Convict's Captive Book 1

by Paul Blades

  She cried and cried while he fucked her. His thrusts were hard and fast. Her body shook again and again. Her face was down between her outstretched arms. He had left enough slack on the rope that bound her to the bed so that she had been able to turn over without twisting them. He had planned ahead, like always. Her breasts were pressed against her thighs. The fierce, foul invader kept going on and on. And her pussy, her betrayer, her very own Iago, reveled in it.

  He was so big. His body seemed to surround her. It was like a monster had taken possession of her. In this position, the man’s thick cock abraded her clitoris with each stroke. She gritted her teeth trying to deny her growing lust, but it was of no use. The cock went on and on. His hot hands were on her hips, holding her body in place, using it as a pivot so that he could thrust himself unmercifully against her buttocks. She cried and cried even as her passions grew. When her explosion came she buried her face in the mattress and screamed. She could feel her pussy clenching the rabid tool that was flaying her again and again. The man groaned. He yelled. He made one! two! three! four! five! mighty thrusts against her, and then he was done.

  He lay against her for a while, while he recovered his breath. She was too worn out to cry. What was the use? Some fiendish devil had ordained this awful fate for her and there was no way to avoid it. She felt his softened tool slip from her vagina. “At last,” she thought. “At last.”

  He rose from the bed. He leaned over and untied her hands from the headboard. “If you’ve got to pee, do it now,” he told her. She struggled up from the bed, her hands still bound before her, the rope that had tied her to the bed trailing from her wrists. Following him into the bathroom, she turned her head so that she would not have to look as his cock performed. Then it was her turn. She ignored his looming presence and let her water flow. He had bought some toothbrushes and toothpaste and he made her brush her teeth, which was difficult with her hands tied, but she managed it. Carly figured that it was not out of concern for her, but because he liked putting his tongue in there and didn’t want her to have trench mouth.

  He went back to her purse and got her cold cream and made her take her makeup off. She tried not to look at herself in the mirror too much, but she could not avoid it. There she was, standing naked, her breasts out and shimmering as she moved. Her nipples seemed like two mournful eyes peering back at her, condemning her for her bout of passion. “Slut!” they said. “Harlot! Jezebel! Weakling!” He was standing next to her, watching her ritual, an ominous presence. When she looked up, she caught his eyes, dark, brooding, merciless eyes. She looked away.

  He let her drink some water and then made stand in the middle of the room with her hands on her head while he had a smoke, sitting in the chair and scouring her with his eyes. She felt his come leaking down her thigh. When he finished, he told her to get on the bed.

  To her relief, he untied her hands. But when he told her to lie on her belly, she grew concerned. He told her to put her hands behind her back and he tied them off there. Her heart sank. He went away for a moment and returned with another length of rope. After removing her stockings, he crossed her ankles and tied them off too. Then he stepped away once again and returned with the rubber ball and the duct tape.

  “Open your mouth,” he told her

  She grimaced, now understanding what the ball was for. She wanted to beg him not to do it, but she opened her mouth without saying a word. He forced the ball in her mouth. It made her teeth separate. He tore off a strip of duct tape and covered her mouth.

  “Get the message?” he asked her. She tearfully turned her head away. She got the message. No more talking.

  He turned off the standing lamp. Hints of the dawn were seeping in past the curtains. He got in bed next to her, to her right, and pulled up the covers. Within a minute, she heard his heavy breathing. He was asleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  His real name was John. John Jackson. But everybody called him Blackjack, or just plain Jack. He awoke suddenly, alert and prepared for the worst, just like he had awoken every morning for the last 12 years. The room was flooded with light. It took him a second to realize where he was, but then it all came back to him in a rush.

  Yesterday, about 3 p.m., he was being driven down Route 4 on his way back to the State Penitentiary in Wolverton. They were coming back from a medical appointment at the cancer specialist hospital in Delberg. He had bribed one of the technicians in the medical ward in the prison to switch his x-rays with one of the cons’ who was dying of lung cancer. He had made the trip up in the back seat of an unmarked Prison Service car. While at the hospital, while no one was looking, he had snatched a long, thick, surgical knife off a medical tray. In prison, you got nothing if you were not surreptitious. Blackjack had developed it into an art. It was all about the swiftness of his hands and his cool demeanor.

  On the way back, he had told the guards that he had to piss. They stopped at a service station. One of the guards followed him into the small bathroom. There was a chain between his ankles and around his waist. Since the guard didn’t want to hold his prick while he pissed, he released one hand from the manacles around his waist. When Jack had done shaking his cock, he turned and plunged the knife right into the guard’s heart. He coughed, his eyes rolled back and he dropped to the floor.

  It took only a few seconds for Jack to get the key to his cuffs and ankle chain from the guard’s pocket. He unlocked them, but left them on. Then he opened the door to the bathroom and stepped out a few feet.

  “Corporal Davis!” he yelled. “Corporal Davis! I think something has happened to Officer Maynard. I think he’s had a heart attack!”

  From what Corporal Davis could see, Jack still had his manacles on. He had been standing by the car waiting for the two of them to come out. He ran to the bathroom. It was tough for him to get in with the other guard lying on the floor. Jack went in first. Corporal Davis followed him. He had just leaned over to see what was the matter with Maynard when Jack reached around and slit his throat. He dropped to the floor.

  Jack reached into his pocket and got the keys to the car. He thought of taking their guns, but he didn’t want to spend time taking off their belts. He didn’t even rifle through their pockets for cash. He tossed off the manacles and ran to the car. He got in the driver’s side, revved up the engine and took off.

  He figured it would be maybe a half hour at best until someone went into the bathroom and found the bodies. Maybe longer if he was lucky, but that was all he could count on. He drove as fast as he could, but careful to stay within the speed limit. They had gotten off the Interstate. He got back on it for twenty miles or so and then got back off. The Interstate was too easy to monitor. It would be the first place they would look for him. He rode along a county road for about 30 miles. He figured that by now word would have gotten back to the prison of his escape. Soon every cop in the state would be looking for a black, late model Ford Eclipse with state government plates. He needed to ditch it.

  It was about 5 when he saw a dirt road on his right that looked just right. He rode down it. It led to on old lumberjack road. He followed the dirt pathway for a couple of miles and then pulled into a stand of Evergreens so that the car couldn’t be seen from the air. He got out and took stock. It was too bad it was late January because all the leaves were gone. It was cold too, and would get colder at night. He needed to get somewhere where he could hijack a car. He would need to either kill or kidnap the owner so that the car wouldn’t be reported stolen for at least 12 hours. He could be a few hundred miles away by then.

  Jack had grown up in the woods. He had no fear of any man or beast. Outside the car, he took a moment to relish his first moment of freedom for 12 years. He was doing a life bid. In this state, life meant life. Sometimes they released on humanitarian grounds some 80 year old lifer who had a couple of months to live. This way he would be buried on the dime of some other state agency. He and his local chapter of the Rogues Motorcycle Club had all been indicted and convicted on a stat
e racketeering beef. They had been manufacturing and distributing crystal meth, ran a nice, profitable prostitution ring, trafficked in stolen cars, extortion, loansharking and whatever else made money. As president of the chapter, Jack got to break in the new girls, willing or unwilling, who they were putting out on the game or were assigning out to chapter members to use as their slaves. Girls that were too much trouble they sold to a Salvadorian gang who marketed them to inner city pimps or to Mexico and beyond.

  Maintaining a criminal empire like that required fierce discipline and the ability to strike fear into anyone they dealt with. So of course there had to be a few bodies along the way. Jack liked to keep the killings to a minimum since they attracted too much law enforcement attention. But, of course, motorcycle outlaws were not easy to control. It was kind of like herding cats.

  One of the members, Skeeter Mascola, had killed a citizen in broad daylight in front of about 30 witnesses. Now, the code said that he had to take his medicine. He would be taken care of on the inside. Drugs were readily available, as was sex, although the sex was with punk kids doing their first bids for burglary or low level drug distribution. But Skeeter, who was always a bit of a weasel, decided to flip rather than spend the rest of his days marking time. He gave the state attorney general everything. They went to trial and were all convicted, all 20 of them. It made headlines all over the country.

  Skeeter didn’t live long. A guy like that didn’t prosper in the witness protection program. He was running a small heroin ring out on the peninsula when one of the boys from another chapter spotted him. He and his skaggy girlfriend were buried out in the woods where nobody would ever find them.

  That was 12 years ago. And now he was out. He knew that the odds were against him, that eventually he would be caught. But he was determined that that day would be the last that he ever woke up in a jail cell. He knew that all he had to do was hook up with a Rogues chapter in another city and they would set him up with whatever he wanted, a new i.d., maybe even some plastic surgery. He didn’t want to hook up with any chapters too close to his home state since they were both too small and would be carefully watched. If he could get to the West Coast or maybe Texas or New Mexico, he would be all right. But first he had to get some wheels that every cop in the state wasn’t looking for.

  He headed out right into the woods. He stayed close to the trees, even though there was no real cover. It was just that if he heard a plane or a coptor he could press himself against a tree and hope not to be seen. He walked along a stream he found for a few miles, it being in a depression where he could fall to the ground easily and hide. He was careful when he came upon any hills, looking up at the sky carefully and keeping a low profile when he crossed them.

  He had had lunch at the hospital, a tray of hospital food: a Salisbury steak, some green beans and half a canned peach. But that was hours ago. Corporal Davis had had a lunch bag, but he had eaten most of it except for an apple. Jack ate it after he had been walking for two hours. He knew that he would have to eat if he wanted to keep up his strength, but he also knew that the time at which it would become a real problem was a long way off.

  He had been training for years for this escape. He worked out with weights, did exercises to strengthen his legs, spent several days, every couple of months, when he would eat only bread and water. He stayed away from the drugs, although he had been tempted many times. With a life sentence, an interminable string of boring, repetitive days awaited him. It was tempting to be able to take your mind somewhere else and forget where you were. But that was how guys got in trouble. You had to wake up sometime. And when you did, your were still right where you started out. Guys like that got careless and once in a while, one would be found with his throat slit in some remote corner of the prison factory or in a corner of the yard where the screws couldn’t see what happened. Or they would just fade away and die.

  He was determined not to die in prison. So he kept himself healthy and fit. He had an elevated status in the prison because of his gang connections, he had been the president of a very profitable chapter for about 10 years, and he got the occasional luxury when he wanted it. He got his pick of the punks. The guards treated him okay too because they knew that he kept order and dealt out justice to the other cons judiciously and discretely, usually.

  He traveled for hours. He passed an occasional house here or there and was tempted to go in and take what he needed, but home invasion was always risky. You could end up on the wrong side of a .30 shotgun or somebody could get away or make a desperate phone call to the cops. Even if it were successful, somebody might discover the results of his mayhem, he would have to kill everybody in the house, and then they would really be after him, not simply as an escaped con, but as a mass murderer. No, it was best that he be patient and wait for the right opportunity. So far he was ahead of the game and he felt confident that the cops wouldn’t find the unmarked Prison Service cars for a few days at least.

  He came upon the gas station at a little after 10 that night. It was still a little busy and so he knew that he would have to wait to make his move. The fact of his escape would have been all over the news already. But he could have gone off in a dozen different directions and so he still had the upper hand. Besides, they were still probably looking for the black Eclipse.

  When he saw the girl pull up, his heart had lifted. She was alone; she had a rather unremarkable car. The traffic had died down at the station and nobody else had pulled in for a good ten minutes or so. It didn’t hurt that she was good looking. She was wearing a rather bulky parka, but it didn’t cover her long, pretty legs or her short, appealing blond hair. He had snuck up to the car while she was pumping gas. The passenger door was unlocked. “Stupid cunt,” he thought.

  Once she got in, it was all over.

  Lying there in the motel room bed, he thanked the fates for his good fortune. He awoke this morning a free man. He had gotten laid last night. With a woman. An attractive, hot, obedient woman. And he would get laid today too.

  He had restrained himself during their drive last night. Part of him wanted to have her pull up some dark roadway where he would have piled her into the back seat and fucked the shit out of her. But it was more important to make tracks. He had learned a lot of discipline in the pen. It was enough to know that when they finally stopped for the night, she would shortly thereafter be naked, in his bed, and with her legs spread.

  And oh, yeah, to be buried in a cunt for the first time in 12 years was heaven. To be able put your tongue in a mouth and not feel whiskers, that was heaven. He hadn’t worried too much about whether she would be passionate. He had a lot of experience in these matters and had found that once you lit their candle, most women would be off to the races by the time you stuck your cock in them. That’s what his little playtime had been about, when he had her stand naked and he had caressed her until she moaned with lust. That’s what the booze and weed had been about. And it had worked like a charm. Yeah, he had to slap her around a little bit to get her to cooperate, but that was par for the course. There had been girls he had had to do a lot worse to. This cunt was getting off easy, even though she probably didn’t think so.

  She was still asleep. He had worried a little about whether the ropes would hold until the morning, but then he realized that she was so tired she would fall off to sleep long before she would be able to work herself free. Eventually, any knot will give way if you struggled long enough. But all his experience in the woods, and later breaking in whores, had refined his knot tying abilities and his were among the best.

  She had her face turned towards him. The silver duct tape covered her mouth down to her chin. He had put on three strips overlaying each other so the whole mouth was covered. All three would have to be worked loose before she could open her mouth. And then she would have to try and get the rubber ball out. When he had seen the display at the convenience store last night he had known that it was just the right size for his purposes.

  The rest of her fac
e looked peaceful, as if she didn’t have a concern in the world.

  He slipped out of bed and stretched. It was the first time he had awoken in a room bigger than 12 by 10 in twelve years. After he had taken a piss, he decided to make coffee. There was a battery operated clock on the wall above the stove and it said that it was a little after 11 o’clock. 5 hours sleep was good enough for him. He didn’t know how much the cunt needed so he would let her sleep as long as possible. She would be driving all night. He preferred to have her drive since she actually had a license and the registration was in her name. There was always the possibility that if they got stopped by the cops they would not know that he had kidnapped her yet and would let them go. If not, he was on the other side of the car and would have the chance to slip out and book or quickly come around and take care of the cop.

  He quietly pulled down the percolator from the cabinet. He filled it at the small sink next to the stove and then filled the basket with coffee. “Ahhhhhh,” he thought. The smell of fresh coffee was wonderful. There were so many everyday things that he had not experienced in more than a decade he could not even begin to count them. One thing for sure was that he would never take any of them for granted again.

  He put the coffee on the stove and then recovered his skivvies. Prison issue. They always bleached the hell out of them. He put them on and began his exercise routine. Squats, pushups, leg thrusts, leg raises, sit ups, more pushups, more squats, more sit ups. It was a routine he had perfected many years ago. He did them every morning. They only way to deal with real time in prison, and real time was anything over a couple of years, was to have routines that brought you little bits of pleasure. And working out he always felt energized and ready for the day.