POLITICAL ASYLUM #1
by Geoff Merrick. All rights reserved.
Illustrations by STEVE
The breath caught in The Procurer’s throat when Anya Dubchek opened the door between hotel rooms.
Nineteen, twenty years old, maybe. Five foot three. The lightest, wettest blue eyes he had ever seen on a human. Hair so blonde it was nearly white, coming down to her shoulders in silken waves. A small, perfectly shaped nose. High cheekbones set in an oval face. Wonderfully red, incredibly wet, prominent lips as if she was already kissing. And skin so white and smooth she looked sculpted out of porcelain.
“Yes?” she asked—her quiet, melodious voice slightly accented.
His eyes shifted down to her body. Sleek, and perfectly proportioned beneath the expensive, elegant, dark-colored, tailor-made, miniskirted suit. He could just make out the light grey lace bra beneath her off-white silk shirt. Just from her posture and accessories, he knew that she was all girl.
Mid-length, rose-painted fingernails. Gold necklace and earrings. And sexy ankle-strap, four inch, high heel pumps. He knew—just knew—that she wore a garter belt and hose under all that, and could imagine the soft silken snatch beneath the matching panties.
“Just wanted to check up on you, Miss Dubchek,” he said.
A slight cloud of concern passed over her delicate features. “This is not customary,” she said softly, each word lifted on an angelic lilt. He started to get hard, fighting the erection with a great, invisible, display of willpower.
“Didn’t want to worry you, Ms. Dubchek,” he said quietly. “But there’s been renewed activity at the consulate. They could be planning something….”
Her wet, light blue eyes widened and her wet red lips parted slightly as she looked up to him. “Oh dear,” she said in her soft, accepted voice. “Do you think…?”
“Better safe than sorry,” he told her. He glanced over his shoulder, motioning. “You’re now going to have a personal guard 24/7….”
A squat, flat-faced woman appeared, holding out one hand. “Morning, Miss Dubchek,” said the white slaver codenamed The Bitch. “You can call me Sissy….”
In her other hand she held an overnight bag.
Anya looked at the woman with an expression that was a little worried and a little frightened. “But they said a guard would draw attention to me,” she whispered. “That I should just wait and they would call when all was safe….”
“I’m sorry, Miss Dubchek, but we’re going to change custom a bit, all right? For your own safety.”
“24, 7?” she echoed, slightly confused. She was so deliciously vulnerable he nearly creamed his suit then.
“24 hours a day, 7 days a week,” he explained. “May I check the room?”
She started, nearly stepping out into the hall. “Do you think they’re already here?”
She didn’t know the half of it. “No, no,” he assured her, stifling a laugh of pure joy. He took her shoulders in his hands instead. Her muscles were strong but yielding, and smooth beneath the suit and shirt. He almost threw her back onto the bed right then and there, but controlled himself. “For bugs… listening devices.”
“Oh!” she said, nearly putting her hand on her lips. “Of course, of course. Please…come in….”
And that was that.
He went in first, following Anya’s small, slim, sexy body—watching her tight round rump move in the skirt back as she preceded him.
But as soon as The Bitch had closed and locked the door behind them, he touched the hand-held zapper to the base of Anya’s spine.
There was a small blue flash, a snapping crackle, and the Lithuanian girl went down, cringing, on her side.
He stared down at her shocked face, with her wet, bright eyes wide and blinking, her soundless wet mouth opening and closing like a beached fish, and her little nostrils flaring. Then came her pain. Her eyes squeezed shut and her small white teeth clenched as every one of her muscles stretched to the snapping point.
The Bitch checked out the room. A nice, old-fashioned room in a nice old-fashioned hotel on the lower west side…just like the one they had broken into beside hers. Had two nice open windows looking out to the bay. If you leaned far enough out the window you could even see the Statue of Liberty to your left.
There was a lone double bed in the middle of the right wall. To the left of it was the entrance to the big white-tiled bathroom. On the left wall was a bureau and a television. In the far corner, to the left of the windows, was a writing table and two well-padded wooden chairs.
“Very nice,” The Procurer said. He wasn’t commenting about the room. Instead, he was looking down at the blonde Lithuanian who lay, twisting slowly, at his feet. He had lifted one side of her skirt with his shoe to reveal the top of her dark stocking…and its attached garter belt. “I thought so,” he finished, taking off his tie and suit jacket.
“First things first,” The Bitch said, opening the overnight bag…
…She kneeled beside the girl and started forcing a big red ball gag behind her teeth.
Anya started to moan in complaint—her fists clenching and unclenching uselessly—when he calmly leaned over and pressed the zapper against her neck.
Another flash, another snap, and her body straightened as if she was being drawn and halved by rampaging horses. But only for a second. After that, her muscles seemed to dissolve. Her eyes rolled back into her head, her jaw dropped open, and her totally slack body nearly rolled over onto her face.
“Silly girl,” he said. “Deserved that. Doesn’t know enough to keep doors between rooms locked….”
The Bitch held onto Anya’s hair with one hand and pushed the ball all the way into her lax mouth with the other. “There, there,” she said, buckling the gag behind Anya’s head and then reached to tighten the specially designed strap around the girl’s throat as well. “That’s the mark of a good gag…the mouth completely open. Hand me the tape from my bag, would you dear?”
He didn’t move. “Wanna see her lips,” he said. “So wet…so….”
“Kissable?” The Bitch asked with a grin as she looked up at him. “Thought you’d say that.” She reached over Anya to get the bag herself.
Within minutes she had the girl’s jacket off, her ankles crossed and tied, and her wrists and elbows cinched behind her. A moment after that, he had lifted her onto the edge of the bed as The Bitch walked around the other side to kneel behind Anya’s back.
“Welcome to America, kiddo,” he said, gripping her chin and raising her unfocused eyes to meet his. Without waiting for a reaction, he used his other hand to undo her shirt buttons, admiring the scalloped, half-cup, bone-colored, lace bra he revealed—as well as the pendulous sex sacks cupped and bobbing within them.
“34C?” he asked The Bitch.
She shook her head. “Maybe even ‘D’,” she decided.
He looked up to see that full awareness had returned to their new friend. She was rigid, staring at him in betrayal and amazement. “Home of the free, the pursuit of happiness, and all that,” he told her, his hand now sliding up her long and lovely right thigh, taking her skirt hem with it. “Unfortunately only we’re free and you’re my happiness….”
Anya started as his thumb pressed against her panty, making The Bitch press up against her back. “No screaming,” she told the amazed girl.
“No,” he said. “We wouldn’t want anyone else in the hotel to get in on your special citizenship process.”
Anya wrenched her eyes away from The Bitch’s threatening glare to stare at the man who was pressing closer to her with every word.
“You know the old rule: marry an American, stay an American…?” he asked.
Anya began to struggle.
“No, no, no!” he interjected; he and The Bitch gripping her tighter on the bed in the sunny room. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he soothed. “We’re not going to force you to marry anyone you don’t want to.”
Even though she stilled, she continued to look at him with growing dread.
“But you know why that rule applies, don’t you?” he asked, putting his hands around her neck, his forehead on hers, and staring deep into her frightened eyes. “It’s not what you have on paper or on your finger that counts…it’s what you have inside….”
Anya stiffened, even her breath stilling in her throat.
“Well, let’s put it this way,” he whispered lightly. “If the union is annulled, the spouse is deported….”
Anya tried to wrench herself away from the two who sandwiched her, but they were prepared for that. “Don’t worry, don’t worry!” he sickeningly soothed. “That won’t happen to you….”
“No,” said The Bitch triumphantly, grabbing a handful of Anya’s hair. “You’re gonna be filled with good old American red, blue, and white!”
His hand clenched on her chest through her shirt and bra. He dove forward, grabbing her hip in his other huge hand. The Bitch yanked the ice blonde’s hair back and, a moment later, Anya was on her back on the bed, The Procurer snaking his feet between her ankle-bound legs.
She clicked into shock as his hands tore down her bra cups and panties. Her milky mounds erupted out, spectacularly bubbly, the big pink aureoles with their tiny nipples revealed completely.
One panty side snapped open and then her tuft of soft light yellow was also exposed. Then his mouth was over hers, slavering, as his hands ground her sensitive chest and his haunches were slamming onto hers.
The Bitch was there, her hands tight in Anya’s hair as he undid his pants and zipper, his mouth still clamped over hers, his tongue slobbering across her wet, pried open lips.
Sound struggled to get out from under the choker and the gag, ultimately emerging as muffled mews and whines—the exquisite little blonde girl sounding like a trapped kitten.
Then his cock was out, forcing open her tight labia lips as she twitched, staring up at the ceiling in panic and alarm.
The Bitch reached down to yank up Anya’s skirt. “Go, man, go,” she said, admiring the way Anya had managed to get her pinioned lower arms out to her left side, her tied hands coiled together in one big fist. “She’s ready!”
He surged in. Her legs spasmed uselessly as her crossed, bound ankles thudded at the back of his thighs. Her head slammed back and her breasts wiggled under his chin.
That was just the start, of course. He kept thrusting, surging back and forth as Anya’s head pushed deep into a pillow, her eyes closed, and The Bitch carefully laid a heavy hand over her pried open, drooling, mouth. Soon her skirt was nothing but a nearly torn off belt, her bra was just a thin lace line beneath her shaking tits, and a pool of sweat had collected in the hollow of her lovely throat.
They had the tiny, pure blonde girl locked to them in a sexual vise, totally unable to prevent what was, and was going to, happen to her.
The room was filled with light and air. The rooms above and below her were filled with oblivious vacationers. The elevator just two doors down opened, closed, and went on its way. The entire staff went about their business. But inside this room, a small, young, exquisite female defector in the most feminine finery her hosts could afford was being raped.
…She felt it coming, her arms thudding to the mattress, her legs trying to snap the ankle bonds. Her head came up, her eyes open, pleading uncomprehendingly for him not to come in her. She shook her head wildly, tears pouring out her eyes, choking on the throat strap.
The Bitch grabbed hold of her head—one palm pressing on the top of her head, the other arm wrapped around her jaw—and held it down as he groaned beastly, slammed his hands on her quaking tits, and did a push up off her—jamming his hips as tight as they would go against her thighs.
The jism spurt up her as far as it could, coating her vagina.
For a moment, Anya thought she would go mad. To escape Lathuania…to escape her politburo section chief’s sexual threats…to escape the immigration officer’s offer of sex for a visa…to be chaperoned through customs so she wouldn’t have to suffer a gauntlet fuck…only to be attacked in New York, in an American hotel, by two strangers…?
But then she collapsed, sobbing, her arms twisting in their deadening bonds, and her ankles rubbing sickeningly against each other…feeling his seed stain her insides like curdled milk….
Then she heard it…a little whistle in her ear. No, not a whistle…a small, high-pitched song…like the torturing hiss of a serpent. “God bless America…land that I love…come inside her…and guide her…to the site with a light up above…!”
Then he started laughing as The Bitch started unknotting her elbow cords.
Anya Dubchek gasped as the woman placed her foot against the girl’s smooth tight rear and yanked the last lace on the glorious corset. Anya’s already small 23′ waist was now 21 inches, her breasts bulging over the top of the red, black, tan, and white lace bustier that went from the very top of her hips to the very bottom of her breasts—thin shoulder straps sinking deep into her skin.
The front panel was black lace with cruel laces. The metal and whalebone supported side panels were red satin with tan detailing and white lace sections. She wore no panties over her yellow-white beaver, but there were black lace-top thigh high stockings on her long, porcelain legs. And on her feet were five inch stiletto high heels.
“Geez,” The Bitch grunted, viciously tying off the corset laces. “I guess after all those years in Lathuania wearing potato sacks, she went nuts when she got here. Have you taken a look in the bureau or closet?”
He just smiled, holding his erection while staring at the radiant young girl The Bitch had locked in the merry widow. She had tied Anya’s legs wide to the back legs of one of the heavy chairs while her wrists were held behind her by handcuffs. “Had better things to look at….”
Anya looked back at him with wide, worried blue eyes, drool pouring over her luminous lower lip. The Bitch had popped out the ball gag, immediately replacing it with a modified bit gag, which sunk as deep into her mouth as her wrenched back lips would allow; a pedal-like pad pressing down her tongue. It’s elastic bands velcroed behind her head and neck, creating a stunningly deep, tight fit.
“Well, I think she cleaned out every specialty store of every piece of finery she could find,” The Bitch reported, pulling out more rope from her bag. “She’s got satin, velvet, silk, lace, spandex, and leather….”
“The better to see her in,” he commented. “Don’t worry, baby,” he told Anya. “We’ll try to get to all of them….”
Her head went back, craning toward the still open, still sun-filled windows, crying out with sodden panic.
“You ready?” he asked impatiently, watching the blonde Lathuanian’s body strain.
“Just about,” The Bitch grunted, punching Anya in the stomach.
12/As the girl doubled over, wretching, The Bitch quickly uncuffed her wrists, then recuffed them in front of her, her arms going around the vertical supports of the chair arms. When the girl could breathe again, she was bending all the way forward, her upper arms pressed under the chair arms, the inside of her elbows tight against the chair arms’ outer vertical supports, her nipples scraping the padded chair seat, and her cuffed hands clutching at nothing a few inches beyond the seat lip.
Anya stared at her hovering hands, feeling the air course across her up-turned rump, wondering what horrible thing they had planned. Even her imagination, honed by years under corrupt socialist rule, was not up to the task. The reality was far worse than anything she had imagined….
Her bright, wet blue eyes widened in disbelief when The Bitch wrapped a strap around her throat and placed a paddle against her rear end. Even with all that mounting dread, she only shrieked when he stood before her, his cock crown bobbing at her fingertips.
“Here’s the drill,” she heard The Bitch say. “Jack him off. No matter what happens, jack him off. If you make him come, you’ll be all right. Got it?”
Anya could only stare at the penis which undulated in her vision like an accusing missile.
to be continued
“Got it?!” The Bitch repeated harshly, jerking on the neck strap. Anya jerked up, choking, spittle streaming out from her lower lip. She collapsed, moaning, head down in despair. “Got it??”
Anya hastily bleated, nodding furiously until the wracking sobs took over again.
“Good,” said The Bitch, suddenly giving the girl’s up-turned rump a vicious whack with the paddle. “Now!”
The snapping slap cut through the street noise from twelve stories below more than Anya’s gagged shriek did. But her elegant, cool fingers shot forward, gripping his cock, and started rubbing like a desperate slave making a wish on a magic lamp.
The Bitch started pulling back on the neck strap…slowly, imperceptibly at first…then with more certainty.
Anya began to gasp, then cough, then choke, her fingers moving furiously. Then they began to spasm, her eyes clouding.
He nodded at The Bitch. She released the pressure, then slapped her succulent rear with the paddle. Anya jerked forward, crying, losing her grip on his member. It fell out of her hands like a dropped touchdown ball.
He immediately leaped forward, shoving his cock in her mouth, and slamming both knees on the chair seat. The Bitch immediately wrapped the neck strap in her fist and yanked back as if reigning a runaway mare.
The inside of Anya’s head seemed to blast out as the terror smashed into her like napalm. She couldn’t breathe, noxious slime slapped her senses, and her body was strapped down.
Then, suddenly, it was over. Air streamed down her throat, the cock was arching amongst her fingers, and she was coughing, drool pouring out her mouth.
The Bitch spanked her ass sharply with the paddle. “Now!” she spat.
Anya panicked, jerking forward, moving desperately on his shaft.
And so it went…getting worse by the minute. Each time they would test her throat a little bit more, spank her ass a little harder, and punish her a little bit longer every time she lost even a finger on her grip.
Finally her eyes were bulging and her tongue slithering over her lower lip despite the gagging pedal. The chair’s front legs nearly left the carpet and her breath was gone, but her fingers still frantically stroking his cock.
Her world was turning grey…then white…then the black began to grow.
Then he came in her face.
“When she awoke, they had turned the chair around to face the bureau. Her head rose groggily to see herself, still bent face-first over the back of the chair, the corners of her mouth yanked wide, her handcuffed wrists now useless in back of her, her blood-infused face flecked with thick white blobs.
Her captors were standing behind her, smiling.
“See, darling?” the woman taunted. “Your ass is red, his cum is white, and your face is blue. America the beautiful!”
And then he took her enflamed rear in his hands and forced his still hard cock up her ass.
The phone rang while he was still fucking her up the ass. The Bitch had supplemented the gag with a thick hand towel tied in, and over, her yanked wide mouth.
She grunted and wept, eyes closed, hands and high-heeled feet twisting with each of his thrusts.
The Procurer and Bitch glanced at the ringing phone, then at each other, although he didn’t interrupt his surging for a nanosecond. Anya started crying out, head rising and falling, as if somehow she could alert the caller to her assault.
The Bitch merely walked over and wrapped her head in one massive arm, pressing Anya’s flushed face against her pulpy girth. Her brother kept ramming his cock up her, delighting in her even more muffled reactions and the way her cuffed fingers fanned out as if trying to signal a desperate stop.
“Guess the coast is clear,” The Bitch said, holding Anya’s bleating face to her. “Guess they’ll wonder why she’s not answering….”
“Better get going then,” he retorted calmly. “One second….” Then he started thrusting harder.
Anya made a wracking “hunh” with each thrust, her “hunh, hunh, hunh” like a rapid heartbeat in the room.
Finally he came, and The Bitch snapped open her arm, letting Anya’s head collapse to the padded seat, her face streaked with bitter tears. Then, to the girl’s amazement, the woman grabbed the throat strap again and twisted it with all her might.
Anya’s head shot up, her bright blue eyes forced to stare into the woman’s leering ones as she cut her air off.
Anya’s arms wrenched forward, stopping in mid-movement when he grabbed the chain between the handcuffs and held tight. Her fingers clawed desperately at nothing; the sounds coming from behind the towels a frantic, horrid, pleading.
He watched her lovely young body contort in the corset, her leg muscles spasm in the thigh highs, and the horrid way her sexy high heels scraped a millimeter at a time across the rug.
Her face grew red and then darker. Her eyes screwed shut and sweat coursed down her face like a waterfall. He held her, still plugging her, until her body suddenly went lax.
They both let go immediately. Anya Dubchek collapsed across the chair.
He merely leaned down and played with her tits as The Bitch rapidly unknotted the towels in and over Anya’s shining moist mouth.
“Yes…,” he whispered in the girl’s unconscious ear while twisting her nipples in his fingers. “They’ll wonder why their beautiful little comrade didn’t answer the phone…so they’ll come on over…only to find that their perestroika prize…their tiny tsarist treasure…decided to head off on her own….”
Anya lay—naked and insensible, each wrist tied to the top of each thigh—on her back on the bed. He sat on her torso—alternately covering her mouth with his hand or sticking his tongue down her throat—giving himself a tit fuck while The Bitch prepared for their trip.
Later, the political consultants the magazine had hired to negotiate her citizenship would watch the hotel security videos. All they would see was her going in the room and locking the door behind her. Then, only strangers would leave the other rooms on the floor—a traffic jam of luggage carts appearing near check-out time that morning.
After viewing the stairwell and elevator tapes for any possible disguise, they had freeze-framed those carts, carefully studying each one…but no suitcase was big enough to contain a poodle, let alone a young girl.
They checked the parking garage tapes. Yeah, there were a variety of vans and S.U.V.’s big enough to smuggle her out, but any car that emerged that day could have contained her…in the trunk, on the back seat floor, even under the glove compartment…!
All they knew was that a beautiful Eastern European defector had entered the hotel safe house…then disappeared without a trace…taking all her expensive new wardrobe with her.
That wardrobe was in two suitcases right before their eyes on the video screen…and Anya Dubchek was in two others.
It was a masterpiece of construction; one suitcase interior made to look like two side-by-side suitcases from the exterior. The only thing that would give it away was letting anyone see it being lifted onto or off the luggage cart. But since The Procurer did both in his room without a bellhop witness, the illusion was intact.
And inside, Anya was folded over, her ankles to her thighs, her knees cinched, neck corded to knees, her hands palm to palm wedged deep in her ass crack, her elbows lashed. Her big toes were tied together. Her hair was knotted to her knee bonds so she couldn’t lift her head. Ropes crushed her bulging tits, dug into her waist, sunk into her hips, and cut high up between her cunt lips.
“Her mouth was crammed with an inflated ball, her lower face covered with swath after swath of thick, padded, insulation tape. Her lower face was covered again with a fluffy towel, and then again with a pillow case full of towels tied over her head and around her neck.
Once they got her into the nondescript white van with the muddy license plates parked in the corner of the garage, he got behind the wheel, pulling a cap low over his sunglassed eyes. He drove past the security cameras, looking the other way as The Bitch quickly removed their captive from the special bag(s).
Within four blocks uptown, heading east, Anya was stretched out—only wrists and ankles still tied—in a spectacular black lace micromini dress with all-around underwiring and deep plunge neckline—complete with wishbone straps which revealed a portion of her breast side while the push up cups created the maximum cleavage allowed by law.
The way her breasts bulged together in the bodice, further enhancing the contrast between the black dress and her wonderful skin, took her captor’s breath away. Then it was time to take the captive’s breath away too.
“Remember,” he growled from the driver’s seat. “They want her to know….”
“I’m on it,” The Bitch replied, dragging the pillow case off the little blonde’s head. Within two more blocks, the inflatable ball was replaced with a sloping triangular prod gag which fit behind the teeth, filled the cheeks and all but forced the lips to close in a modified pucker over it when the thin clear straps dug deep in the corners of the mouth.
She knotted the cunning gag tight at the back of Anya’s head as the dazed blonde choked lightly on the new obstruction. Then her disbelief grew as the woman pulled her up by her elbows, dragging her toward the passenger seat.
Before the next traffic light they were up in front, Anya wedged against the door beside The Bitch in the seat. One of the woman’s meaty fists were in Anya’s hair while the other slithered like worms under the right cup of her dress.
“Okay, darlin’,” the woman drawled as the young girl made desperate “ah, ah, ah” sounds. “Time to see the Big Apple….”
She jerked Anya’s head forward, pressing her face against the window. The cacophony and chaos of the city just before rush hour filled her wide, imploring eyes…but every time it seemed another driver or passenger or bus rider would look directly at her, the woman would yank her head back and squeeze her body down, mashing her just out of sight.
Anya struggled and tried to scream with all her might, but all she did was put on a stimulating show for her abductors. He laughed, taking in the way Anya’s wounded eyes would pinball around their sockets and her balled breasts would swell, threatening to pop out of the dress.
But no other person in New York saw her as The Bitch expertly yo-yoed her back and forth—forcing her to witness her kidnapping but never allowing any one of several thousand possible rescuers from becoming aware of her plight.
“We better get there quick,” he growled. “I’m about to cream.”
The Bitch scraped Anya across the window and jammed her in the corner again. “Go ahead,” she said, taking his right hand and squeezing it onto Anya’s left breast. “Use your turn signals….”
21/And they drove that way, The Bitch’s free hand rooting around under Anya’s skirt, until they reached the upper east side.
There, amid the exclusive brownstones in the shadow of Central Park, they slowed near a fenced-in driveway guarded by spikes, a single line of high-tech barbed wire, and security cameras. Anya was crying, her body—shoved tightly in the corner—shaking in misery as she was mauled by him and masturbated by The Bitch.
He suddenly let go of her balled breast to pull into a narrow driveway, just a few inches beyond the sidewalk, and smile at a recessed camera on the driver’s side.
“Yes?” crackled a thickly accented voice from a gray speaker box beneath the camera. Anya started at the sound, her eyes craning over to the driver.
“Hi, good morning,” he said pleasantly in return. “The day is lovely, is it not?”
There was a short pause, then the voice returned from the speaker. “It, too, is long in the summer months.” That let the driver know his code phrase was heard by someone who understood the code phrases. Had he not heard that, his instructions were to back up and drive away.
But instead, he said; “One of my passengers wants to say something to you.”
“I will turn on the passenger side camera…,” the voice replied—somewhat anxiously if the driver was any judge.
The driver turned to see a small red light beneath a lens on the other side of the driveway come on, then he nodded at The Bitch.
She immediately grabbed the motionless, wide-eyed blonde and shoved her face against the window. Anya gasped, cringing, her eyes squeezed shut in shock.
“Little baby is homesick!” The Bitch cried. “She wants to come home!’
22/ Anya’s eyes snapped open despite the way her cheek and nose were pressed up against the window glass. What she saw beyond the camera so shocked her she nearly fainted. It was a small gold plaque bolted to the front of the building. It read “Consulate of Lathuania.”
The madness that had threatened her from the moment the zapper had dropped her to the hotel floor now gripped her. Anya screamed in disbelief, choking, tears leaping from her eyes, with drool pouring down from both sides of her mouth. She hurled herself backwards, writhing like a marlin on a line.
Even The Bitch was surprised by the intensity of the reaction. Anya smashed her body back into the woman, then bounced forward, slamming into the windshield and dashboard.
“Grab her, you idiot!” the driver bellowed as the spike and barb wire-topped metal gate slowly opened. He clenched a fist in Anya’s silky hair and slammed her head to the seat. The Bitch then just managed to grab the girl in a bear hug and throw her to the floor.
The soundproofed van rolled down the driveway to the underground garage while the gate slowly closed behind them. Patient pedestrians took mildly curious looks at it as they passed…unaware that a beautiful young East European teenager was wailing and fighting like a banshee inside.
Two bulky men in double breasted suits, with necks as thick as their heads, were waiting for them in the low-ceilinged, gloomy garage. They directed the nondescript white van to a space behind the driveway wall and moved to the passenger seat, one pulling a small dark packet from inside his jacket.
The other man opened the passenger door. Anya Dubchek all but fell into his arms, struggling madly, her elbows and knees jerking and her upper body flailing like a netted dolphin.
The second man gripped her around the torso easily. The second slapped the dark thing in his hand over her face.
The driver and The Bitch heard a strange rubber-stretching sound, like a beach ball being rapidly inflated, then a pop. The two men immediately stepped back, dropping Anya to the garage floor.
Incredibly, she landed on her feet, her high heels clacking on the concrete like two pistol shots. She bent forward to balance herself, her torso twisting as she fought her wrist bonds.
But her face was gone…no, not gone…molded in rubber. She stood, only a portion of her blonde hair still visible, with what looked like a rubber face hugger clamped onto her head. The driver and The Bitch could see her eyes, nose, and mouth perfectly outlined in the rubber, as if it had been poured on her, but she couldn’t see, hear, speak, or even breathe behind it.
The driver and The Bitch got out of the car to join the two men watching the sexy little girl in the skintight micromini twist this way and that, shake her head and hurl her torso forward—all in the name of getting this thing off her face.
It was like watching a silent movie except for the sound of her high heels on the cement.
Anya suddenly snapped straight, her neck tendons and limb muscles all bunching at once. They could see a whole new layer of sweat covering her porcelain flesh. Then she bolted, running directly into the side of another van.
They all reacted with a “oooo,” but she just bounced off and hit the car beside it on her side—miraculously staying upright. She twisted around and tried to run again, only to have her knees go out from under her on the third step.
The men were there even before she fell. Each grabbed an arm, and one twisted a small metal ring at the bottom of the rubber mask. The driver and The Bitch heard what sounded like a can opening, and the mask fell off. Beneath, Anya’s eyes were closed and her lower lip was drooping, but her nostrils flared and her chest rose as air finally reached her lungs.
The men immediately started dragging her toward the shadows near the stairwell door. The driver picked up the rubber mask, which had returned to its original rectangular shape.
“I’ve heard of these, but never saw one before,” The Bitch whispered as they followed the others.
“Now you have,” he replied. “I wonder if they might let us keep it…?”
They were interrupted by one of the men. “Unlock the door.”
The driver pulled open a bolt, then was about to open the portal, thinking they wanted to go through, but the men pulled the comatose teenager to the right instead, deeper into the shadows. They all wound up in the very corner of the garage, away from any prying eyes, at what seemed to be just another section of the wall.
The other man pulled a small box out of his pocket and pressed a single button. A small red light went on and an invisible section of the wall slid soundlessly back, revealing a plain elevator with padded walls.
The man with the small button-box waited until they were all inside and the door had slid soundlessly shut again before speaking. “Wouldn’t do to have any clerical employee interrupt us,” he said, explaining the locked garage door.
The other man put his hand out toward the rubber rectangle in the driver’s hand. “Please,” he said. The driver reluctantly handed it back. The man took it, slipping it back inside his jacket while still holding one of Anya’s arms. “Leftover from the cold war,” he explained simply. “Very helpful in subduing defectors….”
The driver and The Bitch looked at Anya—so sexy in her super-cleavaged micromini and semiconscious state—being held up by the two men as if she were made of straw.
The man smiled down at the porcelain beauty. “…And to bring them back where they belong,” he concluded as the elevator door opened again, revealing a long, plain hallway with metal doors along the wall. Only the door at the very end of the hall was open.
The men immediately started undoing Anya’s bonds and gag as they went down the hall, impressing the others with their consummate professionalism and abilities. Like two veteran cowboys roping a calf, they snapped rubber-coated plastic ties around Anya’s wrists, snapping each to the opposite elbow, so her arms were laid horizontally across the small of her back.
Another plastic tie went around her arms, holding them together. Then the gag was slid from her slack mouth, only to be immediately replaced with a sophisticated ring gag, which fit both behind and under her teeth. It was fairly big when it went in, but three twists of a tiny screw on the strap opened Anya’s mouth to hitherto fore untold size.
She groaned, the new ache in her jaw beginning to rouse her. But then they were at the door. The driver and The Bitch both got a glimpse of what was inside before the two men unceremoniously pushed Anya in and sealed the door shut.
It looked like a well-appointed study—the kind that could be found in any rich man’s club…only this one had extra thick carpet and no windows. And the heavy leather chairs were occasionally supplemented by solid metal ones which were bolted to the floor. Then there were the couches and the divans, occasionally joined by blocks of wood and poles, which were also bolted to the floor.
And in the chairs, on the sofas, and around the pool table were men. The Procurer had counted at least six of them, in all sizes and shapes, but with three things in common. One, they were obviously Lathuanian. Second, they were all well dressed. And three, they all had small, black, merciless eyes….
The door was soundproofed, of course, so the driver and The Bitch heard nothing more.
The two men who had retied and regagged Anya Dubchek before pushing her unceremoniously into the room turned back to their “guests.”
“Thank you very much for returning a daughter of the motherland to her rightful place,” said one as if they had returned a lost kitten.
“Your consideration in offering your services in this matter was most appreciated,” said the other.
The Procurer shrugged. “We’ve got friends in the state department, too.”
“We know,” said the first man. His head moved slightly toward the door behind him. “Your state department friend is in there.”
Ah, thought the Procurer. That would make seven.
“That was his payment for help received,” said the second man. “Now I imagine that you, too, would like to discuss recompense for your efforts.”
The Procurer glanced meaningfully toward the first man’s inner pocket. The Lathuanian understood the man’s meaning but smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid that this item is classified top secret, for espionage use only,” he said sadly, “but I believe we can satisfy your requirements in another way.”
He and the other man motioned for the two to proceed down the hall. They stopped at the first door to their right.
“Lathuanian girls are some of the world’s most beautiful,” the second man said, seemingly for no reason, “but not always. They must be….” He searched for the word. “…sowed early.”
“Sowed?” the Bitch asked.
“Reaped,” explained the other. “Beautiful, beautiful young women…but as they mature, their faces flatten and their bodies thicken.”
The other man made a look of distaste. “The climate…you know….”
“So, in Lathuania,” continued the other, “it is our male right and imperative to utilize the youth of our female citizens in its proper time…in the proper way….”
“Most interesting,” said the Procurer. “Can’t let the girls get away, huh?”
The men beamed. “Exactly!” said one. “I knew you’d understand.”
The other man leaned in conspiratorially. “Between you and us, this fine example of modeling stock was not the first young Lathuanian girl to attempt to shirk her civic responsibility….”
“No?” the Bitch asked sardonically.
The second man shook his head sadly. “There were others…performers on the international stage…lovely ladies whose duty it was to show the world the glory and beauty of our female youth…!”
“…But chose instead to attempt evading their purpose,” the other man finished in disapproval.
“Really?” the Procurer said.
“Oh yes,” said the first man.
“Thankfully,” said the second. “We didn’t need you to return these others to their rightful place….”
With that, he slid open the lock on the first door. The sharp clack of the bolt echoed in the hall as he swung the padded door wide. Inside was another simple space, designed to look like a locker room, only with padded floors and walls. And in the middle of that was a girl.
She was a tall girl with straight, light brown hair, parted in the middle of her smooth brow. Her nose was long and straight. Her cheekbones were high and her chin cleft. Her lips could not be seen because they were behind a dark pad that clamped deep in her cheeks and covered the space between her nose and chin. There was obviously something in her mouth—something that could be removed by twisting a child-proof like safety cap on the front of the pad.
Her body, however, could be seen, because all she wore was a skintight, micromini skating dress with a frilly little skirt just barely covering her crotch and a demi-bra neckline that barely held her massive wide breasts. They didn’t erupt out like melons, they spread across her chest like jello molds.
Down her long, long legs were slightly furry thigh highs, and on her feet were a vicious satire of ice-skates. They laced up to mid-shin like ice skates but instead of metal blades, they had six-inch metal heels. They had obviously been fashioned by a kinky skate maker.
Her arms were behind her, bound the way they had retied Anya. Her ankles were crossed, bound there and at the knees. Her agonized, dark green eyes darted up when they entered to lock fearfully on his. The Procurer recognized this sleek, fit, well-endowed girl immediately. Mari Olenakov, Lathuania’s best hope of a skating medal at the winter Olympics…until she defected at the World Nationals.
“Mari…,” he breathed.
She made a noise of agonized disbelief when she understood his expression, then her head fell back and she rolled onto her side away from them…her body beginning to shake.
“Oh yes,” said one of the men. “But she’s not all.” They turned to look at him in surprise, but he merely crooked his finger and led the way to the next door.
Pulling it open, they saw a room designed as a gym practice space, complete with hanging rings, vaulting horse, crossbeam, and uneven parallel bars. And on the floor mat was a small, curvy girl in gym shorts and a bulging skintight, low cut top that also revealed a few inches of her firm, flat midriff.
Her head was round, with big dark eyes. Her nose was small. And her small, cute, downturned mouth was so filled with a giant ball gag they thought the edges of her mouth might split. She had short black hair slicked back in the style of many gymnasts. She was short, also like many gymnasts, but her body was something else again.
“Natalia Balinakov,” one of the men said. “Started developing at 15. By the end of the season she could no longer buy bras in regular shops.”
They had tied her to display that fact—her elbows cinched together painfully behind her, her thumbs cuffed. On her bound feet were tiny gymnast slippers with a little flower at the front opening.
Her breasts were honeydew melons, completely belying her little girl looks and small stature.
“She thought the undergarment shopping would be better in America,” the second man scoffed.
“That all…?” the Procurer managed to croak, pulling his eyes from the little girl’s luscious form with effort.
The first man shook his head, holding up a forefinger. “One more.”
Her name was Karina Dorekin and she was in a dance studio room. She was a prima ballerina, with deep blue, wide set eyes, blonde hair, and a dancer’s body—except for fine, full, firm Lathuanian breasts — dressed in a classic Swan Lake outfit, complete with fur tiara, stiff frilly skirt, and pink toe-shoes which laced up her shin with pink ribbons.
They had tied and gagged her with performance tape to the practice bar along the mirrored wall, her chest heaving, one leg bent back and the other stretched all the way in front of her.
“Let me guess,” the Procurer said huskily. “Thought she could find better parts in the U.S.”
The first man nodded solemnly. The second man spoke cheerily. “Which one do you want first?”
He took the gymnast first, bouncing her on his erection as he lay on the gym mat. She drooled onto his chest as he gripped her luscious waist and succulent tits.
They gave The Bitch cash as he fucked the skater next—on her back on the locker room floor.
They showed her the security room while he raped the ballerina last, tying her wrists to her ankles and then both wide to the practice bar.
“Why bind and gag them?” The Bitch asked the men as the Procurer returned to the gymnast, tying her wrists to the overhead rings, sucking on her tits as he gripped her ripe ass cheeks and rammed his cock up her.
“These walls and floors are specially made,” one of the men told her as her brother came in the buxom little girl again. “But not the ceiling. We had to deal with structural realities….”
“Besides,” said the other as the Procurer pulled the penis-prod gag from the skater’s lips and replaced it with his own cock . “Not every member of the diplomatic delegation has the same…shall we say…interests. It wouldn’t do to have any of these…misguided…young ladies alert certain members of the staff to their… how do you say… debriefing….”
The word was well chosen because at that very moment, her brother was relieving the ballerina of her briefs in order to force her on her face, raise her haunches, and fuck her up the ass.
Even then he wasn’t finished. A tit fuck on the gymnast was next, followed immediately by her being forced to sit, legs straddling, the beam — its wicked surface spreading her labia lips and effectively impaling her after he tied her ankles to bolts in the floor with rope lengths.
He sunk his meat into the skater again up against the wall as the two men showed The Bitch the video view of the study at the end of the hall.
Anya Dubchek was kneeling on the carpet, a man under her, shoving his cock up her cunt, while a man kneeled behind her, fucking her up the ass.
A man held her head at his crotch level, forcing his erection deep into her ring-gagged mouth; and two men, on either side of her, had their shafts in her furiously stroking hands.
The only thing that managed to distract the Bitch was the sudden appearance in the doorway of the Procurer, clamping the little gymnast’s mouth shut and kneading her whopping great boob so hard her feet were two inches off the floor.
“Hey guys,” he said. “Where are my manners? Want a taste?”
The men looked at each other, then back at the way the bounteous girl’s eyes were shut in effort and the way her silky black cunt hair made an exclamation where her thighs almost met.
“How do you say?” the first man answered, “‘Don’t mind if we do…?'”
The first man was mauling the skater’s ample breasts while fucking her on the locker room floor. The second man was standing behind the bent-over gymnast, gripping her hips, and ramming her on his erection as he reached down and milked her mams for all they were worth.
The Bitch was in with the ballerina, raping her with a handy dildo, while the Procurer sat, smoking, in the security room, with the images of the attacks all around him.
His eyes, however, were on the central screen as sultry Anya Dubchek—the teenager with the liquid eyes and lips, was spread-eagled on the pool table, being gang raped with cues.
When they finally left the cellar rooms the following morning, Mali’s head was covered in a hood, her mouth packed with a huge pear gag. Her long naked body was covered in wire: wires attaching her wrists behind her to her shoulders; wires pulling her nipples together; wires tight around her waist and cutting between her labia lips; wires encircling her knees and crossed ankles; wire tying her big toes together. And on every inch of her smooth, tan, skin were streaks and dots and puddles of cum.
Karina was doing a split on the wall, one wrist tied to an ankle over her head, the other wrenched high up her back. Her tutu skirt was on the floor, the rest stuffed and tied in her mouth. One toe shoe was on the floor, her balance in that impossibly tortured position kept by an impaling pole deep in her vagina .
42/ And Natalia…big-chested Natalia was against one of the uneven parallel bars, her wrists tied high up her back. Her feet were just scraping the floor because a taut wire went from one nipple, over the higher uneven parallel bar, and down to her other nipple.
She was being kept erect by her chest as she screamed endlessly into the gym shorts tied in her mouth with her shirt.
But before they left the consulate, the Procurer and Bitch were brought to the infirmary. There they entered a locked, private room. Behind a curtain was a specially made adjustable bed, with the hydraulics already set to sit the patient slightly up.
There Anya Dubchek lay, her wrists and ankles shackled wide with hospital restraints. The ring gag (brought down a few notches) was still in her mouth, and, over that, an opaque plastic hospital gas mask adhered to her head with elastic. An IV was in her porcelain arm.
Her eyelids drooped but it was obvious that she was awake. And, under the single sheet, she was naked. The two Lithuanian men approached her without formality and expertly removed the mask and ring gag. They stood on either side of her, one holding her head up by her silky hair.
“Say ‘thank you,'” he instructed her.
Anya stared woozily at the Procurer for a moment, then her expression twisted into one of consummate agony and tears began to stream out of her eyes. She reared slowly back, her arms and legs twisting in their restraints—the sound emerging from her slack mouth one of total torment.
“Say ‘thank you’!” he repeated, shaking her head sharply once.
Anya started to writhe on the bed, clawing and kicking. “Nenh,” she managed to choke out, drool pouring over her lower lip and down her sweet chin. “Nah, nenh, nah…!”
The other man suddenly gripped her head in both hands, stuck his mouth against her ear, and hissed, “Say thank you to the man for bringing you back to where you’ve always belonged.” He shook her head again. “Say thank you for allowing you to do your civic duty as a daughter of Lathuania…!”
She nearly got the scream out, her body heaving up, knees and elbows bent, hands open wide. But the other man was too fast, sealing her lips with his ring-gag-filled hand then neatly ratcheting it all the way up.
Anya dropped down to the bed, body still wracked by sobs, with her mouth all the way open.
The men looked apologetically at the Procurer and The Bitch as the blonde cringed, trying to cover her bawling face with her bound arms. “Girls nowadays,” one murmured, shrugging.
“Well, feel free to make your farewells,” said the other. Then both men left.
The two white slavers looked at each other for just one moment.
Back in the security video room, the two men watched the infirmary screen in the company of a state department executive, Lithuania’s leading diplomat, and his office staff.
The Procurer’s cock was all the way in Anya’s mouth. He held the top of her head with one hand and mauled her breasts with the other as he stood beside the top of the bed. Her hands were open, her eyes closed, and her head was turned all the way to her right.
The Bitch was kneeling between the girl’s legs, her mouth seemingly attached to her vagina. The sheet was off the bed and Anya’s porcelain body was covered in goose bumps and a sheen of moisture. Between the sucking and slurping sounds she would suddenly start to moan —the sound rising to a crescendo as her body lifted off the mattress….
to be continued
She would jerk in her bonds one, twice, or three times, then collapse again. Even so, the man never stopped kneading her tits or removed his crank from her mouth as he kept her head moving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth….
Just as he was about to come, he traded places with The Bitch. She forced the girl to lick her tiny breasts and great distended nipples as the man plugged Anya with his huge, throbbing member. The Bitch covered the girl’s screaming mouth as he came in her, but still they weren’t done.
He took a tit fuck before finally dismounting the girl’s ravaged body, leaving more cum splattering her face. “One for the road,” he said as The Bitch punched a button on the bed, dropping the torso portion of the mattress.
Anya gave one last shriek and then blubbered bitterly, devastated by the betrayal and sexual vengeance.
The two left the infirmary without looking back as a team of male nurses moved quickly past them, their hands filled with syringes. Within moments, every one of Anya’s orifices were plugged: lubricating pump in her vagina, a nutriment feeder in her mouth, oxygen in her nostrils, and brainwashing propaganda in her earphones.
The men in the security room congratulated each other as the nondescript white van drove out of the garage. The two men who had chaperoned the white slavers watched the van pull back out onto the Manhattan street.
“Wonder where they’re going…?” one mused.
The other shrugged. “Said something about catching a plane….”
Then they went into the hall to prepare the skater for her breakfast meeting, the gymnast for her luncheon, and the ballerina for her dinner party…