, we embraced in the French fashion, which I hadn't quite gotten used to yet. "How is she," he asked, as we sat down waiting for the coffee to drip through.
I chuckled. "I wish you could have given me a couple of more days. So far, I've probably lost fifteen pounds and she's offered me a directorship, a villa on the Riviera, and all the pussy I can use."
He laughed. "She's closer than you think." What the hell did that mean? "Anyway, the plane leaves at 11:00 today, so we will leave in about two hours. Get your stuff together - you're going with her." When I looked surprised, he added. "The Sheik wants you along."
About 8:30ish, we both went into the underground room together. When she saw Jean, she just groaned and hung her head. He walked behind her holding a small aluminum cylinder in one hand, reached for her hair with the other and pulled her head to the side. The pointy end of the cylinder was jabbed into the side of her neck and gave out a low hiss. The woman snapped out of her funk with a curse, and stood up spitting words at Jean.
"You son of a bitch! I'm not going to be a moll for some bastard drug dealer! I'll see both of you in hell first!"
Jean looked at me, puzzled. "Drug dealer?" he asked.
I just smiled and said, "I'll tell you later."
The drug didn't take long. Shortly, she fell to her knees, then still cursing in an ever slurring voice, finally collapsed on the mat. Jean unlocked her manacles and motioned for me to take her. I picked her limp body off the floor, slung her over my shoulder and headed for the stairs. Upstairs, I waited for Jean to pull the security plug to close the fireplace, then flip off the specific circuit breakers. Finally, I deposited her on a blanket in the trunk of the car and we were off down the road.
In an hour or so we swung into the general aviation section of a major airport, and then into a very large hanger at one end. After the hanger doors were closed, we removed the limp woman from the car, and I again carried her up the boarding ladder and strapped her into a seat of the Gulfstream.
Five minutes later, I waved bye to Jean and we were off - just me, the ex-Madam Dupont and the pilots.
Late that afternoon, I was driven up the long road to the desert compound. After the usual period of resting and a shower, I was escorted into the Sheik's study. Surprise, Katja was there. The Sheik was all smiles.
"Sit down, Rodger." He handed me my usual drink as I relaxed into an overstuffed chair. "From all reports, and especially from the results, you have the ability to become a first class representative for me." To my widened eyes, he continued. "Yes, you have reached a... a..." He struggled for the English word for a moment. "...cusp - a fork in the road as it were - that will require a decision from you before you continue."
I knew exactly what he was referring to. I needed to tell him if I was interested in this new "job." No problem - I had long since decided. "Mr. Hassan, I would be more than happy to... ah... work for your organization if you have a place for me." What I wasn't sure about was if it was even an option for me to walk away after all that had happened. But no matter, I was in if he wanted.
That was what he wanted to hear. "Excellent, Rodger. By the way, if you check your Swiss account, you will find a substantial balance that has been deposited for your labors of the last few weeks." He relaxed in his own chair. "You will still need some experience before you branch out on your own, but I will start up the process from here." He leaned forward and handed me a set of papers. "You will be the manager of an export firm in the American city of your choice. A real firm that will actually export products. After enough time has passed so as not to raise any sudden wealth flags with the authorities, you will own it. Any profits will be yours, but the reason for it is for your own cover. If you are a successful agent for me you will become very wealthy, and that wealth needs some cover to appear legitimate. Also, wealth brings its own protection from authorities. Even in your country, the police do not think twice about arresting an ordinary citizen first and trying to determine guilt later. They are much less likely to do so to a person of money - and the more money, the less of a chance."
I sat back and scanned over the papers. They didn't mean much to me since I didn't know enough about running a business to make a success of a hot dog stand. He knew what I was thinking.
"Don't worry about any of this yet. You will have a professional manager who will run the day to day operations. You will just need to appear to run things from your office. But, it has happened before that a new agent learned to enjoy his shadow business and became the real manager. But that is in the future. For now, you will be shown much more of my organization and how it works."
The Sheik's compound
The next day, Katja took me on an eye opening tour of the Sheik's operation. I had seen his harem and assumed that it was the sum total of his female operation. Not even close. As it turned out, there was more underground than above, and that is saying a bunch since there was a lot aboveground in his compound. Walking to one of the outbuildings, we walked down a flight of stairs to a long corridor. The first place we stopped at was a window looking down into a single room - another one-way mirror, I assumed.
The room was empty except for a sleeping mat and the usual squat toilet in the corner. And a woman. In seconds I realized that it was my woman - the ex-Madam Dupont. The only thing she was wearing was a chain leading from a collar around her neck to a cleat in the wall. It was only a symbol as far as she was concerned, since it was long enough to allow her to reach any part of the small room. Right now, she was just sitting on her mat staring at the wall.
"She seems to be taking her captivity calmly," I remarked to my guide.
Katja shook her head. "That is because she is exhausted. For the last day or so she has been yanking on the chain and yelling threats of one severity or another."
"How long will she just be left to think about it?"
Katja watched for a few seconds before replying. "She is a high class slave. Her training will be slow and subtle, since the desired result is a tamed woman and not a broken one. Others that you will see are just bed warmers. They will be strung up and whipped from the first day to break them to their new life. Her first lesson starts in a few minutes."
We moved on down the hallway. Another window. Windows at even intervals on both sides and about half the rooms had a lovely woman with a neck chain. Most were totally naked except for some kind of titty holder. So far this wasn't even close to what I had expected. Actually, I wasn't sure just what I was expecting. A dungeon with women being punished with the whip or rack or something, I guess. This was more like a hotel with unwilling guests.
We were about to enter another stairwell when a man approached Katja and began to talk. It was Arabic, so I could only follow some of it. Something about a woman being ready for her... something. Katja nodded and turned to me. "Come. You will see the first procedure that begins the breaking of a woman." Back upstairs we went and out into the compound. The sun was well up and it was on its way to a sweltering desert day. We walked over to a waiting Humvee and she waved me to the front passenger seat.
Inside I was surprised to see Madam Dupont in the back escorted by another large man. The chain was gone, but the collar was still on her neck. From the red patches on her cheeks apparently she had been forcibly told to shut up. What the hell was going down here? I had no clue.
Katja gunned the already running engine and out the gate we went, then around the walls to a dirt road leading off into the desert. We only went a few miles before she stopped and got out. So did our male escort and his captive. Far in the distance I could see the Sheik's compound - barely - and a glance around only showed flat desert in all other directions. Not even a radio tower broke the smooth horizon.
Katja walked up to Madam Dupont. In a conversational voice as though she were discussing luncheon plans, she began - in perfect French, "Madam. You were given the choice between being a slave or being set free. You chose the latter. You are now free. The closest town is that way..." she pointed out toward the south, approximately. "...about one hundred and fifty kilometers." She took a large water bottle and a wad of cloth from the escort, and gave it to the stunned woman. Before the now freed captive could even begin to get her thoughts into some kind of order, Katja waved us back into the Humvee and leadfooted it into a big circle in the sand and then roared back down the road to the compound.
I was about as confused as the freed woman. What the fuck was going on? I knew for an absolute fact that even a hardened soldier couldn't make it a hundred and fifty clicks in the daytime desert with a single container of water. And a soft city woman wearing nothing but a rag and barefoot would be buzzard bait before noon. For this I planned an operation to capture a beautiful cunt? Then I reminded myself that I wasn't in the employ of fools who would waste a lovely woman just because she wanted to shout her displeasure. I sat back and waited for act two.
Back at the compound
I followed Katja into the main building, then into an elevator. It let us out on the top floor into a... well, it was a lounge of some kind, with large glass windows all around looking out over the desert and a wide over-hanging roof to keep the slanting sun from entering. Sheik Hassan was standing at one end looking through a fairly large telescope. Ah... The plot begins to thicken. A dim light began to dawn in my mind.
"Good morning, Katja. Roger." I nodded as we walked up to him. He stepped back and offered the eyepiece of the telescope to me. Of course, it was trained on the woman we had just dumped in the sands. She was still just standing and looking back and forth over the horizon. So far she apparently hadn't decided on a course to take. Not that there was a choice. I noticed that she was wearing a full length sack dress of some kind - apparently that was the cloth that I had seen her given when we dropped her off. I lifted my head and stepped back. Hassan smiled and said, "Your evaluation?"
That didn't need much thought. "She only has one possible destination. Here. Her intelligence is enough to come to that conclusion pretty soon." I looked out over the horizon, but she wasn't visible without the 'scope. "It's an interesting play on your part. I assume that when she gets back here, she will have to beg to get in. Plus, she will have been shown in no uncertain terms that escape from here is absolutely impossible for an unequipped female."
Hassan clapped me on the back and we retired to some plush loungers. A flunky came up with a tray of the usual drinks. Reaching for his glass, he said, "It always pleasures me greatly to find that my choice of associates was entirely correct. You have the ability to reach conclusions with insufficient facts." There wasn't much I could say to that, so I just took a swallow. "The reports of your operation in France were highly complimentary." Whose reports, I wondered - Jean or Katja? Or both? Not that it mattered. I had apparently passed my initiation ritual.
For the next hour or so he questioned me - in depth - about the French operation. Not so much as about what happened, but why I decided to do something this way or that. Katja would occasionally look out the 'scope at the female in the sands, and then eventually said, "She is coming back." We both got up and looked at the approaching woman stumbling down the road in her bare feet. A city woman's feet are definitely not up to walking down a rocky and hot desert road barefoot. Eventually she reached the compound, obviously exhausted, and began to walk around the wall looking for an entrance. Katja motioned to me and we headed back down to the floor of the compound. A flunky was waiting at the bottom and followed us out.
The gate was closed so we climbed a ladder to the top of the wall to where we could look down and over the wall. Eventually, the woman came stumbling along the wall and found the entry road and the gate. She stood there wobbling back and forth in the now noontime blazing sun. She was covered with dirt, probably from having fallen several times into a sweaty heap. Finally, she slapped at the solid wooden gate with a hand and yelled, "Let me in, Please!" Her strength was about gone and nobody inside would have heard her except us.
Katja stepped up to the edge of the wall and loudly asked, "What do you want?"
Confused, the woman looked all around before she looked up. Squinting in the sun, she said again, "Please let me in."
Katja pointed down the road. "I told you the next city is that way. Be off with you."
"Please. I can't walk all the way to another city. You know that." Well, I had to admit that the unfortunate woman had control of her emotions. Most women would be babbling for mercy by now.
Katja just looked down at her. "That is of no interest to me." She could have been discussing lunch and I wondered if the attitude was posed, or was she actually as cold as she seemed.
Madam Dupont just stood there for a moment, unsteadily wobbling back and forth. Her strength was just about gone, apparently. Finally, she said, "What do you want from me? I'm wealthy. If it is ransom you want, just say so."
"I don't need anything from you except for you to go away so I can get out of the sun." I had to agree with that. It was blazing hot by now.
The woman fell to her knees - from lack of ability to stand up, I assumed, rather than any supplication. "Please have mercy. Let me in out of the sun. Please." Now she was begging.
Katja just looked at her for a moment as though she was trying to make up her mind. "There are no females in here except for slave girls. Do you wish to become a thrall?"
Madam just looked up at the woman on the wall, apparently trying to reconcile what she was hearing. For some idiotic reason, a dim memory of a school lesson suddenly popped up in my mind - "Give me liberty or give me death." I wondered if the woman would choose the latter. Nope. She finally replied, "Yes. Yes. I'll do anything you want. Just let me in, please."
Another pause by Katja. Then, "Take your clothes off."
Apparently, totally confused by the order, Madam just replied with a single word. "W...w...what?"
"Slavegirls don't wear clothes in the Master's compound. Either take them off or go away."
Madam Dupont still apparently wasn't believing what she was hearing. She just stood there looking up in confusion. But as Katja shook her head, and turned around to leave, the woman screamed, "NO! NO! Please come back. I'll do it." She began tearing at the pullover dress and shortly was buck naked and leaning against the gate. Katja walked over and waved at the flunky waiting at the foot of the gate, inside. He pushed one panel open and disappeared from view under us. In a few seconds, he appeared again towing the sobbing woman with a chain connected to her neck collar. We moved down the stone steps and followed the pair across the compound and into the entrance to the underground chambers.
The next day
We - Katja, myself, and the man who had retrieved Madam Dupont - were in a small room. Somewhere. So far, I had no inkling of how to maneuver around the maze of the underground structures. Madam Dupont was there also, but not by choice. She was strung up by her wrists to the ceiling, naked, almost on tiptoe and held there by descending chains that kept her arms widely spread. God, it was erotic, and I had already had to carefully adjust my rock hard johnson to a new position that wasn't so noticeable. Madam was a real dish of perfect proportions. In fact, she looked like a barbie doll. No wonder she had been marked for capture.
Marked was an accurate statement. On her right rear shoulder, and again on top of her right breast, two characters in Arabic scrip had been hand written in black ink. I finally figured out that they were numbers. Madam Dupont had disappeared. In her place was bond female number 72.
I barely had time to wonder what happened next, when the man picked up some kind of flat whip, stepped up to the side and rear of the dangling woman, and let her have a stroke across the middle of the back. There was a very short hesitation while the woman's nervous system translated the sudden feeling as pain, then she let out a scream at the top of her lungs. I was just suddenly wide eyed as I leaned against the back wall, watching. Holy Fuck - this wasn't play acting. This was real punishment.
Another stroke followed as did another scream. Eventually, she received about a dozen or so and by the last was just hanging by her wrists and whimpering. I couldn't believe that a woman this desirable would be damaged apparently on a whim, then noticed that, although her back had cherry red welts crisscrossing each other, there was not a trace of blood anywhere on it. Looking closer, I saw that the wide strap had not cut her skin at any place. Katja looked as if she had just watched a particularly boring game of some kind. Son of a bitch. Jean was right. This woman was ice cold.
Katja, looked at me, then headed for the door. As we walked down the hall, she said, "That is the second lesson, the first being that there is no escape from here. She now knows the punishment for any infractions or laziness on her part from now on." A pause. "At least, she knows one of the punishments, now."
I was sitting at a computer and attempting to access my new bank account that had been set up for me. It took a while, since the main page was in German, or maybe Swiss, but I finally found an English section and entered the number and very long password. A few seconds later, I was sitting back in my chair, stunned. Damn, now much did a high class woman bring on the open market? I had an ungodly sum of money in my new account - far, far more than the normal working stiff accumulated during an entire lifetime.
I entered the small cell of female no. 72. As the door opened, she scrambled to her knees, then to the squatting position that she had already been taught. Since she was afraid to look up, she didn't know it was me yet. "On your hands and knees." She immediately assumed the doggie position and I knelt down behind her, wet my tool, and shoved it in. Holding on with her boobs as handles, I pumped away. She was still just as good as ever.
An hour later, I was having lunch with the Man and Katja. He had some more questions about my operational planning, but mostly it was just a friendly luncheon. Afterward, in the lounge, I got a chance to ask about what I had found online.
"Mr. Hassan," I started. "I've come to realize the value that a high class female can bring around the world, but I can't reconcile the amount of money deposited in my account with any possible highest value of any female. Especially, since my share has to be only a fraction of her worth."
The Sheik smiled. "You are, of course, inquiring about your secret account balance?" I nodded. "You are correct. The girl you brought is valuable, but not close to a figure like that." Another sip of his ever-present and forbidden liqueur. "You just have a portion of the facts.
"While you were planning and carrying out your most professional operation, I was working on a coherent operation in tandem. As it turns out, the woman had sold her shares in the corporation two weeks ago, and moved the money offshore. Then, unfortunately, she disappeared."
I used a refill to allow myself a few seconds to think about that. Son of a bitch! While I was involved in taking the woman, he was just as involved in taking her fortune. I wondered how? Bribes? Forgeries? Then I dropped the subject - even if they gave me a detailed roadmap, I probably wouldn't understand the financial information.
He continued. "Your balance not only reflects the considerable share that you got for the girl, but the vastly greater share of her assets that come to you." He held up his hand as I started to speak. "As I said, your first operation shows a latent and very worthy talent for the, shall we say, career path?"
"Thank you sir, but I have to say that it wouldn't have happened without Jean's tutelage."
"Correct. It wasn't random choice when I sent you with him to learn. Of all my agents, he is the most meticulous. I have others that are totally reckless, and some will pay for that some day when something goes wrong. Others are just good at their work. With Jean, an operation may not come to a successful conclusion, but if not, you may be assured that it wasn't because of flaws in his meticulous planning."
"At any rate, you need to stay here for a few weeks. There is some training that you need to participate in, and of course, always with recreation when you feel the need."
I lay there beside my bedwarmer for the night. So far, nothing had happened and she was already asleep. My mind was in too much of a roil for sex just yet. I thought about what I was becoming and what I had become. First, and it really hadn't sunk in yet, despite my having told myself a dozen times and having logged on to the bank's website just as many - I was well on the way to becoming a very wealthy man. Me. A dumb grunt from nowhere. An ignorant kid who joined the army to stay out of jail.
And second, I was in a business that involved girls, and what could be done with girls, and as many as I wanted. I never had any trouble getting dates, but like all single American men, unless I paid for it, I only got sex if the girl was willing and if she was wined and dined properly. And it was only performed the way she wanted. Now I just walked in and took it. And it was how I wanted it, and when I wanted it, and as long as I wanted it.
And there was the matter of my becoming a CEO of a company in America. When did that start, and how? I couldn't start my own operation in the US yet. There was no way that I had enough experience after a single operation, however successful. So did I plan others? With Jean? Somebody else? How would I...
The door opened and in the dim light another woman walked up to the bed - wearing very little and what little she wore, hid nothing. Who?... Holy shit! Her?! The woman slapped the sleeping girl on the butt - not lightly - and as the young cunt woke up, startled, told her in Arabic to beat it. The girl fled in panic from the room.
Katja then pulled the flimsy nightgown - if that is what it was - over her head, dropped it on the floor and eased herself into the bed beside me.
What the hell! Life is like a high stakes dice game - most people come up craps, but a very few lucky ones walk off with the pot. I guess I was in the latter group - at least for now. One thing for sure, whatever my life was destined to be, it wasn't going to be boring.
End of Book 1
Copyright© 2012 by Morlock. All rights reserved.