Prologue: Just a Quiet Burger

As I neared the state border I turned off the highway and towards the golden arches of an all night McDonalds. When I’d planned the route the month before this had seemed the best place to stop, food bought from here would still be warm when I parked up to change the plates.

I parked towards the back of the lot close to one of the lights. I figured no one would be likely to park close by, I’d taken a lot of trouble to ensure that she was tightly gagged and that she was tied in such a way that she couldn’t attract any attention. Still it paid to go to a little extra trouble and it also reduced the chances of some passer by spotting my home made tags. I still felt nervous and unsure, copying a stranger’s tags so that you don’t have to cruising a neighborhood with out of state plates is smart thinking and pays off when the jobs over and the cops are looking for clues. Yet I couldn’t help feeling that this would be the night the idiot got his car stolen or his wife was rushed to hospital and that every cop in the state would be after that license. I was at most twenty minutes from the layover when I could switch mine back, I hoped to stay lucky that long.

I got out and pantomimed looking for my wallet so that I could hang around near the trunk. Nothing, not a peep. I have to say that I started to worry, maybe she’d choked or something. She was a smart girl, a college student, she must see her situation, bound and gagged in the trunk of a car being taken who knows where, her best chance is when we stop. Then, just when I was about to panic and open the trunk I heard it, a faint muffled cry, so soft at first I thought it was imagination. I listened and there it was again full of desperation and hope, saying just one thing `Help me.’

Satisfied that she couldn’t be heard more than a few feet away I found’ my wallet and headed towards the doors. She was smart all right, she’d waited until she thought I’d gone before making any noise. A good idea spoiled only by the tiny amount of noise she could make. In some ways I was pleased, she was living up nicely to my expectations.

The McDonalds was almost deserted, and was just about to switch to cooking to order. My fellow patrons consisted of a couple of truck drivers and a state trooper. I have to confess that threw me at first, but from conversations between him and the staff it appeared he stopped off here every night after his shift. I ignored him and carried on. I got them to refill my coffee flask for `later’ and took a coke and the quarter pounders they had left as I didn’t want to wait around for them to cook my order. The trooper said his good-byes and it was with some relief that I saw him drive away. Once my order was filled I too hit the road nerves on edge but keeping to a nice legal fifty as I headed towards the layover.

I ran through all the events of the past few days again to see if there was anything that could tie me, Richard Cody successful thirty-something computer journalist, with Caroline Conway the struggling eighteen year old psych major currently in my trunk.

I can’t exactly say when the idea of taking a sex slave first came to me. I suppose every man who has ever been lead on by a woman harbors certain fantasies, any guy with a female boss, any guy stood up or embarrassed or humiliated. What I suppose made me different from “any guy” was that I had been provided with the means, both financially and practically to carry out those fantasies and make them real. I could have a woman who couldn’t say no, one over which I would have total control.

I suppose in reality this started six months ago. At the time I was dating Samantha Prescott, former model and an assistant editor at Vogue. I must confess that I had fallen, she was lovely of course, but she also had an elegance and charm which completely won me over. I suppose I read more into the relationship that she did, certainly I was ready to commit. I was at that time building a house in New England and contemplating the Great American Novel. Then out of the blue she called everything off, the next time I saw her was in a tabloid escorting some baseball star to the Grammies. When she finally answered my calls she as good as told me that I was just a fashion accessory, that literary men had been a feature of the Fall season and that now that Spring was here she and her friends preferred more “physical” escorts.

About a month later one of my editors called and suggested that I did a blab piece on computer porn. The newspapers and television were in a feeding frenzy about girlie pics on bulletin boards and S&M on the internet. Apparently a company in San Diego was marketing an S&M Multimedia CD-ROM, and had just won a court battle to allow it’s distribution. With some reluctance I’d agreed, chiefly because the Samantha thing had caused me to fall behind with my column. A few days later the CD arrived. By then I’d done the few thousand words of condemnation required by my middle class publisher but I thought I’d try it anyway just to get some specific quotes.

In the game you play “Dak Forest” a porno film actor. When the costar of his next flick “ Nympho Nurses From Hell” is kidnapped by a Colombian drug cartel, Dak has only three days to rescue her and save the movie. The script was poor, the video clips included painful acting and in the course of the game just about every female character ends up bound and gagged either naked or in some kinky outfit.

Part way through the game a character is introduced called Samantha Pressman, she is the editor of a fashion magazine who is kidnapped by the cartel and turned into the nymphomaniac sex slave Kitty, who acts as Dak’s sidekick from then on. To anyone who knew her the similarities between this character and Sam Prescott where overwhelming, the actress even looked a lot like her. I found myself playing the same section again and again. Sam kneels before Dak and begs him to whip her, spank her, humiliate her. Dak of course refuses, but that and some of Sam’s heavier scenes kept me hooked on the CD weeks after my article was printed.

I started to ask myself if it was really that difficult to take a woman and make her your sex slave. I had a secluded house with a large basement that I’d originally designed as a computer lab. I had few friends who lived nearby so impromptu visits were unlikely. In addition I had the money and the time to make it work. Suddenly it became clear what I should do. I couldn’t take Sam of course, the history of our relationship was too well known. For a wild second I even considered taking `Kitty’ and driving her back from California. In the end I realized that I needed a woman with whom I had no contact, a complete stranger preferably from some distance away so that the police investigation wouldn’t get too close to home. I looked at a map and selected a college town about three hundred miles from my home. Colleges mean young female students a good starting point for the selection of a slave.

By now I’d reached the turnoff I’d been waiting for. This lead down a tree lined lane into a wooded hollow. I had come across the place by accident whilst scouting out the area a few months before and could hardly believe that I’d found somewhere so perfect. I’d spent a couple of nights here to assure myself that this wasn’t the local lovers lane, or the favorite route of poachers. In the end however I had to accept that it was what it appeared to be, a rough dirt road leading to a small wood, and that the place was deserted at night.

I drove carefully into the hollow, this wasn’t the night to slide into a ditch or have a flat. I assured myself that we were far enough from the road and that no one was watching. Finally I got out, went to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Two large, frightened blue eyes stared back at me over the mass of Ace bandage that covered her lower face. The bandage was tight and her cheeks bulged out over it, in places there was a flash of silver where the bandage failed to cover the duct tape underneath. She made a mewing sound and started to struggle, I carefully checked her bonds. In a sense we were both acting out our roles, she as victim, I as kidnapper, we both knew she couldn’t get free. She was dressed in the same outfit she had worn that morning to her Saturday job, a fairly expensive blue blazer and skirt, a white blouse, heels and stockings. I had pulled her long blond hair back into a kind of ponytail and secured it with some rubber bands, it cascaded onto her back like a horses mane. I had considered removing the blazer before tying her but this power dressing had reminded me of Samantha, so instead I had added to the ensemble. Her ankles where cuffed, good solid black leather bondage cuffs bought from a sex shop in New York, in many ways they matched her pumps and proved I could “Accessorize”. At the moment they were fastened together with a padlock and linked by a long leather strap to her wrists. Smaller straps clinched her legs together just above and just below the knees effectively immobilizing them. I had done the same at her elbows but had used duct tape to secure her wrists and hands. Even her fingers where covered in a mass so thick it appeared that she was clutching a bowling ball. As well as securing her hands the mass also stopped another leather strap from biting into her wrists and it was this strap that was also secured to her ankles.