ABDUCTED BY PSYCHO BABES!
by Lance Tremulous
Copyright 2011 Lance Tremulous
Smashwords Edition
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This book is a work of fiction. All persons and events herein depicted are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is also fictional.
Too bad, huh?
I tell you people, it’s all true.
There I was, just finishing the last mile of my daily 9-mile run, and these two chicks buzz past me. Super athletic types, with those thighs that are practically cylindrical with muscle, and the asses that bulge straight back, even as they flex with the running strides. Asses in matching gray material, thin and expansive, so you can see every muscle working.
They dash past me at one hell of a clip, and then when they’re waaaaay down this residential street I’m running on, I see them slow down and hop into a car. I only know it’s a convertible because the leap into it, rather than open any doors. Then they squeal around and come zooming back up the street my way. I see their faces as they come, laughing, the blond at the wheel and the brunette sipping out of a water bottle, the two of them laughing away. They’re in a shiny, late-model red Mustang.
I hear that unique sound of a sports car engine when it slows down in low gear, and when they’re right abreast of me. I slow down because it looks like they’re going to ask for directions or something. But instead, the brunette in the front passenger seat stands up and I SHIT YOU NOT – a lasso comes flying through the air toward me.
Yeah, you read that right. A lasso. I just stand there, confused, and it tightens around my upper arms, just like in the movies – well, more like the cartoons.
The Mustang moves a couple of feet and the rope jerks me along, tightening a lot more as it goes.
“Better start running, boy!” the blond driver calls, and the Mustang starts moving again.
I shout, “Hey, what the fuck, ladies!” and they move along a little faster, forcing me to run.
In a minute I’m running down the street, about two yards behind the car, barely keeping on my feet, practically sprinting.
The brunette is kneeling in the passenger seat, facing backwards, bracing herself against the seatback.
“You’ve got one chance to throw yourself in the back seat,” she says. “As soon as we slow down, catch up and leap in over the side. If you don’t we’ll drag you, and you won’t enjoy it.”
Well, what could I do but comply? They slowed down, and I leapt over the side. It wasn’t an easy landing. I went in sort of sideways, torqueing my back and coming down harder on one shoulder than I’d planned.
The car sped up.
“So – uh – do I know you two?” I said.
“The name Janet Mayhew ring a bell?” the blond called, sounding very bitter.
“Not at all,” I said. “Should it?” I was getting worried. These women were starting to sound crazy.
“Let me refresh your memory,” the brunette said. As she spoke, she lashed her end of the rope around and around the back of her seat, leaving me with no slack at all. “Two nights ago? At her parents’ house? The screen porch in back?”
“No fucking idea what you’re talking about. My name’s Steve Lesterson. I live three streets away on—”
The brunette leaned into the back seat and slapped me across the face with unbelievable force. “If you’re not man enough to admit what you did, then just shut the fuck up.”
So I shut up. I had no idea what was going on, who these women thought I was, or what they thought I’d done.
The blonde at the wheel said, “Call her.” The brunette took a phone out of the glove compartment, dialed and spoke quietly for only a few seconds.
Ten minutes later, we pulled into a garage. The door closed behind us and both women jumped out and started hauling on the rope. I had no choice but to propel myself in the direction they were pulling me, rather than simply get bashed against every possible surface on the way.
I was dragged through a door into the kitchen of a ranch house, then pretty much pushed down the basement stairs, with the brunette holding the rope from the top step, watching and laughing as I banged back and forth, trying to control my fall with my arms pinned to my body.
Part of the basement clearly doubled as a spare bedroom; there was a made bed but no decorations or books or anything else that suggested someone lived here full time.