by Jessica Rael
Lauren attached a single chain to each of the four rings on either side of the slave’s vagina, and then produced four of the much thicker chains, attaching two to each of the large rings that pierced the blonde’s vaginal mound. The mass of chains lay in a pile between the slave’s spread legs, while others dangled like tinsel from her breasts.
The fairies threw back the red sheets and one of them lifted a shapely foot on the end of a slender leg and pressed it gently to Stephanie’s lips. The young blonde thought back to her storybooks. They’d said nothing much about such things but she was pretty sure fairy feet were like sugar candy, not horrid at all, and the neat toes did look like cherry drops with their red nail polish. Stephanie felt the toes pressing against her lips, sliding in to touch her teeth, and she surrendered her mouth as she had done so many times before. She slowly parted her lips, the toes wriggled inside, and she sucked them. They didn’t taste of sugar candy, they were salty, but the initial taste soon faded to a bland nothing as the slave sucked on them. The fairy lent forward, grabbing a nipple chain from each breast, then pulled as she forced her small foot deeper into Stephanie’s mouth. The blonde slave slipped further away into her dizzy place, it was for the best, she knew there was so much more to come. Stephanie didn’t know about good fairies, but bad ones were such copycats; if one did something then they all had to.
One by one the slave sucked the toes on each of the eight feet in the large bed, and she could hear Lauren laughing as she did. Then the woman stood up, obviously bored with the show, and pushed the naked, bound slave into the mass of wriggling legs on the bed. Stephanie fell into the olive-skinned limbs and they began to wrap around her. She felt like a doomed fish that had wandered into the waving, stinging fronds of a lurking sea anemone. The lithe thighs gripped her tight as the fairies pulled the silk sheets over their prey, plunging her into a squirming darkness. She felt their hands reaching for her chains, and felt the slight tugging on her nipples, labia and clitoris as they found them. Stephanie’s night in the deep dark pool of the bad fairies was just beginning.
Night was very dark beneath the waves and Stephanie couldn’t see the stars anymore. Like all naughty girls who swam in the deep, dark pools late at night she had been seized by a monster, caught in its hundreds of arms and legs as they squirmed and writhed like a pit of snakes. Hands scuttled down her body; reminding her of the fiddler crabs she’d seen on a Caribbean holiday, clutching at the mass of chains that dangled from her. Like a mermaid, fronds of bright green seaweed waving in the breeze while the crabs ran over her beautiful body, pinching and snipping. One of the chains on her left breast pulled taught, followed by the chains attached the rings on the left side of her labia, Stephanie wriggled on her belly like a snake trying to answer the summons from the cruel fairy, but it was difficult, her arms were bound to her side and her legs held uselessly wide apart.
The tugging continued and the blonde slithered to its call, aware of the muted sounds of distant voices, giggling and laughing above the surface of the scarlet ocean she swam in. The chains pulled her between the strong legs of one of the fairies, guiding her face toward the tiny mouth between the soft thighs. Stephanie couldn’t see the genitals as she slid inexorably to them, but she could smell the musky perfume, then she felt the moist lips kiss her own. The mermaid slid her tongue into the dripping hole, licking the wetness. The hands released her chain and grasped the handle at the back of her head, pulling her deep into the slit. The rustling of silk sheets accompanied the fairy’s knees as she pulled them up to her chest so she could place her little feet on the mermaid’s shoulders, then the fairy pulled on the handle with all her might, wriggling her pelvis, driving the blonde girl’s face deep into her smooth, wet pussy.
Luckily the fairy was just too small to drown Stephanie, the blonde’s mouth was buried in wet flesh, jaw muscles aching as she pushed her tongue deep into the hole, working it round and round, but her nose was clear, pressed to the little clitoris. The fairy danced a special fairy dance on the mermaid’s face, forcing Stephanie to drink fairy juice, and the blonde was not thirsty at all, but the fairy had so much juice, and the mermaid had no choice but to drink it.
It was a long night. Stephanie had been forced to put her tongue into so many of the wet little mouths, shutting her eyes, even though it was dark, and pretending she was kissing a handsome prince in the backseat of his car. Big, wet, slobbering kisses, as the prince dribbled all down her chin. She was bound and helpless, and the spider web of chains controlled her completely, which was the mad princesses idea all along. The fairies held Stephanie’s head in place with their strong thighs while they used her mouth, only releasing her when they finished their dirty little games. Stephanie lay in the darkness, in the depths of the fairy pool, where the tiny feet and wriggling toes swam restlessly all night like shoals of fish. One by one the fairies had fallen asleep, leaving the mermaid in the gloom where the strange taste of fairy juice lingered in her mouth. Stephanie was frightened; they were changing her, working fairy magic. She licked her lips, savoring the strange taste, and finding it… pleasant.
The Delivery
A passing servant had entered the room where Juana and another slave were mopping the floors, shuffling awkwardly, naked and barefoot, moving their leg braces with care along the expensive tiles. Both girls showing exemplary concentration as they held the mop handles awkwardly between hands that were manacled at the wrists. The woman pointed at Juana.
‘You. Curator’s office, now.’ Then she promptly turned and left. Juana made her way carefully towards the service elevator. The servant made no effort to check if the slave had obeyed her orders; that was so unlikely it didn’t warrant further consideration. The small box elevator transported slaves from the curator subterranean levels to the main house, or vice versa. There were chains, rings and metal cuffs attached to the walls. A young woman had been attached to the back wall, spread-eagled upside down, she looked like she’d been pasted there as a decoration, which could quite possibly have been the case. Or she may have simply been forgotten, while whoever put her there attended to more urgent matters, like taking a piss perhaps. If so then the girl was lucky, Juana mused. It was not unknown for staff to use the girls for such purposes if they were any distance from the nearest bathroom, or sometimes just because they got a kick out of it. The girl’s soft brown eyes looked through Juana as if she wasn’t there; the unfocused daze was a trick the mind used to shut out the humiliation. If you’re not looking at them, then they’re not looking at you. A trick borrowed from childhood, Juana used it too – often.
The doors slid open and Juana turned from the human décor and began to shuffle out of the elevator when two sets of strong hands reached in and grabbed her, pulling her out with a swift, practiced motion. The porters were both black women in their mid-thirties, and they handled their human cargo like meat packers running gutted carcasses through the packing plant. They oozed rehearsed competence and blasé indifference to the product. One dragged over a two-wheeled trolley, the like of which Juana had seen before at her father’s factory, the men using them to move and stack boxes. The other porter bent down, unclipped Juana’s ankle bar and bound her legs tightly together. The young Latina was then strapped in a standing position to the trolley and wheeled away.
The porters left her in a corner for more than an hour, people came and went while the girl waited, and eventually she was taken to a workbench and lifted off the trolley. One of the black girls dropped a large case onto the bench, white plastic, like a picnic cooler, but much larger. As big as it was it didn’t look large enough to hold even a small person, so when Juana suddenly realized they meant to put her in it she panicked, suddenly jerking upright and pulling at her bonds. A woman stepped from nowhere and pressed a rubber oxygen mask over the struggling girl’s nose and mouth, except that the acrid chemical gas hissing from it was not oxygen. The porters held her shoulders as her vision blurred, the room span and faded in
to darkness. Had her mind not been losing its struggle to remain awake Juana may have been embarrassed. Did she really think she was the first girl to have panicked at being packaged? Maybe they all did…
The gas evidently had a very temporary effect; Juana’s brain struggled back to consciousness before they had even closed the lid of the box. It took a few seconds for the throbbing pain to hit, and then she felt it in her twisted joints. The slave had been bent double, laying on her back in the deep cooler, her torso had been strapped to the base, a thick Velcro belt around her waist, one across her chest just above her breasts, and another low across her lap. Her arms were pinned to her sides by her usual wrist cuffs, but the porters had grabbed her legs while she was out, folding her in two so that her feet were now crossed at the ankles behind her head. Juana was fit but she was no gymnast and her hips screamed at her to move and release the pressure, but she was held fast. The porters then produced a clear plastic hose, Y-shaped at one end. They clamped the single end in the slave’s mouth, then ran the tube down her belly, inserting one Y-piece into her vagina, the other into her anus. Juana looked like a self-contained waste recycler, and she understood this was just marketing, fancy packaging, all part of the service, like having her bent this way so her sexual organs were on display as soon as the box was opened. No slave would ever evacuate her bowels or bladder if they were wired into her mouth, and it would never travel that far anyway, but she didn’t doubt the device must look amusing. As always, her tormentors’ pleasure seemed to rise in direct proportion to her own discomfort and humiliation.
The lid of the box slammed shut and the girl was engulfed in darkness. She felt the box being lifted, then dimly heard the vehicle’s engine and felt the sensation of movement. She was being delivered.
Dakota drove the metallic-gray BMW an inconspicuous distance behind the delivery van, Banquette de Plata written in large colorful letters on its side. In the high-class neighborhood of La Jolla, the Beverly Hills of San Diego, quality catering firms flourished, running back and forth as they supplied the appetites of exclusive dinner parties, the up-market equivalent of the pizza delivery guy. The van pulled a right and cruised to a stop outside a large, red tile roofed one story house, and Amber could see the arc of light thrown up by the patio lights at the back of the property, while reflections from the surface of the pool shimmered against the trunks of the palms and bougainvillea trees.
Dakota pulled their car into the adjoining road, making sure they had an uninterrupted view, and within seconds of the lieutenant pulling on the parking brake a small red car swung round the curve and parked a short distance from the van. The interior light went on and Amber could just make out a woman struggling to fold a large map, looking around in puzzlement. The redhead glanced enquiringly at Dakota.
‘Megan,’ the lieutenant said simply. ‘Always set a potential target in crossfire. Our girls in the van are armed, so if the scum arrive as planned we have three-way crossfire if we need it.’ Dakota sighed admiringly as she watched Megan wrestling to fold the map. ‘Always nice to watch a real artist at work.’ Amber smiled, thinking about poor little Megan all lost and alone. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my… Bang. Bang. Bang. Better run mister wizard, the yellow brick road’s got some icky red stains on it now.
The lieutenant’s radio crackled into life. ‘State Girl, target sighted, over.’
Dakota lifted her handset to respond. ‘ETA?’
‘Five minutes to your location, they just passed us, black Merc entering residential area.’
‘You catch that little-girl-lost?’
‘Right in the pitcher’s mitt, all set here.’ Megan’s voice was calm and focused, as always.
‘Outfield, this is State Girl, any sign of law enforcement?’
‘Negative, State Girl, you have a clear stage.’
Dakota lifted the Glock 18C she was carrying from its holster, screwed in the silencer and checked the clip, then repeated the operation, sans silencer, with the Uzi. Behind the back seat a Fabrique Nationale P90 was locked into its holding clips on the car’s floor panel. Grade one military hardware, emergencies only. Amber wondered if that was where the depleted uranium shells were loaded. She checked her own hardware, as instructed. Dakota had told her that things were much harder once, women’s fashion and serious weaponry a difficult fit. But now? Modern clubbing fashions were a cinch. Amber wore black jeans and army boots, black T-shirt and a long coat, light enough for the hot nights of southern California, good enough to conceal the Uzi pistol.
The black Merc cruised round the corner, pulling up opposite the truck. The occupants, four men, sat and watched as the two women unloaded a large, vacuum cooler food container from the back of the van, and closed the doors. As they placed the heavy box onto a delivery cart the men stepped out of the car, three white guys, one black, jeans, T-shirts, light jackets, bulges at the top left corner pocket.
Amber watched, waiting for instructions. The men spotted the little red car almost immediately, its brightly lit interior and flustered single female occupant. Two wandered over while their companions started towards the van, and the next thing Amber knew Megan was winding up the car’s windows and shouting fearfully at the two men in her best panicked voice. The other two gatecrashers turned to look.
‘Now.’ Dakota issued the simple command as she opened the car door and jumped out. Amber followed, coat flapping in the soft breeze she followed the lieutenant. The men were streetwise, spotting the trap almost instantly, but they hesitated. One of the delivery women had pulled a pistol, so had the frightened female with the map, now two angels in black coats were advancing purposefully from their rear. Dakota pulled out the Glock in that same fluid motion Amber had seen before and punched a silent bullet into the nearest guy’s thigh. His partner moved for his gun, but Dakota’s pistol never stopped moving and now pointed straight at his head. The Glock could spit a shell straight through his skull before he could twitch a finger, and he knew it. With her other hand Dakota removed the Uzi from her belt. Amber did the same, excitement coursing through her veins. Oh yes, this was real fucking power. These jerk-offs had been bullying and scaring people like her all their lives, now look at them, all wide-eyed and scared, and shitting their fucking pants. Dakota had left no room for confusion about who was in charge.
‘You guys hungry? Be a lot easier to phone out for Chinese, wouldn’t it?’
‘There ain’t no food in those boxes, lady.’ The guy’s hand, which had paused midway to his breast pocket, twitched but stayed where it was.
‘Really? Well that’s going to ruin the party a little. So why don’t you tell me what you think is in there?’
‘Big for drugs, unless you’re planning on supplying the whole west coast.’ He watched Dakota’s reaction, and saw none. ‘Hey, if we fucking knew then we wouldn’t be taking a little look now, would we, whore?’
Megan appeared, camera in one hand, Uzi in other. The camera’s flash fired as she took pictures of the four men.
‘What the fuck?’ the guys arm jerked for his pocket, Dakota’s Glock spat hot metal, burning a hole through the middle of his hand. The bullet passed through and lodged in his breastbone, he went down hard, cracking his skull on the road. She raised the Uzi.
‘Get the fuck off our turf. Now.’
The two uninjured thugs dragged their companions back to the car, spitting threats as they went. Dakota never took her eyes off them, even as she spoke to Amber beside her.
‘Okay, listen up. They’re running on the universal law of live to fight another day, but they’ll be back as soon as they patch up the fallen and get some bigger hardware, which means later tonight.’ Dakota motioned to Megan and the woman handed Amber the digital camera and a business card. ‘Take the beamer, go to that address, ask for Shadow Stalker, she’ll know who you are. Tell her I need the clean up by midnight. If she asks about costs tell her double fee if she gets it done in t
he timeframe. Wait at her place, she’ll be expecting you to, then report back to the hacienda. Drive fast when you’re on the freeway, but walk back to the car. Got that? Walk back to the car.’
‘Okay,’ confirmed the redhead as she turned and made her way to the BMW, every muscle screaming to be let off the leash. Walk, she repeated to herself.
Light flooded into the case as the lid was lifted, and the bizarrely bound girl blinked as her eyes adjusted, seeing several blurred faces gazing down at her. Three women, seemingly in their mid-fifties, wearing too much make-up smiled down at Juana. Not smiles of happiness, or even concern for her condition, something else… anticipation, maybe.
One reached in and unhooked the recycling tubes, allowing them to fall to the bottom of the box, while another released the girl’s wrist and ankle clips from the bolts on the packing case, then they dragged the stiff-limbed Latina from her temporary sarcophagi, watching as she swayed uneasily on numb legs.
Mariana De Vesille glided though the kitchen door like a large, attentive bird of prey, hovering above the slave as though she were a sparrow caught in the open. Although Mariana was the same age as her friends she had weathered life’s storms a little better and could pass for an attractive thirty-five, her light-brown hair brushing tanned shoulders was one of the paradoxical aspects of her looks and personality that Mariana enjoyed. She held the slightly curly, blonde-streaked hair in place with pink grips, and she sported two plaits at the front in garish teenage beads, little drops of soft pastel glass that swayed in rhythm with her body’s movements, graceful, like a dancer. All a stunning contrast with the woman’s almost black eyes, which stared out from the pretty face in arrogant contempt. Her soft lips could also switch to a frighteningly cruel sneer that would often catch the unwary. Mariana was a delicately crafted, expensive exercise in contradiction, a living enigma. The hostess looked at the girl.
