Two for Torture
by John Savage and Susan Strict
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 John Savage and Susan Strict
Published by Strict Publishing International
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Chapter I
Walking into a Trap
Denise walked into the trap without the slightest hint that her life was about to radically change forever and much for the worse.
Her parents’ home was overlooking the broad Pacific Ocean in an area called Palos Verdes, not far from Los Angeles. Quite a magnificent home it was, reflecting the wealth of the Carter family. It boasted a huge swimming pool, games room, a tennis court, and even an authentic Irish pub in the basement, purchased in the Emerald Isle and brought to America piece by piece. That sunny afternoon, it also had two uninvited visitors.
Denise Carter was a student at UCLA, an intelligent, easy-going, always cheerful twenty-year-old girl with long golden hair, a cute turned up nose, and wide innocent blue eyes. She also had a drop-dead gorgeous body that would have looked right at home in the centerfold of a man’s magazine.
The two men were waiting when she walked through the doorway into the massive front room of the estate. She was grabbed from each side, forced to the floor and held there before she could react to this sudden attack. While one man sat on her legs to hold her down, the other was pulling her arms behind her back and locking handcuffs upon her wrists.
Having recovered from the initial shock, Denise began shouting for help, calling to Clara, their maid and the only person she knew was in the house. The men did not seem to mind that she was shouting loudly. They knew that at that moment, Carla was securely bound and gagged and locked in a closet. They locked another pair of handcuffs on Denise’s ankles and stood up.
Denise immediately rolled away and tried to get to her feet, still calling out for help. Looking up, she saw her assailants for the first time. Both were so similar as to seem twins. Both were dressed in dark slacks with gray, uniform-type shirts they filled out nicely. Both were in their late twenties and had the usual California tans. They carried themselves with the slight stiffness of those used to pumping iron and possessing overly developed muscles. And both had the same emotionless, hard look of professionals doing their job.
“What the hell do you want?” she said with a trembling voice. “Who the hell are you?”
They did not answer. Instead one picked up a bag from the floor and placed it on a side table. From it he took a foam ball about six inches across and a roll of duct tape. As he approached Denise, she backed away until she came up against the wall. He knelt down beside her and held out the foam ball. “Open your mouth,” he told her.
The fear was obvious in her eyes. Behind her she was tugging at the handcuffs. Shaking her head, she clamped her mouth closed.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he told her calmly. “You open your mouth and let me gag you, or I hurt you until you decide to cooperate. Simple, no?”
She shook her head sharply and turned her face away from him.
The pain was a surprise. He might have slapped her face to illustrate his point, but instead he delivered a hard, open-handed blow to the side of her left breast. The thin blouse and bra underneath made little difference for the force of the blow was considerable. She cried out and jerked away. But the blow left her breast stinging.
Still shaking her head, she said, “No, no! Don’t do this! What do you want?”
“You,” was his simple reply. Then he clamped a big hand on her chin and turned her face towards his. “Open wide,” he ordered.
The hand that was squeezing her jaw was strong and hurting her. With eyes wide in fear, she opened her mouth a little. The foam ball was compressed by his other hand and shoved into her mouth. He forced it all in. “Close your mouth,” he told her.
Denise wanted to push that ball out and was about to. He sensed her feeling and told her simply, “Do as I say or I will hurt you much more than a little slap.” He demonstrated by grabbed the slapped breast in one hand and squeezing hard.
Denise was no virgin and familiar with most common sexual activities. Her breasts had been squeezed many times, but none as hard or painfully as this. She squealed, but when he dug his fingers into her flesh, she clamped her mouth shut. He then began wrapping the strong, wide, silver tape around her head. Soon there was a lot of tape covering from the bottom of her nose down to her chin. The windings of tape were applied tightly, making it was most unlikely that she could ever get them off without hands to help.
The two of them picked her up and stood her on her feet. The handcuffs on her ankles had been clicked on tightly, and when she stood her ankles expanded to make the steel cut in. As she stood there with breasts heaving, she feared they were going to take off that short-sleeved blouse. Many wild ideas were rushing through her mind. What did they want? Was this a kidnapping for ransom? Were they sexual predators who would rape her and do heaven only knew what else to her? Or was this all some kind of sick joke one of her friends was playing on her?
“I am going to take the handcuffs off your wrists. Don’t try anything funny.”
What was this? Why handcuff her then take them off?
What she did not see was the other man taking lengths of white cotton clothesline out of the bag and standing behind her. When the handcuffs were off, she was about to bring her hands around in front of her body when they were grabbed. Rope was being wrapped round them before she knew it. Tightly and with many winding, the rope crushed her wrists together. He wrapped some of the end of the rope around the main windings and knotted it solidly.
Suddenly she felt her arms grabbed and pulled together up by her elbows. Rope was going around just above the elbows, as tightly as that around her wrists. Denise tried to jerk her arms away but was held firmly in place. She could only stand there helplessly as she felt the ropes encircling her arms and crushing them together.
This could not be some kind of joke, she reasoned. The handcuffs, maybe. But this tying of her arms was hurting, and that was a bit much for just a joke. She felt herself going cold inside. This had to be something much more serious.
With her arms bound tightly behind her, one man picked her up and placed her sitting on the table. The other took off her shoes, while the first was picking up more rope.
Just go along with them, she told herself. This had to be kidnapping for ransom. What else could it be? These men did not seem to fit any pattern for sexual predators. They were too business-like, too professional in what they were doing. So all she had to do was cooperate. They would take her someplace, and then call her father. He would pay the ransom and she would be let go. No problem.
She hoped she was not kidding herself.
Since she was wearing a pair of tennis shorts that exposed ninety-five percent of her legs, it was easy for them to bind those legs together with ropes at the ankles and again above her knees. Looking down, she had to admit that they knew what they were doing. Those ropes were tight, cinched down, and knotted not once but several times. There would be no wiggling out of them like you saw on the television all the time.
For the first time, Denise was starting to really feel the helplessness. Her arms were very tightly pulled together behind her. That damned foam ball expanded to fill her mouth no matter how she tried to move her jaw, not that the tape let her move at all. And, perhaps more than anything else, she was aware of how vulnerable she was. These men could easily rip her clothes off and have her naked in seconds. That idea sent a shiver down her spine. She was used to being naked with a man. Hell, many men. She was a sexually active college student with a body most men would kill to get at. But the idea of being naked and helpless at the same time was new to her. New and more than a little bit frightening.
They rolled her over onto her stomach. What now? she asked herself. The answer was a short piece of rope connecting her ankles and wrists and pulled very tightly turned her bondage into a nice, tight, escape-proof hogtie. As she lay there, the palms of her hands pressed hard against the backs of her ankles, she began to feel a whole new level of helplessness. Almost all motion was now denied her. She could not do anything, nor say anything, and she was very uncomfortable.
For a while the just let her lie there. They were checking round to make sure they were not leaving anything behind. As she lay, Denise was a mixed bag of emotions. Fear, of course, and pain, some of that too, but there was something else. It was something she refused to acknowledge at first. Yet it was there, no matter whether or not she liked it. That feeling was a warmth in her loins. What the hell is this? she asked herself. I’m getting turned on! That’s impossible.
Of course it was not impossible, and she was actually responding in a very sexual manner to what was happening to her body. It was natural. Many women in the same position would have reacted in the same way. But she did not know that. She was experienced sexually, but not in the kinky arts. Straightforward sex, the missionary position, and “Was it good for you, too?” that was what she was used to. Getting wild was having oral sex! A good girl, properly brought up, did not even think perverted thoughts. So it Denise never did. She was a good girl.
As they picked her bound body up, one man was asking the other, “Do you suppose Brigitte has picked up the other one yet?”
“Maybe. They’re seven hours ahead of us in England.”
They carried her out to a van that was waiting at the side of the house. “Hank’s Plumbing” it proclaimed on the side, but there were no plumber’s tools inside, only a bare, metal floor that was most uncomfortable when they put her face down on it. They covered her with a tarp and drove off, taking the poor little rich girl off to an unknown and probably terrible fate.
Chapter II
Taken
“Hello, Simon.”
The greeting was unexpected. Simon Carter looked around the crowded London wine bar, expecting to see someone he knew. There was no one.
“Here.”
The voice came from a corner, and as Simon looked towards it, the woman stood up and glided towards him. He was sure he did not know her.
“I’m sorry…?” He held out his hand in greeting, wondering if she was perhaps one of his father’s clients he should have recognized immediately. He regretted ever coming to London to run the office here. His business skills, proficient as they were, seemed superfluous in this environment. Deals were not done on the basis of business skill or even on the ultimate profit that might be made. They were done at over-priced luncheons, or on the golf course, or at glittering social gatherings. The contract or the deal went to whoever’s social skills were most in demand, or so it seemed to Simon. And he hated it.
“We haven’t met.” The woman took his hand, but it was not the usual brief grasp or shake of the arm. She held it, with no more than the suggestion of a squeeze, her long fingers spread as if she were testing him; testing his reaction to her touch.
“I see. How do you know me?” At once Simon was businesslike, and his tone was a little sharp. She might be from the Press. He had had more than one run in with journalists, eager to dig up some dirt on one of his father’s less reputable deals. Simon had no knowledge of the details anyway, except that no one became as rich as his father without inheriting the money, winning a lottery, or stepping outside the lines of respectable business practice. He knew it was neither of the first two.
“We have mutual friends in LA,” the woman told him, still gripping his hand lightly. “My name is Brigitte. Brigitte Mitchell. I’m working in London now, the same as you are. I’ve been meaning to look you up.”
The explanation was vague. Simon ignored it for the moment, although made a mental note to ask her later which friends they had in common and why she had been meaning to look him up. Later! Why should there be a “later”? Perhaps it was something about the way her eyes sparkled as she looked at him, or the way she was still - yes, still! - holding on to his hand as if she could not bear to stop touching him. It was a little unusual, but then she was a little unusual. Nearly as tall as he was, her auburn hair cascaded about her shoulders in waves that seemed to flow and ripple when she spoke or moved her head. The shoulders were bare, not unusual in the stuffy summer heat of the City of London, although the dress she wore would have turned heads and raised eyebrows in any City office. The plunging neckline revealed far too much of her ample chest; the wide black belt emphasized her tight waistline and flaring hips; and below that far too much of her thighs to have been fashionable in an office job since the mini-skirt days of the 1960s. The boots, black, knee-length, and with sensible, solid heels rather than those ridiculously high-heeled fashion boots that might have gone with such an outfit, finished the whole effect to perfection.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m so sorry.” He felt himself blush, and cursed inwardly. He pulled his hand away from her.
She was smiling, her eyes fixed on his. You could lose yourself in those dark pools.
“It’s quite all right. You’re not so bad either.”
Was it his imagination, or did that brief downward glance of hers linger for a second on the front of his trousers? Surely not.
“You could buy me a drink.”
Oh. Of course. What would you like?” Never, he thought, had he been so flustered by a woman. His social skills might not be the greatest, but this was ridiculous.
* * * * *
“How long have you got for lunch?” she asked as they sat down at the little table in the corner with their drinks.
He shrugged. “I have nothing booked for the afternoon,” he told her. “I had some meetings, but they all cancelled. There’s no rush to go back to the office. It runs perfectly well without me.”
“Ah. So you’re all mine for the afternoon.”
He felt himself blushing again. Right at that moment, there was nothing he would have liked better than to spend the entire afternoon in the company of this remarkable woman. Even so, it was rather an unusual comment from a woman he had only just met.
They talked. About everything. Or, at least, he talked and she listened. She asked many questions, not about business, which was mostly confidential, but about him: his likes and dislikes; his interests and hobbies; his family. He asked about her, of course, but somehow, although she said a lot, she actually revealed very little about herself. He hardly noticed. Not then. It was so nice to be able to talk so freely to someone without needing to concentrate on trying to lead up to closing a deal or weighing up the business value of a deal someone else was trying to close. He had made very few friends since he had been in London, and although he had many, many social acquaintances, this was probably the first conversation he had had since he had been here in which neither side was trying to gain something. Except…
The way she looked at him. It was odd, but in his limited experience he was sure that such stunningly attractive women did not follow a man’s every movement with her eyes the way she did, unless…
Unless she also found him very attractive.
There it was. There was no other explanation. Love at first sight? Well, probably not. A deep attraction at first sight, and definitely a mutual attraction. They were talking like old friends, as if they had known each other for years.
She looked at her watch. “I have to be going back to my hotel. I need to make some calls.”
“Oh.” It hit him like a hammer blow. A deep sense of loss went through him. “So soon?”
She laughed. “We’ve been talking for three hours!”
She was right. The afternoon had nearly gone.
“Perhaps we could meet again,” he suggested hopefully. “Dinner? Tonight?” He already had dinner booked with a merchant banker. He could cancel it.
She looked as though she was considering it. “Well,” she said slowly, “We could. Although actually…”
“Yes?”
“Actually I do have a meeting later, but if we made it a really early dinner, say six o’clock?”
His hopes fell. It would be impossible for him to get back to his rented apartment and return to this part of London by six o’clock. To go as he was, hot, sticky, and thoroughly uncomfortable from a day in the August heat, would be such an anticlimax.
“I can’t get home and back by six. Perhaps tomorrow?”
“My hotel is ten minutes walk from here,” she informed him. “If there’s nothing else you need to go home for, you can take a shower there while I make my calls.”
It was as if she had read his mind. “That would be wonderful,” he agreed.
* * * * *
He was in the shower when she called him.
“I’m in the shower,” he called back, not hearing what she was saying over the sound of running water.
The door to the little bathroom opened. Surely she was not going to come in!
“I said I need to show you something,” she said loudly. “Wrap a towel around you. You can finish your shower afterwards.”
The bathroom door closed.
He did as she had told him, feeling more than a little self-conscious wearing only the towel when he cautiously opened the bathroom door and stepped out into her hotel room. There was no sign of her. He walked forward.
“Oh, there you are. Oh!”
She was naked. And her arms were around him and the towel had fallen to the floor almost before he knew what was happening. They were on the bed, Brigitte on top of him. He had no wish to stop her, and she was like a wild animal as she moaned and clutched and thrust and gyrated and, finally, gave a low scream and fell forwards onto him just as he too reached an orgasm.
He closed his eyes, exhausted, although it had been she who had expended most of the energy in their vigorous, passionate coupling. He was almost asleep in no more than a minute, comfortable with her warm body snuggled into his in the cool of the air-conditioned hotel room.
“Hey! What the hell…?”
“Perfect.”
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, pulling violently at the straps she had just tightened around his wrists.
“Got you, my love,” she said playfully, jumping off the bed and standing beside it, looking down at him.
“Don’t be silly,” he said weakly. “Undo these.”
“You can’t get out of them, can you?” she said. “Don’t worry. We’ll be undoing those wrists straps later, when the rest of my team arrive. They told me I’d never manage it on my own, but there you are: helpless.”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded desperately.
“Didn’t I explain? My boss wants you out of circulation for a while. He has some plans, I think, and you, Mr. Simon Carter, are an important part of them.”
“Just let me go,” he ordered.
She shook her head. “I can’t do that. Don’t think about shouting or making a lot of noise, will you? It would be such a pity to have to gag you. I like you, I really do. We can have such fun together, don’t you think?”
“Let me go,” he repeated.
“Now you’re becoming boring,” she told him. “It will be at least four hours before the team arrive, so there’s no need to anaesthetize you just yet - not unless you make too much noise. We just need something to do while we wait. I have just the thing.”
She rummaged in her suitcase on the shelf by the little bathroom, taking out one item after another and placing each one carefully on the table by the bed. Finally, she brought out a whip and flourished it happily.
“I knew I’d think of something to do,” she told him happily. “Should I gag you first?”
Chapter III
Transported Cargo
Denise wiggled, pulled and strained as hard as she could while the ropes defeated all efforts to remove them. As the drive went on, it became hot and stuffy under that tarp. She would have loved to push it aside to get fresh air, but the hogtie prevented that. She could only lie there, very uncomfortable, and hope the drive would not be a long one.
As she waited, she went over in her mind what her father had told her to do if she were ever kidnapped. In his profession and with his wealth, the kidnapping of family members for ransom was a very real possibility. She strained to remember, but all that came back to her was that she should cooperate and give them no reason to hurt her. Which did not help much as she had already decided that was the best plan anyway.
The trip went on and on. She was sweating under that tarp and wishing she could scream. The ropes dug in and that damned duct tape made her face itch! If her father could have seen her right then, he would have called her one unhappy camper. He liked coming across as a simple, rugged outdoor man, but in reality he was as shrewd and calculating a businessman as there ever was. The thoughts of her father were a comfort, however, for they made her glad that he was rich enough to pay any ransom they might demand. To help pass the time, she wondered how much she was worth? A million? Two million? Chicken feed to her father. She just hoped they would take the money and leave her someplace. She made a mental note to make it plain to them that she would not say a word to anyone about them. She would tell the police that she had been blindfolded from the start and could not describe anyone.
That would work - she hoped.
The van stopped and the engine was shut off. Finally! The floor under her rocked a little then was still. One of them had gotten out, she figured. Okay, come around, then open the door and get me out of this hotbox. Nothing happened.
Maybe they had both left the van. Maybe she was alone. Maybe, even, this was all there was to this kidnapping! She would be found and untied then free to go home. That did not make much sense, but, still, it might be that way things were. She began rolling from side to side, the only motion that hogtie allowed her, and making muffled sounds through the gag. Well, mostly through her nose actually.
Suddenly a pain jabbed her in the side. Someone had kicked the tarp and her under it. One of them was still there. Damn! She stopped her struggles before she was kicked again. Her side hurt and she was sure there would be a bruise.
The floor moved underneath her again and she heard the closing of a door. The one who had left had returned was the logical conclusion. She felt like crying. For a brief moment there, it had seemed that she was free, not of the ropes but of her captors. Voices came from the front. She strained to make out the words but heard only snatches here and there. There was “hamburger” and “coke” and “catsup.” Then it dawned on her: they were eating lunch! She really wanted to scream. Here she was, bound and suffering under that tarp and they were eating hamburgers, probably french fries too, and drinking colas. She was not too hungry but a cold, ice-filled cola sounded awfully good.
The van started again and they were off. She could hear traffic sounds, feel stops and starts, and then the smoother ride of a freeway. All sorts of irrelevant and strange thoughts filled her mind. What if they were to crash? She would be tossed around like a package back there. What would the paramedics say when they forced open the van and found a bound and gagged woman inside? Then she wondered if being hogtied was like being seatbelted in. She decided probably not since the seatbelts were designed to keep you from flying out of your seat. If they hit something, the ropes around her would not stop her from flying around.
All good things come to an end, they say, and so did that trip. There were a few final bumps and then the engine was off again. A moment later the tarp was tossed aside and she was blinking at the late afternoon sun coming through the open door. She was picked up like a suitcase by strong hands gripping the ropes around her wrists and ankles, and carried out of the van. There was not much to see from her head down position, just a concrete driveway and a brick fence a few yards off.
She could breathe better with that tarp off, but the way her body arched downward from being carried by the hands and feet was painful by itself. Fortunately the trip was much shorter this time. She was set down on a carpeted floor. All she could see at first was a couple of pairs of men’s shoes. Then a voice from off to the side said, “Untie her,” and Denise’s heart leapt for joy. She felt hands on the ropes joining her wrists and ankles and almost giggled at the thought of being free again. Her legs unfolded reluctantly, almost as if they had gotten used to being doubled up. The hands shifted to the ropes on her legs. She was rolled onto her back so they could unwind the ropes from her legs more easily. In a minute her legs were free. The hands lifted her to her feet.
Great! she silently told them. Now get these damned ropes off my arms! And that damned gag, too!
But the hands did not touch those ropes. Nor did they attack the tape wrapped around her head. Instead the retreated into the background, leaving her standing there.
Denise looked around. She was in what looked like a business office. There were desks, chairs, filing cabinets and the usual business stuff. Sitting in a manager’s chair before her was a man. He sat there, just looking at her, his fingertips touching in a steeple shape before him. She stared back.
She did not recognize the man. He was young, maybe later twenties, dressed in a dark blue business suit with paste pink shirt, and wearing a slightly amused smile on his face. His dark brown hair was cut short, almost military short. His eyes were a rich blue, more brilliant even than Denise’s. There was just a hint of beard on his chain, what the Americans call “five o’clock shadow.” A healthy California tan made him look athletic. Had she not been so mad, she would have rated him as “handsome.”
Unhappy with the way this man just looked at her, Denise stomped her foot on the carpet and made rude noises through her nose. His faint smile grew a little. The idea that he was laughing at her made Denise want to rush over and kick him in the balls. But he was sitting down and that would be a very difficult kick to accomplish. Instead she made more noises and shook her head.
His smile opened fully up. “You want the gag out?” he asked with a maddeningly casual voice.
“Harrruph!” she said. He took it to mean yes.
“I will have to tell you that if the gag is taken out now, it will only be put back soon when you’re taken out of here. You still want it out?”
She nodded affirmatively.
“Take it out for the young lady,” he said. “I think she wants to tell us something.” There was no mistaking his amusement at her predicament.
The last wrapping of the tape were the hardest to get off because it stuck to her long, golden hair, and the foam ball was dripping with saliva when pulled from her mouth. “Ugh! That was terrible!” were the first words she uttered.
Then Denise turned her attention to the man still sitting calmly before her. “What do you mean kidnapping me! My father’s…” She started to say rich and powerful, but then changed it to, “an important person. He’ll be after you!”
The smile widened a bit, with the effect of increasing her anger. “I’m sure he’ll try. But he will have no idea who to go after, will he?”
“He’ll hire detectives! He’ll… He’ll…” she sputtered to a halt. Truth was, she had no idea what her father would do. Time to change tack. “He has money. He’ll pay your ransom.”
“I don’t want ransom.”
That stopped her cold in her tracks. “No ransom?” was all she could get out.
“No ransom.”
“Then why the hell did you kidnap me?!”
“All will be explained to you in good time.” He rose from the chair to approach her. “For now, all you need to know is that you are my captive and will remain such indefinitely.”
Standing directly in front of her, his intense blue eyes dominated her perception of him. He was a head taller and as he looked down upon her, she felt his strong presence almost like you can feel two magnets pulling at each other over a distance. He was close enough for her to smell his aftershave; it reminded her of limes.
Her anger was drawn out of her by the sheer force of this man’s personality. All she could manage was a weak, “Please let me go.”
Again that maddening smile. “No. You are mine.”
“But why me? I don’t even know you.”
“Ah, but you have heard of my father. And it is he who ordered me to kidnap you.” He looked her over from bare feet to the golden hair. “But now that I’ve seen you, I’m glad he did. You are really quite a dish!”
“I am not a dish!” she protested. When he did not reply to that, she added, “Who the hell is your father, anyway? And why did he want me kidnapped?”
“That,” he told her, “is a long story. As to who he is, well, does the name Malcolm Foxworthy ring a bell?”
Denise had heard that name before, and not under pleasant circumstances. It was the name of one of her father’s business enemies. She recalled her father mentioning his name in anger more than once. Suddenly something clicked in her mind. “Your father is very rich, is he not?”
“Sure, just like your father.”
“And they are enemies?”
“Right again.”
“So I’m here, being treated like a common criminal, or worse an animal, because of some business deal? To bring pressure on Dad? Some crap like that?”
“Not quite so simple,” he told her. His hand had strayed near the buttons on her blouse. Now he took one in his hands and unbuttoned it. Denise jerked away. “No!” she ordered.
The man simply nodded to the two who had kidnapped her and who were standing behind her. In a second her arms were being held tightly in their grip.
“No is not a word that I like to hear,” he told her. Then he calmly proceeded to unbutton the next one down. “My name, by the way, is James Foxworthy.” He reached for the next button, ignoring her trying to twist her body away from his hands. “As to why you’re here, well, that is a long story. My father hates your father. It goes back a long way, but business rivalries are nothing new. No, there is a stronger motivation behind this action. My father firmly believes that your father ordered his wife, my mother, murdered.”
Denise could not reply; she was in shock.
James Foxworthy went on. “He wants to hurt your father very much. But since your mother is already dead… He will take it out on you. And your brother, Simon, who, I believe, is in jolly old England right now?”
Finally finding her voice, she protested, “But my father would never kill anyone! He’s a shrewd businessman and maybe a little cutthroat at times, but kill someone? Never!”
“Perhaps you do not know your father as much as you think you do. Does he take you into his confidence on ever business deal? No, I thought not. You’re his cute little girl, running around playing at being a college student and spending his money. You really don’t know all the things he does, do you?”
Again Denise was stunned. Yet she had to admit, to herself if no one else, that he was right. Dad never really told her much about business. She was content to know he loved her and happy to spend his money. This James was right about that.
“Why would Dad want your mother killed?” she finally asked.
“A business deal where my father really put the shaft to your father. Cost him millions. The murder was in retaliation. The brake lines on her car were cut. She went off a cliff.” His face was hard as he said that. Denise could feel the hatred radiating out from this man.
Anger not withstanding, he reached for the last button on the blouse, the one just above her tennis shorts. He unbuttoned it and pulled open the blouse. The bra she wore was more of a decoration than a support garment. It was lacy, thin and rather small. He hooked one finger over the middle of it and jerked. She was pulled towards him until the material ripped, and then the flimsy bra was in his hand.
The pair of breasts revealed were everything her bulging blouse had promised, and then some. Large, firm and very shapely, as only a young girl can be.
He reached out for one breast. Denise whined in fear and tried to pull away, but was held in place. Had her hands been free, she would have slapped his face, the traditional female response to an unwanted touch. But they were tightly bound behind her and she could only stand still as he gently stroked the smooth skin.
One stroke, that was all. Then the smile returned to his face. “Plenty of time for that later. Right now I want to get you out of the country. Boys, prepare her for shipment!”
Denise did not like that order. She had enough of being shipped around like so much cargo. “Please,” she said, “if you will untie me, I promise I’ll go with you quietly.”
“You will go with me quietly anyway. Put that other gag in her mouth. Shut this bitch up!’
Her mouth was forced open and a rubber ball shoved in. This time it was a leather strap that held it in place, not tape. It forced her jaw wide open and pushed her tongue down, making speech impossible. She tried to fight their putting it in, but was no match for two strong men.
While they fetched some more rope, she stood there, angry and hurt and wondering about this strange man. James Foxworthy was so charming one second, then hateful the next. He seemed fascinated by her, especially her breasts, but then all men where. Yet, his hand upon her breast had been so gentle…
She was tossed onto a desk and her legs bound again with rope. Then her ankles were tied up to her wrists and again she was hogtied. And hating it. Her arms were hurting when she was just standing there, in the hogtie with that added stress on them, it was much worse.
A wooden crate was brought in and set before her. The wood was thick and very solid looking. There were holes drilled in the wood and a big “Agricultural Machinery” stenciled on the side. She was lifted off the table and lowered into the crate. The crate was only slightly larger than her hogtied body so the fit was almost perfect. She was whining and her hands fluttering uselessly as the lid was closed and two padlocks applied to seal the crate. She was then carried out to a truck waiting by a loading dock. Her crate joined a couple dozen more in the truck, and then some were shifted so that hers was hidden in the back. Enough room was left around it for the air holes to function, but that was all.
Denise Carter was then driven across the border into old Mexico.
Chapter IV
Dominatrixes
“Don’t even think about it,” Brigitte said warningly.
“I wasn’t…” Simon Carter looked up at her in panic. It was, he had just discovered while she had been in the bathroom, quite impossible to free himself from the wrist restraints.
“You were trying to escape,” she told him accusingly.
“I wasn’t,” he repeated, knowing perfectly well that it was pointless to deny it when that was exactly what she saw him trying to do.
“You’ll have to be punished,” she said.
The words sounded ridiculous, like something said by one of those dominatrixes some men would pay to visit. Was that the right word? Simon wondered. “Dominatrixes”? It was something like that. He had often wondered what it might be like to play those sorts of games. The problem now was that this was for real.
Or was it?
“Look,” he tried to sound firm, “This is all a bit silly. It was fun when it started, and you were very frightening and realistic. I like you very much. Could you please let me go now. I’m hungry. I’ll take you to dinner. All right?”
It was not entirely the truth. The whip she had wielded earlier had hurt. There were red welts across the front of his thighs and across his chest, and when she had put the gag into his mouth to stifle the noise he was making, he was terrified. Even so, it had to be her idea of a game. Perhaps she had some weird idea that all men liked this sort of thing.
She was smiling at him. That was a good start. The moment she loosened the wrist straps holding him to the bed, he would grab his clothes and be out of that room as fast as his legs would carry him.
“I told you,” she informed him, the amused smile still on her face, “We’ll be waiting for my team to arrive.”
“What team?” he demanded. “What are you talking about? You’re mad. Let me go right now.”
He pulled at the straps holding his wrists, in a determined effort to break free. Brigitte stood back and watched him until he gave up, exhausted and out of breath.
“It’s never a good idea,” Brigitte pointed out, “To call a woman ‘mad’ when you’re tied to the bed naked and she has a whip in her hand.”
He glared at her.
“It’s even less of a good idea,” she continued, “When she has already demonstrated that she loves hurting you.” She raised the whip.
“Don’t!”
She paused. “Why?” she asked.
“Just… Just stop a minute.” He cringed, expecting the whip to hit him again. “Why are you doing this?”
“I told you,” she said. “I’m simply amusing myself while we wait for the rest of my team to turn up.”
He shook his head. “What do you mean, ‘your team’? You’re not making any sense. This is crazy. Who are you?”
She sighed, lowered the whip and sat on the edge of the bed next to him. “You’re not very bright,” she told him. “As I told you, I’m Brigitte Mitchell. We have mutual friends in LA, and those friends wanted me to come and see you.”
“Who?” he demanded. “And what has ‘coming to see me’ got to do with tying me to the bed and whipping me? And who is this ‘team’ you keep talking about?”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door of the hotel room. Brigitte turned and listened. Simon was tempted to call for help, but something stopped him. If anyone had asked him, he would not have been able to tell them why he did not shout as loudly as he could that a madwoman was holding him prisoner in that room. It was not that it would have been highly embarrassing to be found naked and tied to the bed. It was not that Brigitte would quite probably have struck him considerably harder with the whip and any other instrument of torment she happened to have with her. It was something else. Something that, for Simon, was indefinable right at that moment.
“Are you there, Brigitte?”
There was a look of relief on Brigitte’s face. She strode to the door and opened it, without even bothering to put on her clothes.
Six women came in. Six. There was hardly enough space for all of them in the room. Not one of them seemed surprised at Brigitte’s nakedness, nor at the naked man tied to the bed.
“I told you I could get him,” Brigitte said proudly. “It wasn’t difficult.”
“We still have to take him to…”
“Quiet, Maggie!” Brigitte interrupted. “He doesn’t know yet. And he’s not bright enough to work it out.”
Maggie shrugged. “It doesn’t make much difference, does it? He’ll know soon enough. Anyway, there’s not much he can do about it, by the look of him. I see you’ve been enjoying yourself.”
Simon flinched as Maggie reached down and ran her fingernail down one of the long, red welts on his right thigh.
“You haven’t worked out how we’re going to get him up there?” Maggie continued, tweaking his cock and making him yelp in surprise as much as in discomfort.
Brigitte shook her head. “I wasn’t expecting you so early,” she pointed out. “I said midnight. It can’t be seven yet.”
Maggie looked at her watch. “Half past eight,” she declared, and then added a little sarcastically, “It’s amazing how time flies when you’re enjoying yourself.”
While Maggie and Brigitte were talking, the others had crowded round the bed and were looking down at Simon.
“You haven’t tied his ankles,” a tall, red-haired girl said critically. “I always tie their ankles to the lower corners of the bed. It makes them so much more vulnerable and defenseless.”
One of the others nodded. “Yes,” she agreed. “He can probably free himself if he has long enough alone. It wouldn’t take much for him to get his teeth to those straps on his wrists. If you tied his ankles too, then he’d never manage it.”
She was clearly going to continue, but Brigitte broke off her conversation with Maggie. “I hope you’re not criticizing me?” she said, with a look that could have left no doubt in anyone’s mind that criticizing her would be somewhat dangerous. Simon noted that the girl who had mentioned tying ankles actually stepped back away from Brigitte.
“I’m sorry,” she said, clearly flustered, “I only meant…”
“Well, don’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps I’ll have you tied to the bed and see how easily you can get away while I whip you.”
“This isn’t getting us closer to what we need to do with him,” Maggie insisted. “The boss won’t be too pleased if he’s not where he’s supposed to be by tomorrow morning.”
“I do have some ideas,” said Brigitte. “There’s no hurry. I’ve worked it out. I just need to resolve a few minor issues.”
“What the hell is going on here?” demanded Simon.
“Shut up!” several of the girls told him simultaneously. He shut up.
At Maggie’s suggestion, Brigitte dressed and the two of them left the room to go down to the hotel lounge and discuss the details of what they needed to do over a drink. The other girls were left in the room with Simon.
“Can we…?” asked the red-haired girl as Brigitte was leaving.
“Whatever you want,” said Brigitte, with a slightly wistful glance in Simon’s direction. “Just don’t damage him. The boss won’t want him damaged. Not yet.”
“Excellent,” declared the girl. To Simon’s surprised, she leapt onto the bed and sat astride his chest. He saw immediately that she wore nothing under her short skirt.
While the other four girls looked on, she straddled his face. “Lick,” she demanded. “And make it good. When I’ve finished with you, the others can have you. Don’t even think about using your teeth. One wrong move from you, my lad, and I promise you that whatever Brigitte said about not damaging you, you won’t have any balls left by the time she comes back. Got it?”
Simon got it. He licked.
Chapter V
A Reason for Captivity
The truck passed easily through the border crossing. All the efforts to stop smuggling were directed to the flow from Mexico to the US, not the other way, so they were simply waved through. The fact that the truck had a company name printed on the side, one that often shipped goods below the border and back, did not hurt either. Once through Tijuana, the truck followed local roads south until it connected with Mexico-1 highway, the only major road through all of Baja California. Mile after mile of rugged mountain scenery passed by with occasional views out over the Pacific Ocean. Night came and the truck continued on, save for occasional stops for gas. Eventually the road turned inland and crossed the Baja to the Sea of Cortez where it turned south again. Just below a large bay called Bahia Concepcion, the truck turned off the highway and onto a single lane dirt road. Eastward that road wound until it came to a bluff overlooking the Sea of Cortez. On the bluff was a house, built in the Mexican style, with whitewashed walls, red tile roofs and courtyards. The house was surrounded by miles of desolate desert, a landscape as barren and inhospitable to life as the surface of the moon.
Hard to see in the darkness, a long, graded landing strip stretched out towards the sea, with a single private aircraft sitting by the house.
Headlights revealed a massive wooden gate. The horn sounded and a minute later the gate swung open to allow the truck into the main courtyard. The motor coughed to a halt and sat there, making pinging noises as it cooled off in the night air.
With the help of the man who had opened the gate, the driver and his assistant rearranged the crates inside to expose the special one, and pulled it out to the tailgate. It was carried into the house and set on the tiled floor. There it rested for a few minutes before James Foxworthy came into the room.
“Did you have any trouble?” he asked of the driver.
“No, señor. They did not look inside. Manuel could have had a naked woman sitting on his lap and they would not have noticed!” He laughed.
With a glance to the crate, James asked, “You know what is in there?”
Manuel and Juan exchanged glances. “No, señor. It is not my business to know.”
“Good. Have a bite to eat in the kitchen and then you can get the rest of your cargo on to Cabo San Lucas.”
They left, but were replaced by two of the servants working for the Foxworthys in their Mexican hacienda. Without a word, the men picked up the crate and carried it through the main house to one of the auxiliary buildings across a courtyard. There they set it down. “Open it,” James told them as he tossed a couple keys onto the wooden surface of the crate.
The padlocks were unlocked and the lid opened. Inside, exactly as he had left her many hours before, was Denise Carter, still bound in a tight hogtie and gagged. At his command, they lifted her bodily out of the crate and set her apparently lifeless body on a table. Then they left, taking the crate with them.
She had been a beautiful and rebellious woman in San Diego, but was now a ragged, exhausted, limp bundle. He carefully unbuckled the gag strap and pulled the ball from her mouth. It took a little effort to pop it free, since her jaw seemed to be clamped upon it. Then he began untying her from the hogtie. As the ropes came off, she moaned and stirred a bit, but she did not seem to fully wake up. Her legs unfolded stiffly. As the ropes came off them and off her arms, there were deep red indentations left behind. He did note that her hands were a dark color and cold. The thought occurred to him that perhaps that bondage had been a little too severe for the amount of time she was left in it. He hoped that there was no permanent damage done. It would be a shame if she could no longer use her hands, but the idea did not really bother him too much. He had a good idea of what was coming up for the sexy young woman, and a few hours in tight bondage would be one of the lesser punishments.
Her hands were quickly returning to a normal color, so he gave them no further thought. When all the ropes were off and set aside, he pulled her blouse off. Those lovely breasts came into view, and he sighed. They were so damned beautiful! They just cried out to be squeezed, sucked on, and even whipped. He smiled at that thought. Yes, he would whip them. And as the pain was reflected on her innocent face, he would laugh.
A little brandy poured into a glass and put up to her lips revived her. “Where… What…?” Then she looked up into his eyes, blinked a few times, and said, “You’re a bastard!”
“No, not actually,” he said casually, “my parents were married when I was born. At least they told me there were.”
“You could have killed me,” she went on, recovering faster now. “I could hardly breathe in that damned box! And it was hot. I am covered with dried sweat. Damn but I feel icky. And my hands! They’re still numb and all tingly. Those ropes were so tight that I couldn’t feel my hands most of the time.”
He simply smiled at her ranting.
“Why the hell did you do that to me?”
“Just think of it as a part of your punishment,” he told her. “Just the beginning, actually.”
Denise was shocked to hear that. When she had been bound and taken to James Foxworthy, it had been a discomfort and annoyance. But that trip she just finished had been a torture! And here he was promising more?!
It was only then that she realized she was clad only in a pair of tennis shorts. “You having fun looking at my breasts?” she said as sarcastically as she could.
“Actually, yes. They are beautiful.”
She snorted derisively. “So what happens now? You rip off my shorts and screw me on this table?”
“Hmm… Good idea. But no, I have other plans for you.”
“And what may those be?”
“You are going to be kept as a prisoner here. You will be tortured. I will supervise that, along with the video recording of the tortures. Those videos will then be sent to your father for him to enjoy.”
Her insides went cold at what he said. Not only because of the pain he was promising her, but also because she could imagine how bad those videos would make her father feel. He might be a ruthless businessman, but she knew he loved her very much.
“He will do everything he can to stop you,” she said, but with a noticeable lack of conviction.
“I’m sure he will. But there will be nothing he can do. Each week he will be sent a video disk containing scenes of your latest torture. And,” James smiled wickedly at the next sentence, “he will also see video of your brother, Simon, being tortured. Isn’t that nice? Both of you suffering and all because of him! Poetic justice, no? He can learn what it is like to have loved ones suffering because of his actions.”
“That is evil! You can’t do that!” she protested.
“We can and will,” he told her. “A team has already taken your brother in England. His torture has already started. Of course, you could say that yours has, too; that little trip down here was not too pleasant, I’m sure. But that won’t count, because it was not recorded properly.”
Denise had swung her legs around so she was sitting on the edge of the table. She shook her hands to try to get rid of the pins and needles feeling.
“I’m tired,” she told him. “And hungry. Could I please have something to eat? And a shower? Then I would like to go to bed.”
She thought she was being very reasonable in her requests; no demands for release, no threats or curses.
“I think that could be arranged,” he answered, and her hopes picked up. “But first we’ll have to make sure that you don’t do something you will regret.”
From a side table, James picked up a pair of handcuffs and stood there with them hanging from one finger as an invitation.
“No! Please! I won’t try anything. Don’t handcuff me.”
“Silly girl. These will be a pleasure after what you just went through.”
Denise grimaced at the memory of those long hours in the heat and darkness and pain. He was right, of course. These metal bracelets would not be much compared to that hogtie. But she still hated the idea of her being helpless in any way.
“I can call for someone to help hold you down,” he pointed out reasonable. “That will probably be more unpleasant than if you cooperate.”
Again he was right, and again she hated him for it. But she meekly slipped off the table and took the two steps up to him. She put her hands out in front of her, and then was surprised when he placed the handcuffs on them. She had expected that he would make her wear them behind her back. She lightly jerked them a couple time to show him that they were locked, and then lowered her hands. All through this procedure, she was trying very hard to ignore the fact that she was topless. She knew that he was very much aware of that fact, but by not attempting to cover up, she was winning some kind of points in this game. Or she thought she was.
Grabbing the link joining her cuffs in one hand, he led her from the room and back to the main house. As he expected, the two deliverymen were gone, already on the road south. He sat her down in a chair in a large and very modern kitchen. A Mexican woman came in, glanced to the topless, handcuffed girl, and, without showing any surprise at all, asked, “Do you wish me to feed her, Señor?”
“Yes, that would be nice. Denise, do you like your Mexican food hot?”
She was taken aback by the question. For a man who was treating her so cruelly, it did not seem right that he would be concerned about her taste in food. “A little hot is okay,” she said.
“American style, Carmen. If you whip up some machaca con huevos, I’ll have a plate too.”
James sat down across the table from Denise, smiling at her all the time. She lowered her handcuffed wrists until they were below table level. That exposed her breasts quite nicely, but she was, for some strange reason, ashamed of the handcuffs. Maybe it was simply an association of handcuffs with criminals.
The machaca con huevos was excellent, shredded beef mixed in with scrambled eggs, onions and spices, covered with salsa. She was given milk to drink because she asked for it. James had a Dos Equis with his.