Preamble — a delivery.
The six foot, 210 pound guard dragged the captive blonde across the room. "Take your hands off of me, you goon." She yelled as she raked a heel down the shin of her assailant. He manhandled her towards the small dark room that was to be her home for the next weeks. "Hey you great lunk, be careful with the merchandise," her kidnapper admonished. "We don't want this one bruised."
Chapter 1 : He Ain't A Heavy ... He's My Bother
Just listen to that, will you? That's the sort of thing I have to put up with all the time and I'm telling you, it ain't fair.
The fucking captives feel they've got free reign to take a pop at you for the slightest thing and the snatch kings think that anyone who's not in the field is a waste of space. Oh, yeah, and Doctor Evil or whatever smart arse is running the show always knows where to look to pass out the blame if anything goes wrong. Like I say, it ain't fair.
Goons, thugs, cohorts, henchmen (what is a hench anyways?), heavies, that's what they call us. We don't get the respect that we deserve, I reckon. We don't get any respect at all. No respect, just swearing. I think it's about time to put in a good word for us.
Hey, it's not like just anyone can do this. I'm telling you some of the guys would go out of their mind if they had to do this job for a day. What the suits upstairs don't realise is that if we weren't doing this, their lives would be a whole lot harder.
Take me for a start. I didn't just walk in from the street to do this. I had to learn my trade, same as anyone else. And I had to work my way up. I've got twenty young ladies back here, prime meat, real assets. Even I know that means about $15 to $25 million depending on the markets. You can't take care of a pile like that until you've learned a thing or to.
Let me tell you. Our name-calling, shin raking friend for a start. First, the suits bring her in without any warning and, of course, no paperwork. Well these things happen. But ... if I ain't got the papers from them, then I'm going to have to write them up and that means I got to get my information from somewhere and I'm sure I can rely on her to let me know the details can't I? I mean she's going to be real co-operative after what she's been through isn't she? See what I mean?
Well anyway they turn up, with her kicking and struggling over a shoulder. They drop her down and its, "OK — pen her for now, we'll be back for her later."
Lucky I've got a spare cell — that's not always the case most week-ends coz we're pretty busy these days — and I sit her down in there. I check out her ropes — sometimes the stuff that's put on in the field is a bit slapdash but hey, they work under pressure, I know that. Still this time they've done an OK job on fixing her wrists and ankles. I've got no information on who or what she is. From the way she looks, I guess she's just some corporate secretary that they've grabbed to get at her boss or something — white shirt, black skirt, chain store clothes, nothing special. So I dump her down in Cell 17, leave Alicia, a colleague of mine, in charge and let our guest stew while I go clean up the groove she's put in my shin.
Anyway. Ten minutes later I come back to find the stupid bitch out of her cell with a knife at Alicia's throat as she's backing out of the cell block. At which point, I stop giving the girl the benefit of the doubt and deal her a quick chop to the back of the head that takes her out and sends the knife spinning across the room. My colleague is sufficiently pissed to make sure she does a real good job at making sure that little miss shin-raker stays put this time. As a result she's hog-tied on the floor of her cell with a mouthful of panties, her elbows cinched together and a serious headache. When our friends, the suits, come back to collect her, they accuse us of playing with their toys! Turns out she's some private eye that had been getting in their way and the knife was a folding piece she had hidden in the waist band of her skirt.
Now of course, this is all our fault isn't it? It's always down to us. Blame the goons. Never mind that our friendly pick up team didn't:-
(1) Frisk her properly, cause they knew she was likely to be smart, or
(2) Strip her to make sure she wasn't hiding anything, or
(3) Tell us what she was so we'd have a clue to keep an eye on her, or
(4) Tie and gag her so she couldn't pull a stunt like that.
So that's the sort of thing I get upset by. Still, thanks to the fact that this "goon" has served his term and knows how to drop a knife wielding lady with one chop we're all in the clear. Any thanks? Nope. You guessed it, not from the suits anyways.
Alicia? Now that's another matter. She was really grateful for being extricated from her unfortunate position — she'd gone in to the cell to do a regular check and the smart cunt had jumped her. Anyway Alicia was real keen that the rest of the team shouldn't get to find out what a dork she'd been, so she's been showing me just how grateful she is in one of the spare cells during one of the quiet times this evening.
What an interesting set of talents that girl has. There's always some benefits. Tee hee.
Chapter 2: Oh, Won't You Stay? Just A Little Bit Longer?
Then, if there's no emergencies, the other problem is the boredom. I'll let you in to a secret. Why do you think that in the movies you only get to see Dr Evil's terrifying lair at the end when the 'hero' breaks in to blow it up?
I'll tell you why. For the rest of the time there is nothing going on. Nothing! Let's talk about tonight's shift.
I come on at 22:00. Tania, the outgoing guard, gives me her clipboard and together we check the cells against the list. In the first one is our heiress. Her ransom is not due for a week so she will be here at least that long. Current thinking is she's going to be returned so she's on what we call the "dark routine" with either a blindfold or masked guards. She's keeping quiet and she has done since she came in. Then there's two other cells with girls on their way to auction. Stripped naked, shackled to the walls and ball-gagged - they don't give too much trouble. Then there's two "casuals" — girls that have been picked up during other operations without previous research — they're being held here until we can work out what we've got and what we're going to do with them. Casuals are always held in the tightest security — the risk's highest when you don't know what you're dealing with.
Anyway that gives me five guests to be signed for. Tania and I have a flirty chat and she goes off duty leaving me with the five girls and a clip board.
Sure I've got a bank of video monitors but they don't play MTV, sports or re-runs of Harmony Videos, just shots of our five friends. Since they ain't moving around much there's not much fun to be had there. They're cute enough I guess but I'm getting jaded. I need something more than a naked piece of arse in shackles on a TV screen to turn my wick up, these days.
Just about the only action is feeding and watering the guests at around 2:00 a.m. We keep moving the times around to make sure they stay disorientated. It gives us a change too. I can't be bothered to mask up so we keep the heiress blindfolded for that too. She ain't too keen on trying to eat that way but I don't think she'll be complaining to the hotel management about that.
With this five there's not even an opportunity to play. The heiress is behaving herself and if we're giving her back she only gets touched if she's acting up. Auction lots can't be messed around with and casuals are off-limits until they've been assessed. Maybe the rules make sense but it don't leave me much chance of fun. No sign of Alicia or any of the other girls on guard duty either - shame we could have played truncheon hide and seek. So nothing to do except make sure the files are up to date.
There's a phone on my desk. It doesn't ring. What do you expect? It's three in the morning - anyone with any sense is in their bed and we don't expect any new admissions until at least 6 o'clock.
The time drags by. Four o'clock and the guests are all asleep as far as the video screens show. Every so often one of them will turn in her sleep, pull against her chains or whatever and wake herself up for a few moments. It usually only takes a day or so for them to learn that it ain't no good making a fuss, so they just lie there quiet. I sometimes wonder what they think about but, hey, I should worry about them? At least they're getting some sleep.
That reminds me — five o'clock and I grab some coffee, black and strong. I need it that way — there's still another three hours of this shift and there isn't anything going on here to keep me awake.
It's cold. Why do they always make these cell blocks underground? (Well, yeah, all right, I know it's harder for the guests to get out that way but what about looking after the guards? The walls are always hi-tech which means steel or concrete and that means cold. It's worse still if you get involved with some mastermind that's got the whole mountain eyrie idea. Then you end up with dripping stone walls — even worse. Why can't we have a bit of carpet at least? A radiator wouldn't go amiss, either.
Even 6 o'clock comes and goes without any action. At 7 o'clock they trip the intruder alarm for a drill, which means I have to break out a semi-automatic from the weapons cupboard and dowse all the lights in the cells. That gets the guests going and I have to put up with half an hour of gagged grunts and whimpers. I look at the semi-automatic — it's in a real state. Of course the field guys all get their designer weapons Heckler—who knows what and Kalashni-thingummies but we have to make do with whatever's been left in the rack. This one looks as if it was last cleaned after the dust up in the Falklands. I give it a good clean before sticking it back in the rack. I might pick it up again next time.
At 8 o'clock, Jack my relief turns up, I hand the clipboard over to him, we check the cells again, give the girls a toilet break and then I get off.
There, exciting wasn't it? No sudden explosions, no dramatic entry by a passing hero, no mass break-outs. Quiet and dull. And while I'm sitting here playing minder, the glory boys are out on the road, having fun and Doctor Evil or whoever is either sleeping off yesterday's excesses or busily planning his next scheme.
Is this any life?
Chapter 3 : I'm Just A Soul Whose Intentions Are Good...
So, is it any better on the road? Well yes, and no. Take the follow up to miss shin-raker. Like I said, she'd been getting in the way of another project. So with her bagged up in the cells my good friends (ha, ha!) in field operations were able to get on with their job, having told me to make sure she doesn't get out of her ropes again. As if!
Only of course they're well into the operation when they realise they're going to need a baby sitter. Then it's, "Oh, Harry can you help us out?" and "Hey, you've been wanting to do some field ops haven't you?" I've worked with this lot enough to know that they're looking for 210 pounds of muscle rather than anything else but still, it gets me out of the cell block for a day, so it's OK with me.
I turn up at the venue. It's a big house in woodlands in the north east corner of Cheshire. It's rural but still only 20 minutes drive from the centre of Manchester. The grounds are big. Neighbours won't hear anything and folk around here stay behind their own spiked fences and remote control gates unless they're invited in. Inside, as usual with this lot, it's a complete shambles. Furniture upended, drawers turned out, remains of a meal, plates, glasses and cutlery spread across the living room floor.
"Bit of a mess," says the man in charge. "They were having lunch by the TV."
I'm thinking, "Yeah, and you hadn't scoped the room before you bust in had you?" but what I say is, "Sure. Where are they now and what do you want me to do?"
It turns out that my charges have been dumped upstairs in the master bedroom. There's four of them, the target, her sister, her press agent and the maid. Even with the gag in her mouth, I recognise the target. I've seen enough pop videos to recognise this one though right now she's dressed a little less exotically than when she's performing. She looks smaller than she does on TV but no less cute. It's always fun to be moving with the rich and famous, though it's not really something you can chat about down the pub is it? Pity I haven't got my camera though — what do you reckon snaps of this little scene would go for in "Hello!" magazine?
"Just keep 'em quiet here for a couple of hours while we do the rest."
As usual, really clear instructions. I presume that means they don't want them roughed up more than necessary to keep them here. And what is a couple of hours supposed to mean? Anything from forty minutes to half a day in my experience.
"Think you can manage that?"
I think, "Oh, sure, anything else you haven't told me?" What I say is, "Sure."
"Then have them ready for a lift, about four-ish."
"Air or truck? Doped or awake?"
"What's it matter?"
"Not a lot, I guess but if you're bringing a chopper in here then we're going to need to get these ladies out to the lawn whereas if we're using a truck we can take them out through the garage. It's just easier to prep them for that. If you're taking them out doped then they don't need blindfolds, if you're not then they do."
"Uh, truck, no dope."
"OK" You see? No thought that anyone else but them has got problems.
"We've got to go."
Sure, they've got to go leaving me to make sure everything works when they get back. "No problem." I'm a great liar but actually I'd rather just get on with it. I let them disappear and check out my charges. One thing's sure, I 'm not going to rely on any roping up that this bunch have done.
I start with the target. She's trussed up on the bed, lying on her face. I turn her over to check out her gag, that's always the first thing. Ah that's sweet, she's wearing a pink tee-shirt with the name of her old band across her tits. I always thought she was better when she was with them. Somehow the stuff she's done since she went solo doesn't have the same bounce for me. I can tell by the look on her face she thinks I'm going to feel her up. Her eyes widen and she tries to back away. Well I must admit it's tempting. Her tee shirt is short, leaving a tanned couple of inches of belly showing above the waist band of her grey mini kilt. The kilt barely covers her crotch and the tee-shirt is tight enough to show she's got no bra on. Her legs are bare, no socks, trainers. Her black hair is done in two bunches. She looks pretty tasty to me but playing with the target is more than my job's worth. I may need to need to do something about the gag - I can't see what they've pushed in her mouth but it seems to be keeping her complaints down to the occasional grunt so it'll do for the minute. The rope work looks OK for once. The hog tie is a bit vicious but she should be able to cope with it — I mean if her exercise video was to be believed she should be pretty supple.
Tied to the stool in front of the dressing table is our pop idol's sister. She's been attracting some attention from the press in her own right and it's easy to see why. I guess she's five years younger than big sis, which puts her at nineteen or so. Blonde hair, well at least most if it is blonde. She's got her sister's trim waist and good legs but her tits are bigger. Of course that maybe something to do with the ropes around her elbows but I've had a lot of experience in judging these things. You can tell, you know. She's got a black mesh top on over a well wired bra. That's helping display her tits too and I ain't complaining. Her washed out, short, denim skirt, is pretty tight and makes the best of her legs. The gag looks OK — her mouth looks pretty well packed under the duct tape. She's groaning a bit but nothing that's going to cause a problem. No way of judging if she's going to be much of a singer by listening to her. Mind you, some as would say her sister's voice is improved by the current arrangements. This one's off limits too, as far as I'm concerned. Shame — a grope would have been fun.
Next for checking is the maid. She's on the floor of the bedroom, wearing a uniform grey dress, white collar and cuffs on the short sleeves, white cap and apron and dark tights. I guess she's in her early thirties, but still pretty trim. I check out the ropes and the gag. Ha, how did I know? What a sloppy job. Cleave gag, looks like a scarf, with no packing — she'll be making enough noise to wake up people in Wilmslow soon. Those ropes won't hold her wrists for more than half an hour, either. All that care taken with the lady of the house but no one bothered too much about the hired help. That's typical of the sort of problem I have. Left like this she'd have been helping her employer out of her ropes before too long. OK so we're going to fix that first. I sit her up. She looks hopeful, like I am going to free her or something. I go rummage in the laundry basket. The maid hasn't emptied it this morning — tsk, tsk, sloppy work. Our target's panties are no use for a gag, I'd need about a dozen of those thongs to pack a mouth but there's a pair of sports socks. I pull off the maid's gag and she's about to thank me as I jam the socks in and knot the scarf back in place. She's pissed and starts to struggle as I pull some spare rope around her elbows and across her chest. She'd obviously realised she would work things loose and gets more upset as I re-tie her wrists and ankles. That's better.
With the maid sorted I turn my attention to our star's press agent. Very snappy dresser, this lady I think. Well cut, dark blue, suit with a nice short skirt and a tailored jacket over a pale yellow blouse. Anyway she's tied to a chair over near the foot of the bed. As I start checking the ropes she starts coming on like she's finding it a big turn-on. Lots of gagged "mmm's" and pushing her tits forward. Now maybe I ain't that bright but I ain't that stupid either, so I give her some encouragement and let her go through with the whole Meg Ryan bit while keeping an eye on the mirror on the dressing table. I see the closet door start to move and I see some fingers, bright red nails, edging around the door. Well, what do you know? Our professional friends missed one.
I let the newcomer get right out of the closet, edging towards the door. She looks about the same age as the target's sister, maybe a friend? White sleeveless top and blue denim jeans — the expensive kind, cut close on her arse.
"Don't slip out without introducing yourself," I say standing up and spinning round. I pull my gun from the waistband of my trousers. She gives a squeal of fright and presses her hand to her mouth. She looks at the door about six feet away and then thinks better of it. "Smart thinking," I say. "Now get your hands up and get back over here." She obliges with her hands and I wave her back with the gun. Five minutes later and she's as well trussed up as her friends with a mouth full of her own socks strapped in with some duct tape and the laces from her trainers around her wrists and ankles.
I look at my watch. There's still at least an hour to go until its time to move my charges. I pass the time playing with the press agent. There won't be any trouble if I have a bit of fun with her. Anyway — serves her right for trying to distract me, I say. She seemed so keen to get it on earlier but now she's gone all coy. I slip her jacket back off her shoulders. She gets real upset when I pop the buttons on her blouse to get at her tits. Even with all that cloth in her mouth I can tell she isn't having any fun. Now that's what I call classy, her bra is exactly the right lemon yellow to go with her blouse. She makes even more of a fuss when I push her skirt up to her waist; matching panties of course. By the time the pro's deign to turn up she's still not got back to the level of excitement she'd been feigning before. Her blouse is torn a bit and her nipples are pretty bruised. She's almost choked on her gag a few times but I've enjoyed myself. The rest of the girls have been whimpering all the time, worried that I'm going to start on them next, so it should be a relief when my colleagues turn up. It doesn't seem to be. Anyway by then I've got all the girlies properly gagged, blindfolded — scarves over the eyes then taped in place - and I've given them enough rope between their ankles so I don't have to carry them downstairs but not so much that they're going to try running off.
My dear colleagues don't even have the good grace to apologise over the girl in the closet. "Oh, you found another one," is the best they can manage. Then it's, "Let's get them in the truck", and we get off. Not a word of thanks. And that's typical.
Geez, if I ever got to be my own Dr Evil, or whatever, it's the dimwits like these that would be back at the ranch.
Oh, yeah. And the truck. While the suits swan off in their Z-4's, Porsches and whatever (always so discrete!) we're dragging down the M6 in a twenty year old Ford Transit with an eight track tape player. You think they could at least let us have a CD to drown out the grunts and groans from the back.
Chapter 4 : Oh Lord, Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood
Anyways, back at the ranch (well, back at the carefully hidden villain's eyrie) it's business as usual and that means the goons are still being ridden roughshod over. I'm back looking after the cells again. It's been another quiet night. Alicia's still being grateful which means I got another half hour's fun in one of the spare cells and she's now gone off to the wash rooms to straighten out her uniform.
Anyway, the boss' latest girlfriend turns up. Now, I don't want to sound critical but the boss doesn't do too well with relationships. He seems to model himself on Woody Allen's 'Jimmy Bond' in that way. They don't last too long and they tend to end up down here in the cells.
Well, this one is still walking around and, of course, trying to live up to the whole 'girlfriend of the criminal mastermind' bit. Well, of course the outfit has to fit the part doesn't it? How come you never see these girls in a knitted twin set? Oh no, glamorous Glennis (for that is her name) turns up wearing the usual designer-goth outfit that looks as if she's stolen it from the set of Elvira — Mistress of the Dark. It's just as well that the villain's lair is always well heated — with that amount of cleavage she could easily catch a cold on her chest.
So, in strides Glennis, slapping the mandatory riding crop against her thigh. (There's only a few inches between the top of the slit in her skirt and the bottom of her plunging neckline — I reckon if she breathed in suddenly the dress would fall apart) and demands to take one of the guests out of her cell. Actually I use the word 'strides' loosely, she's on stilt high heels and she hasn't learned to cope with them yet.
The interesting thing is that Glennis has suddenly caught lesbianism now that she's the boss's girlfriend. I knew her when she was a clerk in registry and her tastes seemed pretty exclusively heterosexual then. Now it's almost like it's a badge of office to have a girl-toy on hand. Anyway, Glennis is explaining to me how she wants to take out one of the guests out for an airing when Alicia trots back from the washroom. So, Glennis wants to rub in the fact that she's top dog around here — well top bitch actually but whatever — especially since she and Alicia used to work together. Glenn decides to tear Alicia off a strip for not being at her post. Then she spots that one of Alicia's breast pockets are unfastened and that gives her a real chance for some barely concealed fondling as she buttons it for her while Alicia stands at attention, teeth gritted. Still I can't blame Glennis; there's something about the way that uniform shirts fit across Alicia's chest. I'd been doing much the same earlier, only I'd been focusing on undoing buttons.
Well once Glennis has been concluded her Sapphic interlude with Alicia, she's back to demanding her toy. Now I'm not dumb enough to imagine that she's going to bring down the right paperwork but equally she can't (or won't) see that I can't just spring open a cage and dole out guests willy-nilly. I just want her to sign for the outgoing and she says she won't.