Stealing Simone

by Reese Gabriel

  He couldn't afford to be, not with their upcoming mission. Charlie would have to be ruthless, cunning, and in the end, willing to use every means necessary to win. Including making full use of his dick to subdue Simone Leary.

  * * * *

  Samuel Martin couldn't help but appreciate the irony as he concluded his conversation with Charlie Jenkins. Here he'd just agreed to participate in the kidnapping and sexual possession of Simone Leary when in fact this was the very woman whom he'd secretly loved and adored since the day he laid eyes on her three years ago.

  Three years, two months and ten days ago, to be precise. The fact that Simone was his one true love was something he had shared with no one. As a result of this, on account of his saving himself for her and showing no interest in any other female employees, he was considered by many to be gay.

  Charlie was the one man who'd really befriended him, being willing to accept him, pretty much for what he was. But Charlie did not know about his feelings for Simone. He had no idea that at home he had a wall filled with digital photos he'd managed to take, or that his wallpaper on the PC in the little bedroom of his three room apartment was a laughing Simone, leaning back in Santa's arms at the Christmas party two years ago.

  That was the year he'd stolen up enough courage, thanks to six glasses of eggnog, to stand under the mistletoe, waiting for a kiss. When she finally did come by, she'd done nothing more than stop to smile, tell him how cute he was and kiss his cheek.

  Charlie said he acted too desperate around women, but the truth was, that was just a manifestation of his love for Simone. And one of these days, when he'd finally accomplished his self-improvement goals and was a tiny bit worthy, he might actually do the unthinkable and ask her out.

  In reality, though, this was not very likely to happen. Because the minute he heard that real life “no” out of her lips in response to his invitation, it would put his dreams-and his life-to a brutal, miserable and instantaneous end.

  Bondage and kidnap, eh? Well, that might be a way to go. He most certainly did not want Charlie or any of the other clowns at work getting their hands on his one and only love, but how much worse could it be than going to sleep each night knowing she was in Mick's arms? And in his bed. And wherever else they performed their nasty deeds.

  At least he could be with her once this way. And if he played his cards right, he might position himself to be her liberator from captivity, thereby winning hero status in her eyes.

  The one thing he would have to do-other than rig up a nice little micro camera for Gargano's office-was to practice with this whole wooing the damsel in distress thing.

  Since he was already in front of his computer (where else would he be?) it was no problem to open instantly the Sim-sim, which is what he'd dubbed the digitally animated Simone avatar he frequently used for his own amusement.

  Recently, he'd been taking her to Paris a lot and screwing her in a hotel on the River Seines. This would all be a lot easier once VR machines were up and running on home computers. Then he could be in the picture with her, seamless as could be. As it was, he had to sit there, knowing he was jerking off watching a computer screen, no illusions whatsoever.

  Conjuring up some digital chains, Martin put his electronic love to bed, securing her spread eagle. She seemed to like it. The blindfold didn't bother her any, either, and when he got around to putting in the little marks on her belly and breasts from the whip, she seemed downright ecstatic.

  Martin sighed heavily. Jenkins was right. He needed to get a fucking life. The trouble was, the life he wanted was with someone else, a free and independent woman who did not seem to care that he even existed.

  Curious to see how it would look, Martin colored a tiny collar on little Sim-sim's throat. It looked good, in his opinion. So good that he was masturbating to it a few seconds later.

  Martin grunted as he climaxed. Soon, he would be able to do this in real life. After which, more than likely, they would be caught and he would have his very own jail cell to fantasize from for the rest of his life.

  Chapter Two

  Thursday

  Martin laid the spy camera on the Formica table, next to Charlie's ceramic coffee cup. It was the size of a quarter, a clear disk with a pair of tiny metal nodules behind it and a nearly invisible wire.

  Jenkins whistled at the sheer smallness of the thing. “Have a seat bro, that's worth a cup of java."

  "You'll have to find a way to get it in Gargano's office,” Martin pointed out the obvious as he slid into the leatherette booth.

  "I've been working on that,” Charlie said as the waitress came with an empty cup and a steaming pot to fill it. She was all eyes for dark haired Samuel, with his haunting eyes and Clooneyesque two-day beard.

  "He's spoken for,” Charlie quipped. “He and this little Dell are all hot and heavy."

  The waitress, a nineteen year old with fine, golden hair and dimples, flushed red and hastened back to the kitchen. Jenkins watched her small, tight ass on the way.

  "Do you have to embarrass every female you meet?” Martin asked with uncharacteristic bluntness.

  Jenkins chalked it up to the edginess of their new venture. Heretofore, it had been simple things between them, scams to get extra sodas from the machine in the break room and rolling back the odometers on the company cars to cover for personal trips.

  "As a matter of fact, yes, Martin, I do."

  Martin sighed, raising his cup. “Here's to it, then."

  Charlie clicked mugs and told him about Lucien, the Haitian janitor who had the keys to all the offices. In addition to access, he also had some rather unique experience, from his days in the military back home. “I'm hoping he can get the camera in there this morning, before anyone gets in."

  "He gonna rape her, too, then?"

  "It's not rape.” Jenkins looked around to make sure no one was listening. “I told you, we don't do anything she doesn't ask for first. And keep your voice down, will you? What's gotten into you? Jeezus, look at you. You look like you been on the Russian Front six months."

  "Couldn't sleep last night."

  "Well try some fucking herbal tea next time and chill the hell out."

  Martin made no reply. Jenkins eased off and returned to the briefing. “Lucien will meet you behind the building in a half hour. You can give the camera to him and tell him how to place it. Tomorrow is Friday, the plan is to get something on Mick today, In which case, our date with Simone will be on for the weekend."

  The computer expert's fists were clenching and unclenching. Jenkins was starting to wonder if this was too much for him to handle.

  "So it's just us three, then?"

  "No, we're gonna use Vladimir Uchenko from the mailroom, too. He was with Russian Special Forces. Counter terrorism shit in Chechnya. He'll be our technical advisor."

  "Special Forces? What the fuck, Charlie? This is supposed to be clean, no violence."

  "Relax, Martin. Christ, you think I want violence? This extra guy is our insurance. He'll know what to do to keep it from getting that way. Trust me, you weren't the only one up all night going over shit in your head."

  Martin, who was still wearing his jeans, t-shirt and army jacket from the day before sat there stone faced. “You're the boss."

  "You're scaring me a little, Samuel. You're not in over your head are you?"

  "No, I'm good."

  Jenkins studied him for a minute before patting his forearm. “All right, then. And don't worry; a little bit of nerves is good. It's normal."

  "Uh huh,” Martin nodded. “Can I have some coffee?” He called out to the blonde blushing waitress.

  "Your cup's already full,” he pointed out.

  "Oh, yea,” he laughed, way too tense for Jenkins’ liking. “I forgot."

  Fuck, thought Charlie. Of the three guys he'd picked, Martin was supposed to be the level headed one. That didn't bode well. Not well at all.

  Pulling a small flask from his jacket pocket, he added some whiskey to his co
ffee. Seeing what his friend was doing, Martin took a big gulp of his own coffee.

  "I'll have some, too,” he held out his mug.

  "You don't drink, Martin."

  "I do now,” he said dryly.

  * * * *

  Simone was hornier than she'd ever been in her life. With each second that passed on the office clock, she was getting wetter and wetter. In a few hours, it was going to happen. She was going to give herself to men, to save Mick. It felt right, even as it made her stomach swarm with butterflies. After all, with Randy out of her life now (that being a decision she had officially made this morning) Mick was left as her one and only male influence. She belonged to him now, in a new way. And what better way to show him than by giving her body for his use-his vicarious use.

  She hoped the red dress would fill the ticket. Mick hadn't specified what in particular to wear, so she'd gone for a compromise between subtle and slutty. Something sufficiently professional, but also with a hint of provocation. It was a stab in the dark. Really, she had no idea what she was doing. Did these men want her to look like a whore or not?

  Pressing her thighs together, she tried to fight the powerful urges. If she could, she would spend the entire day masturbating. As it was, she was having to deal with one weird interruption after another. Three times, the tech support guy, Samuel Martin had been in to do unscheduled upgrades on her PC. This was more than she'd seen him in the last two years. When she made a joke to that effect, he'd gotten suddenly jumpy.

  "Is that a problem?” He'd wanted to know.

  She said it wasn't. Sam Martin was gorgeous, and what woman wouldn't want to look at gorgeous as often as possible? Even if it did come in an odd, borderline homeless-looking package of manhood. She still remembered the time he'd tried to kiss her at the Christmas party. He'd have had her, if not for the slight, um, odor of his clothes. As it was, she'd managed a polite peck on the cheek.

  Speaking of weirdness, the janitor had been by her office twice, too. This guy definitely gave her the creeps. Back in Haiti he was supposed to have been some kind of army general responsible for torture. He'd ended up on the outs in one of the frequent coups there and now he was working for minimum wage in the US and taking the bus ten miles to work every day.

  "You need extra trash liners,” he'd pointed imperiously at the wastebasket when she had dared to ask what he wanted the second time.

  At five four, he was an inch shorter than her, and not much more muscular, but he was still an imposing sight, wearing his khaki overalls like it was still his dress uniform back home. What was really odd, though, was how he seemed to be checking her out. Just like Martin. Had she missed some memo on her being the flavor of the week?

  Finally she locked the door, propped her heels up on the desk and thrust her hand underneath the waistband of her panties. She tried her hardest not to think of Randy. Lacking any suitable replacements, she sought to imagine the men she would be servicing tonight. Would they be handsome? Gentle? It didn't matter, in the end, though, because they were going to have her regardless of what she thought of them.

  That was the biggest arousal factor for her, the fact that this was not her own will. She and Randy had played with this idea-mostly to jazz up their foreplay-but they had never gotten around to acting on it for real.

  How she would have dearly loved for the man to have shown up at her door one night and said something like, “This is Joe from homicide. I'm giving you to him for the night."

  The thrill of it ... the risk ... the total degradation that would follow ... it was beyond comparison.

  She knew these men tonight were Russians. And gangsters. On TV, men of this ilk had beady eyes, brush cuts and broad shoulders. They wore bright blue suits and fancy sunglasses. They had lots of muscles and they grinned as they talked with their thick accents, rolling like borsht, smooth and pungent.

  They would probably have huge dicks, too. Ten inches at least. She would whimper at the sight of them.

  "You have to take them all the way,” Mick would say, making her get on her knees. “And make it good, cause I'll be watching the whole thing."

  She would have to lick and suck, knowing that when they were good and hard, good and ready, they were going to shove these pricks deep inside her, fucking and fucking and fucking.

  The buzzer caught her on the brink of orgasm. It was Mick, wanting to see her now. There wasn't any starch in his voice, no buoyancy, just a kind of defeatism. Something was wrong, she decided. Very wrong.

  Leaving her fantasy, and her masturbation, she went to him. Her boss. Her lover. The man who now, officially, held total sway over her, at least until someone new came along to take Randy's place.

  Someone with Martin's looks, maybe. And a totally different personality.

  * * * *

  Planting the device in the head man's office, Claude-Philippe Lucien was reminded of old times. Intrigues at the Presidential Palace, as far back as the rule of Baby Doc, when he had been a fresh-faced lieutenant, a newly appointed special attaché assigned to the administration of the brutal junior Duvalier strongman, who was every bit the monster his father had been and worse.

  On his first day in the palace, he'd been taken to an office by representatives of the Ton Ton, the president's dreaded secret police. On the desk had been carefully laid out a human hand, a human tongue and a human eye.

  Item by item, the senior policeman pointed to them, explaining their significance.

  "For stealing,” he said of the hand. “For lying,” he said of the tongue, and finally, of the eye. “For seeing too much."

  Young Lucien had learned a lesson that day, one that would help him survive both the fall of Duvalier and the subsequent rise and first fall of the populist priest-president, Jean Bertrand Aristide. Following the anti-Aristide coup, he'd come into his own, rising to third in command of the junta. Then Clinton had come, bringing Aristide back at the head of the American Army. Deals were struck, some heads were spared, just barely.

  Sneaking under the human rights radar, he'd taken up residence in Florida, where he enjoyed reasonable dignity as a working man. It was a humble existence, precarious, but it was better than having his head hacked off by a machete back home.

  Joining forces with this Charlie Jenkins might well be considered suicidal, as he stood to lose everything. Arrest at this point in his life would mean deportation to Port Au Prince and certain death at the hands of his enemies.

  Then again, it can be said a man may live too long, trading his manhood for survival. For one more adventure, for one more intrigue, might it be worth trading decades more of mediocrity?

  Planting the recording device was no great chore. He'd bugged and de-bugged hundreds of offices. As for fearing detection by the owner of this company or his security men, it could hardly be on a par with staring down the sort of men who save and employ body parts hacked off with machetes to make their points.

  As for the rewards, personally he had no desire for the money Jenkins was promising. It was enough to feel a bit of adrenaline again. Although, admittedly, the female was of interest, as well. This, too, brought back memories. Reminiscences of the days when the finest women on the island were available to him. There were no ends they would not go to satisfy him either, because of his position. If they wished to be spared the dark fate of arrest and even torture, they knew they must be pleasing indeed.

  Lucien's tastes had run toward the lighter skinned ones, and in his hey day, he'd had access to French whores, even minor American starlets. White skin marked easier, this he had learned, and European and American girls had a much lower threshold for pain. They would beg and whine and cry and scream far more easily and satisfyingly than the long-suffering women of his own poor and miserable homeland.

  Since coming to America, he'd paid for a few prostitutes, but with them he had felt nothing close to the erotic surge of before. And now, with his biological clock ticking, he knew this might well be his last chance to enjoy a bound girl, a girl
with some real fear in her heart. A girl who would fuck for her very life.

  Charlie Jenkins, the loud-mouthed American had assured him (though Lucien hadn't asked) that there would be nothing ‘illegal’ since she would be consenting at each critical step. Lucien had nodded expressionless, having learned in the course of a long career to always keep his real feelings to himself. This Simone Leary was a lovely woman, as he'd discovered in first hand viewing today, and contrary to what Jenkins said, it was not consent he wanted, but capitulation. The application of force so subtle and pervasive that the girl would be made to beg for her own rape.

  Jenkins had as yet no concept what this meant, but he soon would. For it was Lucien's intention to play dumb only so long, waiting for the right opportunity. At which point he would seize command of the man's little group. His last and final coup d'etat.

  Closing and locking the office door behind him carefully, Lucien snuck back down the hall to his mop. Mission accomplished, it was only a matter of time till they had on tape what they needed.

  * * * *

  Mick hadn't called Simone into his office all day up to now. Not for a blow job, not for a pencil, not even for a cup of coffee. It was eating at him bad, the guilt over what he was going to make her do tonight. This loyal, innocent employee was going to have to spread her legs for mobsters. And they weren't ordinary run of the mill mobsters, either. Nor was it ordinary leg spreading they wanted.

  What he'd found out just this morning was that Simone was going to have to take a whipping first and probably a good deal of verbal humiliation with it. Apparently what made her so valuable to them was that they were going to be able to do certain things to her as an amateur that even most pros would refuse. She was also a ‘virgin’ to a lot of these BDSM activities, which was another huge boon to her street value.

  "Take advantage of this opportunity,” Nikolai Karkhov had advised. “You won't get a tenth as much for her the next time-she will be spoiled meat by then, my friend."