The Couriers

by Jurgen von Stuka

  Casi ran a gloved finger across the detailed map of the southern part of the city and marked with a yellow pen the rendezvous drop off and pick up points, making sure that her partner agreed and then nodded to Loki.

  “You show me the alternate pick-up point, Hon,” Casi said, nearly whispering although they were the only ones in the small sleeping quarters and the drivers were both inside the rest area getting coffee and sandwiches.

  “Here,” said Loki quickly, pinpointing the intersection of two secondary streets close to the highlighted X that indicated where they were to stop the courier’s sedan.

  “Perfect,” said Casi. “This will be your last operation as number two. I told Carlton you are ready to run your own ops now, so let’s do this one right.”

  Over the last five months, this duo successfully carried out three robberies without a hitch, netting the group nearly eight hundred thousand Euros worth of jewelry, bonds and cash. They were known in the group as smart, fast and prone to magician-like tactics that had them vanishing literally before the eyes of their victims and any witnesses.

  Some of this skill was not accidental. Casi grew up with a Gypsy father who sexually abused on a daily basis and used her as he thought was fit. Having an attractive daughter to order about and service his personal needs was part of his life style and when she vanished one day, using illusion techniques he taught her, he was not surprised and wasted little time trying to find her. He quickly abducted and caged another, slightly older accomplice who he trained with cruelty and his horse whip to do exactly what he demanded.

  Casi never looked back, but soon discovered that there was something missing from her life and in time, she drifted not quite accidentally into the hands of Carlton and The System. She relished the danger, the S&M tactics and the rewards that the sometimes vicious training program in the old house brought her. She moved quickly up the ladder to the point where she ran her own ops and trained Loki as her number two. They lived together, slept, ate and tormented each other as partners in crime, eventually sharing their allocated portion of the robberies they carried out. Part of their life style was that they would switch roles in their BDSM games and while both would say they were dominant, Casi usually emerged on top while her partner was more often kept chained and gagged in one of their heavy steel cages in the basement. Loki acknowledged this, but on occasion, she would swing into her topping role, tie Casi to a rafter, spread her partner’s feet and flog her without mercy. Carlton and Cask, as well as the top players in The System knew this pair well and the weals and scars they often saw on both women testified to their rough play.

  “Casi using a cane on your pussy?” Carlton would ask, noting the raised swellings on Loki’s thighs.

  “None of your fuckin’ business, Carl,” Loki responded. “I can arrange for you to get your skinny ass tuned up as well if you want,” she’d say.

  So the brunette duo made their mark in the gang and no one intervened or teased them beyond the occasional remarks. They were good at what they did, so they were left to it.

  This operation today was more or less normal for them, using a hit and escape program that never failed and, of course, had minimal chance of failure because they were in an area that had not been hit in the past. The site where they would take out the slow-moving courier car was, while not remote, was not known for much traffic or witnesses.

  At 1104 that morning, the courier car, a modest, totally unobtrusive, three year old Ford Focus, stopped for the signal light at an intersection two kilometers from its destination. The signal light controlled traffic from all four directions, but was primarily for pedestrians going to the nearby park. They were on schedule and had made perfect time from the city center bank to this point. They were now nearly at their destination when a bicycle ridden by a young woman showing a great deal of bare thigh above her black, knee high boots crossed the intersection and slammed into the driver’s side of the Ford. The rider was neatly catapulted onto the Ford’s hood and lay there, immobile, a thin trickle of blood seeping out from under her full face helmet and pooling on the car’s hood. Shocked and counter to their standing instructions, both the courier and the driver exited the car to see if the girl was badly hurt; driver on the left, courier on the right. Two black figures wearing knit caps, dark sun glasses and black backpacks appeared out of nowhere and took the courier’s bag from the back seat of the car so quickly that neither driver nor courier had time to react. In the time it took the traffic signal to change, they were gone over the low wall along the sidewalk and into the park. Traffic behind the courier Ford slowly piled up and the stunned driver and courier, seeking to follow the robbers, abandoned the bicycle rider who also instantly disappeared.

  Police were summoned and, as usual, no one seemed to know where any of the three women went.

  Chapter Eleven

  Marianne

  She was wet. No, she was flooded below, and the river of fluids running down the inside of her excellent, shapely thighs was caused by the mixture of fear, anticipation and other emotions regarding things to come.

  “Hurt her. By The Book,” Salmon said quietly to the blond, Amazonian woman with the stereotyped Dom get-up of studded corset, fishnet hose, stiletto boots and handcuffs dangling from her wide, studded belt. “She wants it, but take care not to harm her. Not yet,” The Graf added. “I don’t want to have to fix your mistakes once again, Karine. Understand?”

  “Of course, Master Graf,” the blond said, looking him directly in the eyes and nodding so enthusiastically that her long ponytail did flips behind her head as she idly twirled a well-used cat-o-nine-tails. “I can tell that she has these masochistic desires. When we first hung her up, she was whimpering and struggling, but fluid was running down the inside of her thighs.”

  “Yes. Well. Be careful nevertheless. She has good potential if that’s the case. Improve her demeanor, train her carefully for the next few days and try not to let her come too often,” the man in the elegant black suit said as he turned and left the modern dungeon, buried deep below the line of expensive new houses that faced the Rhine River.

  Marianne, the young woman with the body of an exotic danger and the face of a runway model hung limply inside the steel body cage and did indeed seem to be enjoying her captivity. If forcibly questioned, (as she often was in this place), about whether she looked forward to what might happen to her here, she readily admitted to being very excited about the prospect of spending an indeterminate amount of time at the hands of these sadistic and creative people in this particular cellar. When not gagged or screaming, she had said that suffering erotic abuse provided by this gang of incredibly good-looking and obviously cruel Mistresses was something she had always craved, but never found until now.

  Karine, the Amazon, with her extreme pageboy haircut and incongruous ponytail, 50 percent body tattoos, heavily ringed nipples on large breasts and the five-inch stiletto heeled boots that came up to mid thigh, was anxious to oblige. She wore an unusual leather corset that cinched her already narrow waist and accented her breasts because the corset had a back brace connected to two wide leather straps that went over her shoulders and pulled her arms back, forcing an exaggerated forward thrust of her abundant chest works.

  Marianne would have happily told Karine to hurry up and get things started, but the expanding leather and metal gag pear in her mouth made any comments impossible. And yes, she was wet...no, she was flooded below, and the river of fluids running down the inside of her excellent, shapely thighs was caused by the mixture of fear, anticipation and other emotions regarding things to come.

  Marianne was a true volunteer, a confirmed and lightly experienced bottom and more than a bit masochistic. A real, sure-fire submissive. When no tormentor was available, Marianne did things to herself that would have made an ordinary woman cry and run in terror. She was the kind of woman sadists often spent their whole life searching for and never finding. For most of her life, Marianne remained under cover because she feared expo
sure and loss of her high status in the business community. Even the cautious initial contact with the dungeon master, Nickolas, had been exciting for her. She found them...or at least that as what she thought...through her social networking which, unknown to her, also logged and analyzed her internet searches because she used their search engine, thinking it was obscure enough to not be anything other than legitimate. The trap was subtle. She got a few messages and then texts started coming, each a bit more suggestive and explicit than the last, each calibrated to interest her without frightening her. For example, one text read:

  “We can help you find what you are looking for. It will be totally private. No one will know what we already know. There is no obligation. We will meet you anywhere you desire, in public or in private. We can provide fist class references if you like, some of whom will shock you because they are much closer to you and your interest than you would ever expect. Respond only when you are ready for the thrill and experience of your lifetime...the rest of it.”

  ---Sheila

  After an introduction and further correspondence by text and email, it became clear that Sheila was in fact Nicholas, a man, which was what Marianne sought. She had no aversion to the idea of being kept as a slave to a woman, but she preferred men and she made this clear to them early in their contacts.

  They finally met outside an elegant nearby restaurant. He picked her up at her upscale flat in a private car and they were driven to the restaurant. Before they left the car and entered the restaurant, Nicholas told her to take off her fur coat and put her hands behind her back. Marianne complied, shivering in anticipation and from the cold as well. Nicholas quickly bound her wrists with a short length of leather thong and then used a longer piece to bind her elbows close together as well. Unaccustomed to having her arms so completely secured, something she had never been able to accomplish in private, Marianne initially resisted, but Nicholas told her to relax her tensed shoulders and then finished the job. He replaced the coat over her shoulders, tying the leather sash around her narrow waist and noting that with the low neckline of the dress she wore, the arm and writs restraint displayed her full, globular breasts quite nicely, her hard nipples stressing the thin fabric and adding graphic evidence to her state of excitement.

  “You have lovely tits,” he said as he guided her into the restaurant’s dimly lit foyer and took her directly to a table in the back where two white-tied waiters hovered.

  “Sit. Be quite,” Nicholas told her as the waiters looked on, eyes fixed on Marianne’s out thrust breasts and then checking her smoky stockings and legs as the already elevated hem of her dress slid upwards and she was, of course, unable to pull it down. When seated, she was at once uncomfortable with her bound arms between her back and the back of the chair. Nicholas said something she couldn’t hear to one of the waiters who rushed off and returned with a leather upholstered hassock, which he placed next to Marianne’s chair. In a smoothly coordinated move that attracted no attention from other diners, the three men expertly moved the bound woman from the chair to the hassock. Now she sat with her knees pressed modestly together, her skirt up around top of her thighs and her dark panty hose with the bikini tops well displayed.

  “The lady is not dining today,” Nicholas said to the hovering duo. “But I think a bottle of Le Grand Dame might be appropriate.”

  “At once,” said the first waiter as the second hurried off to return with a chilled bottle, an ice bucket stand and two baccarat crystal glasses.

  The wine was poured with appropriate style and flare and the hovering waiters discretely fled to the other side of the darkened, candlelit dining room while Nicholas offered Marianne a sip of champagne.

  “We have some details to work out, but I want to make sure that you understand that our arrangement is irrevocable once you sign and pay the requisite initial tuition.” Nicholas told her.

  “I understand,” she said quickly.

  “And you have read The Book and understand all of the terms?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you agree with them?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “I must also tell you that although your medical exams and records showed you in to be perfect health, should anything unexpected happen to you, you will become the apparent unfortunate victim of an accident, probably a vehicle crash or a ferryboat incident and all traces of our relationship will vanish.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Your social network connection is going to shut down in about a week. This is not easy to do because those who run it know how valuable every single member is in terms of marketing and advertising data, but we have the ability and the know how to allow you to exit gracefully. Some of your contacts will be distressed and we will deal with anything they may do or say that appears unusual.”

  “You can do that?” Marianne asked, shifting slightly in her seat and wondering idly if she was making the right decisions.

  “We can do that. The myth of privacy is how they get people like you to reveal, as you did, their most intimate secrets,” Nicholas continued.

  “I clicked on all the right buttons for privacy. What did you find?” she asked, a light trickle of fear running around in her gut.

  “Ah, Marianne,” he said quietly, finishing his glass of wine. “There is no privacy on the internet. You are a smart young woman. You know that. When you post your interests as “erotica, light BDSM, submission,” and then try to mask those words with the ridiculous privacy controls, you know very well that someone is going to find out. Right?”

  “No. I didn’t know. It was like going to a church and talking to a priest. A way to relieve this thing that I have had all my life. I did not know that anyone else would find out.”

  “Well, that’s what we do. And we found you. Which is why you are here.”

  “Oh,” was all she could say. But in her head and in the rest of her now captive body, she felt the strangeness, the electricity that seemed to start in her bowels and circulate around in the entire region below her waist, sharp little twinges of pain, extending upward, making her breasts hurt as they thrust out from her chest, making her nipples ache and her head feel light and her sight turn slowly fuzzy, like when she had too much wine.

  They knew.

  She knew they knew.

  She knew that deep inside, she had always hoped, secretly, that someone would come and take her. Make her their prisoner. Keep her in some hidden place, bind her, collar her, chain her, keep her for their own purposes. Hurt her, but not damage or harm her.

  Now it was happening and that light-headed feeling was complicated by another feeling, the one that stayed in her sex, in her breasts and even on her dry lips. This was really happening to her and she had to actually will herself to breath as Nicholas leaned forward, his arm brushing against her extended left breast, as he reached for the chilled champagne bottle and found that one of the waiters was already there ahead of him, seizing the bottle and pulling it out of the ice, wrapping the white towel around it and pouring another half full flute of the sparkling white wine for him.

  “Now, one more thing,” he whispered as he brought his arm back, intentionally brushing hard against her rigid nipple as it pressed against the stretched fabric of her dress, so close to the edge of the material, above and outside the half cup of her demi-bra. “One more thing and then you will be gagged and remain silent for the rest of the evening,” Nicholas said.

  “Yes?” she murmured quietly, not taking her eyes off of him, meeting his uncommitting, neutral gaze with a look that was something between fear and longing, a look that no one would have been able to accurately decode. It was a look that he knew though. He had seen it before in women who, appearing haughty and arrogant, would curse him to his face, even slap him or simply turn away and ignore him. Behind that arrogance though, he knew there was the sub’s patent need for absolute control, for dominance. He was certain, after all of his time with the organization, that at least half of the women in his worl
d were silently waiting, hovering between the lonely nights in bed with nothing but their vibrator or a plastic penal substitute and an overt one night stand with a stranger who might, if she played him right, stuff a gag into her mouth, tie her hands to the head board of the bed and then tease her for hours before plunging his rigid, throbbing dick into her soaking pussy.

  “I will tell you now that although you indicated that you prefer certain types of punishment, such as strict bondage with rope, there is absolutely no guarantee that any of these techniques will be used. In short, we will decide what to do to you, how often, how extreme and where. You will be ours to do with as we see fit. There will be things that you do not want to do and you will do them. For example,” he added drawing close to her left ear and speaking almost in a whisper, “we will fuck your ass until you want to beg us to stop, but you will be totally gagged and unable to beg. We will hurt you with devices that you have never even imagined. You will be chained in a darkened cell or cage until you want to scream, but no one would hear you and as, always, you will be gagged anyway.”

  He stopped and watched her carefully. She remained sitting upright on the leather hassock, small tears catching her eye liner and beginning to stream down her cheeks.

  “Nod if you understand and agree,” he said.

  She nodded slowly.

  “If you don’t do as you are told, as quickly as we expect you to respond, we will hurt you. You will be punished for even the smallest of infractions and sometimes you will wonder when you’re back in your cage or your cell, chained immobile to the walls and floor, what it was that you did that merited such unpleasant discipline. Almost everything we do to you will be unpleasant. We may even hurt you if you do exactly as you are instructed.”

  Marianne was breathing heavily, her chest heaved, her nipples swelled even more and were hard and thrusting out under her dress. Her pulse raced as her captor recited the continuing litany of what was to come.