The blonde prostitute pulled her head back off the spasming cock, feeling the blood in her hair, the pieces of Mick's freshly exploded brain. “He shot himself,” she screamed. “He shot himself."
* * * *
Jenkins paced the floor. It was a fuck up, start to finish. He told the three men this, not that they hadn't figured it for themselves. For one thing, the girl had seen at least two of them as they abducted her and she obviously knew Martin was a part of it as well. Only Uchenko, ironically enough, had maintained his cover. It was largely for his sake they would still blindfold her, and of course so she could not later identify details of the place where she was being held.
Then there was the incredibly sloppy getaway. He didn't think there were witnesses, but it was not an impossibility. They'd stuck out like a sore thumb and even the most casual of bystanders was likely to remember something distinctive about them or the vehicle. He hoped it was a stroke of genius to have them dump the van outside of town, to make it look like she was taken far away, should anyone trace it.
"Maybe we ought to let her go,” suggested Martin.
"No.” Jenkins said fiercely. “Not after all this. We can weather it. Once we get Gargone blackmailed, the heat will disappear. She can resurface and there will be no crime. We can accelerate the process, too, if you all agree. Just do our thing tonight and call Gargone in the morning. Twenty four hours from now we'll all be rich enough to buy our own beach in Mexico."
"We will have to decide on the order,” said the Haitian, who'd been obsessed since they got here. “We can't all have her first."
"Flip a fucking coin,” Martin said sarcastically, continuing to display the kind of strong hostile emotions that made Jenkins think he was going to be one hell of a security risk if this went on too long. “Or isn't she worth that much to you?"
"She's a cunt,” the Haitian declared. “You put your value on her, I'll put mine."
Martin leaped from his chair. “You fucking ice veined animal!"
Jenkins restrained him. “Martin, get a hold of yourself."
"You.” Lucien was pointing to Uchenko. “You go first."
Now it was Jenkins who had to hold his temper. “Who the fuck said you could pick?"
"She doesn't know him,” Lucien reasoned. “She'll be the most frightened of him. He's also the largest. Let him break her. Let him do the dirty work. His identity is protected ... and I'm sure he's familiar with such practices from his prior profession, as am I."
Uchenko sat like a stone, watching the clock on the wall like it was a TV screen. Jenkins was beginning to wonder if he'd gone catatonic.
"What are you talking about, Lucien? What practices? This was supposed to be consensual every step of the way, right, Charlie?"
"That was when we had the luxury of time,” said the Haitian. “Now we must seize the fruit and be done."
Charlie was still holding Martin. “Look, I got us into this, I should handle the rough stuff ... not that there will be any. Remember, I'm a slave trainer. I've been dealing with women like her and dara for years."
Lucien laughed. “With all due respect, you are speaking of middle class sex games, not legitimate interrogation."
"Enough.” The Russian was on his feet, stilling the room with the one word. They waited on him now, listening to the ticking of the clock. A few moments later, there came the lonely call of the cuckoo, dara's inheritance from her grandmother, the one personal thing Charlie had let her keep as his slave.
The bird sounded the hour, twelve calls in all.
"Midnight,” Uchenko announced, as though the passing of the day should carry some special significance with regard to their problem.
Offering no further explanation, he walked to the cellar stairs, opened the door and disappeared, his heavy steps weighing down the wooden steps.
Charlie pitied the girl having to take on the Russian first. As much of a bitch as she was, he knew she didn't deserve anything close to what that brute might give to her.
If he were half a man, he would try to stop her. Then again, if he were half a man he might have gone to Simone Leary directly with his complaints. Better still, he could have owned up to his cheating, lying ways in the first place.
"I need a whisky, boys,” he said with a gravelly voice. “How about the rest of you?"
They agreed to a man. Charlie nodded, relieved. It was the first sign of agreement they'd shown all night.
Chapter Four
Saturday
The girl, whose name was dara, allowed Simone to use the toilet before laying her down on a musty smelling bed in the corner of the stone basement. Dara then proceeded to tie her limbs down, arms and legs apart, spread-eagled.
She didn't take any of her clothes from her, though.
"They'll want to rip them off you,” dara explained, barely containing her glee. “Before they rape you. They're up there now, deciding who gets you first."
Simone would have given anything for just a minute or two without the ball gag so she could talk, ask questions or just flat out scream for help. The thing was making her jaw sore, too, a fact she was able to communicate with whimpers and eye motions.
"Don't worry, they'll take that out and replace it with other things,” dara laughed. “And don't expect to do a half ass job blowing them, either. You suck like some kind of spoiled princess, and my master will beat your ass black and blue."
Simone shook her head, prompting the girl to turn around and show her just what it was she was talking about. “See?” she ran her hands proudly over the deep bruises and welts. “I can take a real woman's beating. Bet you'd cry like a baby over a little spanking."
The last thing dara did was put the blindfold on her again. “When the men are done, I'm gonna make you eat my pussy. You like that Miss High and Mighty Business Woman?"
A moment later, dara was whispering in her ear. “Well lookee here, it's the Russian psycho coming down the stairs. Guess he's up first. Master says he killed a hundred men in Chechnya with his bare hands. Good luck ... my sweet little bitch."
As a parting gift, she pinched both the prisoner's nipples, making her eyes water. Everything went quiet after that. Simone strained to hear the slightest sound. Her body felt stretched over a knife blade, the anticipation palpable, like needle stings.
Where was this Russian man? And why wasn't he getting started so they could get this over with? She called out a garbled hello.
"Do not struggle. Stay perfectly still."
The voice beside her was heavily accented. How had the Russian gotten down here without her hearing him?
"I am Major Uchenko, of the Army of the Russian Federation,” he said. “You are currently in the hands of the terrorists, enemies of Mother Russia. We are in one of their safe houses, on the outskirts of Grozny. I am operating undercover, alone. I will protect you from them until the soldiers arrive."
Grozny? Did the man think he was back in Chechnya still fighting his civil war?
"The rebel pigs intend to rape you. I do not know if I can prevent this. But I will prepare you as best I can. Yes?"
She nodded her head, thinking that an insane ally was better than none at all. Removing the blindfold, the Russian revealed himself; a six-foot plus silver and black haired man, with large muscles and a large scar across his cheek. His nose looked as if it had been broken several times, but she decided she liked his eyes, steel gray, with the fiercely loyal look of a wolf.
"My first name,” he said, somewhat more softly. “Is Vladimir. You want this gag off a moment?"
She nodded vehemently, lifting her head to give his easier access. “Thank you,” she whispered, leaving aside for the moment the problem of the man's dementia.
"You are welcome.” He dabbed the sweat from her forehead with a washcloth dara had left on the bed. “You are American, no? Captured from one of the trade delegations?"
She gave no answer, but he didn't seem to mind.
"I will have to tear your clothes,” he explai
ned, “make it look like rape. I will have to ejaculate on you also, if you can stand it."
Simone's heart leaped to her chest. “But why can you not take me from this place now?"
"Too dangerous. It is after dark. The streets are full of snipers. We must wait till dawn. For relief to come."
Hopefully, it would come in the form of some very real policemen and not and of his ghost colleagues in the Russian military. “I-I understand,” she agreed, not wanting to do anything to upset him.
Vladimir had a penknife. “I won't hurt you,” he reached for the neck of her blouse. “I am only making it look like you have been attacked."
The buttons popped away as Uchenko slid down the knife. The unreal element of his action, combined with his tall, strong, presence, was having something of an arousing effect. She was tied and helpless, and yet she knew instinctively he would not hurt her.
Pulling the tails of the blouse from her skirt, he cut some lines across the material. The bra he severed in the middle, between the two cups.
"This will only hurt a moment ... it is expected."
She had no time to react as he nicked her left breast. “You bastard!” She cried.
"Good, now shout louder."
"Shout? What for?"
He slapped her, hard across the jaw. “You are being assaulted,” he reminded.
Simone did her best to scream for him. Certainly it was preferable to fake sounds than to find herself producing the real thing.
She cried out all over again as he cut open her skirt.
"Do not move,” he warned, moving to slice her panties.
"Are you sure you're not getting into your work a little too much?"
"What?"
"Never mind,” she sighed, noting his lack of humor. “It's an American joke."
"Your pussy. It must be wet,” he declared. “This will help, if the others come for you."
Simone flushed red, because it already was.
Vladimir spit on his fingers. “Please forgive."
She stifled a moan as he fingered her pussy, rubbing in the spittle. If he noticed her excitement, he said nothing. She did not understand why the situation should be so damned hot for her. She was looking at the possibility of real rapes here. It was not fun and games.
"There is a way for you to play along, yes? To make them finish quicker?"
"You mean act like I enjoy this?” She flashed a hateful glare. For some reason it seemed safe to let out her frustrations with him and no one else. “Sure, why not? We all know women love to be forced to respond."
"You must remain rational,” said Vladimir, unzipping his pants. “Strong emotion is what they will use against you. Keep calm, react to nothing."
That was easy for him to say. He wasn't getting an eyeful of long, hard cock, enough meat to make her mouth water. “Please, must you show me that thing?"
"All men have one,” he reminded.
Now who was making bad jokes?
"But some are ruled by them."
"I promise,” he looked deep into her eyes. “I shall free you from these rebel scum or die in the attempt. As for any who violate you, I will kill them with my own bare hands."
She didn't doubt that he would. The question was whether his obvious talents and dedication would fare so well in America as they had in Russia. Was he really crazy to some end, like a fox, or was he just another brave, but shell-shocked soldier who'd seen one too many things with his tender eyes?
"I know you will do all you can. But...” and here she had no idea how to communicate this except in his own terms. “I have a friend who is also in trouble, on account of the rebels. Can you help him, too?"
He frowned. “Perhaps. Where is he?"
She gave Mick's home address. “But I'm afraid he may have been kidnapped. I don't know where he'd be by now."
"The rebels will stoop to any crime,” he nodded. “I will do what I am able to."
It was all very odd to be talking to Uchenko like this, because the man was holding his long cock the whole time, just stroking it. She wondered what it would feel like to have him inside of her, or at least what it would feel like to be in his arms. He wasn't her type, not per se, what with his scar and all, but he was strong and real. And he was here.
There was something romantic, too, in a Don Quixote sort of way about this anti-hero, totally out of his element, tipping at windmills.
Vladimir grunted, as politely and professionally as possible, trying hard not to look at her as he came all over her belly and breasts. The sperm was a warm, white sheet, a thick rain. She felt wicked and devious, having the man come on her bound body like this, especially as it was their little secret how he hadn't actually hurt or violated her in any way.
How ironic that the first man, the one who was supposed to break her down had been this gentle. Would she fare as well with the others?
"Vladimir, don't leave me."
"I must,” he let his finger graze her cheek in a surprisingly tender move. “You must trust in me; I will do my duty and come for you as quickly as possible."
"Yes,” she whispered, her eyes moist. “I believe you."
She bit her lip, trying to hold herself together as he left her. Because she had opened a little to this man it was hurting, a hundred times worse to be alone again, vulnerable. Simone heard talking at the top of the stairs. O, god, it was the computer geek. Was he going to be next? Anyone but him. He'd already had time with her and she didn't like one bit how her body responded. For some reason, he could make her do things, and that was not what she needed.
In utter futility, she pulled at the bonds. It was too late. She could hear him, coming for her. Ranting and raving already.
* * * *
Martin descended the stairs with clenched fists. “Uchenko, I don't care who you think you are,” he called up the stairs. “If I find out you hurt her, even a little ... I swear, I won't be responsible for the consequences."
He found Simone in the corner, tied down on the bed. The bastard had used her while she was totally helpless. What's the matter, was she too much of a threat for him unbound?
"Simone,” he cried seeing what had been done to her. “My poor Simone."
She lay in a pile of scraps, the remains of her own clothes. Her lovely body underneath had been soiled, sprinkled with the man's emissions. He had given her the worst indignity imaginable, coming all over her. He'd probably raped her, too, just to get things started.
"Simone, I'm so sorry.” Martin looked about for a knife to cut her free. On a nearby shelf he found a small switchblade. From the tiny bathroom he got a washcloth to wipe her down.
"Let's get you cleaned up,” he soothed, cutting her free. The blindfold and gag were already off, not that it mattered.
She sat up uneasily, her limbs obviously weakened already from her short time in captivity. Carefully, delicately, he began to wipe at her skin.
"Forgive me,” he begged over and over for having to touch her breasts in the process. He just couldn't let her remain in such a soiled state, though, not for one second longer.
Nor could he bear her nudity. “Put this on,” he grabbed the bedspread from off the floor. When she was wrapped tight, he held her tight against him. “Before anyone else touches you,” he vowed. “I will kill them."
The girl was shivering, though he wasn't sure if it was from being cold or not. She'd been raped so more than likely it was shock.
Martin heard the sobbing from deep in her throat. It tore his gut straight in two. “Oh, sweetie, don't cry. I love you, I always have."
Somehow his lips found their way to hers. She was utterly soft and pliant, but also needy and very expressive. He gave her the reassurance of a man, claiming her femininity, honoring and accepting it. In response, she molded herself against, unabashed in her forced nudity. My, god, the Russian was an animal. Her breast was even cut.
It fascinated him, though, what it must take to so thoroughly dominate a woman, to put her in her place to t
he point of wounding her very skin, before penetrating and soiling her. No permanent injury, though, not really, just a kind of ... marking. Martin could almost be jealous of this ... license, were it not for the horribly immoral behavior it represented.
This was not the game of Sim-sim, this was the real thing. Then again, didn't he imagine the reality himself when torturing the digital girl? A pang of guilt hit him as he realized he was, in his own way, just as guilty. Just as Jesus said, whoever has looked upon a woman in lust has already committed the act with her in his heart.
But if the crime was already committed, did it matter what he did now?
"Oh, baby,” he moaned softly. “I've wanted you so bad. For so long."
"I-I want it, too,” she breathed hotly. “I want to feel ... abduction."
"Yes, possession, not rape,” he interpreted, still trying to split moral hairs.
"S-so fucking wet...” she moaned.
Martin pushed her back on the bed, feeling the testosterone. “Open your legs,” he ordered. When she failed to do it to his satisfaction, he grabbed her nipple. “Wider."
The girl looked at him in awe, her pussy gushing.
"I'm gonna fuck you so hard,” he groaned. “I've wanted it for so long. I've wanted you. A million times I've jerked off to you..."
"Rape me,” begged Simone Leary. “Punish me ... with your dick."
His cock found her hot hole, occupying it shamelessly. There was no question of her consent, no misunderstanding her screams of yes, yes. Still, there was this tension between them, resulting from the circumstances. It was a fine line, walking between the dream and reality of kidnapping.
"How many more men?” She sighed. “How many are coming for me?"
"None,” he vowed. “I will stop them. I promise, the heavens as my witness."
"No, you can't..."
It dawned on him she wanted to get off on the dirty talking, maybe as a way to help herself reconcile to what was going on. Who knew? Women were complicated. “Are you saying you want it to happen?"
Stealing Simone Page 10
