THE GRAB

BY GRANGE
Grange@emailaccount.com

DISCLAIMER: The following piece of fiction is intended as adult entertainment and has been posted by the author only to an appropriate group on the Internet. It is not intended for children, and the author does not condone making it accessible to children.

Permission to electronically repost, store, and copy this work is freely granted by the author, provided that both this disclaimer and the contact information at the end of the work are included.

All characters in this work are fictitious, any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The author does not necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities detailed in this story, some of which are dangerous and/or illegal.

I don’t know exactly when I realized that I was society’s last great demon. My sexual development was perfectly ordinary, if that means anything. I mean to say that I’m not coming to my predilection with a background of childhood trauma or abuse. When I was thirteen, a friend of Bill Gammel’s had gotten a stack of Playboy magazines from the dumpster of a 7-11. Bill and I walked clear across down to look at them in his basement, and we all experienced a fairly typical reaction for healthy pubescent boys. Later that summer, I had my first kiss at a party at Conrad Scott’s house. We played a game called “Five Minutes in Paradise,” and I was put in a closet for five minutes with a girl named Suzie-Something. We stood there awkwardly in the dark for four-minutes-and-fifty-seconds, and then we simply, clumsily kissed. I hurt my lip on her teeth.

As a few years went by, I noticed something. I was fifteen years old, but I was still attracted to girls barely in their teens, or even younger. I worked as a ticket-taker in a movie theater, and I would find my fingers lingering on the hands of twelve year olds as they handed me their tickets to be torn. I played games with myself, seeing how many little girls’ hands I could touch in, say, an hour. I told someone, maybe even Bill Gammel, about my fantasies about the girls I saw at my work, and he gave me a look I won’t ever forget. It just about shriveled my insides and made me feel like I was a piece of dog shit he’d found on the bottom of his shoe. I shut up about it, and never mentioned it to anyone again, but luckily for me Bill Gammel didn’t find it any more tasteful to talk about than he did to hear about, because it never got out. We weren’t friends after that, but I’d learned how to keep that particular secret, let me tell
you.

I never got a chance to act on my fantasies, my desires because the fear of arrest and imprisonment was too great. I never got a chance to indulge, that is, until the Army. Until James.

If childhood sexual abuse is the only thing with sufficient explanatory power for the existence of a pedophile, then I am simply an anomaly, because I was never abused. I’ve never asked James for the reasons he shares my tastes, nor he mine. He told me something once that’s stuck with me.

“David,” he said, “David, what you simply have to realize is that causal explanations, especially in matters of taste, eventually dead-end. You get to a certain point, and it simply boils down to ‘things just are that way.’ I’ll give you an example. You’re a coffee drinker, am I right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“It perks me up in the morning,” I said.

“But you don’t drink it just in the morning.”

“You’re right. OK, I like coffee.”

“Why?” he asked.

“It tastes good.”

“Why do you think so?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why do you think coffee tastes good?” James asked.

“It’s…the way I react to it. I enjoy the taste of it, my brain and my tongue work together and tell me that I like this.”

“There you go,” James said. “Questions of taste, of personal preference, cannot be ‘whyed.’ There is no reason, no reason at all why you’re a coffee drinker and I’m a tea drinker, nothing can explain that simple fact unless you want to boil everything down to the genetic level, and that’s so far removed from our frame of reference as to be irrelevant. You like what you like, and that’s all there is to it, plain and simple.”

“And you think that being sexually attracted to little girls is just like preferring coffee to tea?”

“It’s no different, fundamentally no different, from preferring blondes to brunettes, or black girls or Asian girls. Or men to women, for that matter. Just a question of taste, David. The only difference is that our taste does not have universal social acceptance. Quite the opposite, actually. So men like us must be careful, so very careful, David.”

I work for James, or with him, I’m not entirely certain. We acquire girls, and process them; the end result being a young plaything for men that share our tastes. James handled the processing, and he excelled at his role He could take any normal, healthy young girl above the age of six or so and turn her into an obedient bedwarmer in a little under six months. He used a combination of drug therapy, negative aversion and positive reinforcement. How he learned to do this, however, I have no idea. We met in the Service, so as far as I knew he had helped himself to the leavings from the now defunct MK-ULTRA project. I hadn’t asked in all the years of knowing him, being comfortable being kept in ignorance. All that mattered, after all, was the results. And we obtained them, to our financial advantage. I nabbed the girls, and delivered them safely to James. I pulled a job five or six times a year, and took the train down from New York to visit with my dear friend and “assist” him in the training process as often as I could.

I put in a solid hour’s drive after grabbing Jackie before pulling off the Interstate for a quick stopover at an all-night McDonald’s. I pulled the van in towards the back of the lot, out of the spotlight of the yellow halon lamps. I had a suitcase full of travel necessities in the passenger seat, spare clothes that would be less conspicuous for someone driving a utility van than a Brooks Brother’s suit. I saw another car follow my trail through the lot and park at the back, only he didn’t avoid the lamps. As I changed my clothes, I saw him get out of his car and stop suddenly as he was passing the trunk. He looked thirty-something, not unattractive, slightly geeky. His hands flew to the pockets of his jeans, as if he realized that he might have been a dumbass and left his wallet or his keys in the car. He found what he was looking for, evidently, because he smiled to himself and went into the McDonald’s about a minute before I did.

Before I left, I moved into the back of the van to check on my cargo. She was still out, but her breathing was light and low, pulse strong and steady. I was struck again by just how beautiful she was, how fragile, how desirable. I put my hands on her stomach, on her boyish hips, and thought of all the things I could do to her. I ran my hands across her youthful body, letting my hands drink in the sensation of her warm skin. “Youth is the win upon which old men become drunk” some dead Greek had once said, and ain’t that the truth?

As I entered, my shoulder brushed a State Trooper’s, and I must confess that my immediate impulse was to rabbit-punch him in the throat and beat cheeks. Which just goes to show that instincts are not your friends in the kidnapping business. Cool, uncompromising logic told me that there was no way I could have been trailed so quickly to this particular McDonald’s, even if I had been, it would have been the FBI, not the State Police waiting for me, but all the same I got a panic, a shrill moment when I almost went into kill mode. Luckily for me, none of this showed up on my face, otherwise Statie probably would have shot me in self-defense.

The McDonald’s had switched to cooking to order. There was a couple of truck drivers and the guy I’d seen earlier loading up with coffee in a thermos and quarter pounders for the road. I ordered mine to eat in, because I hate eating in a car, and I didn’t want to wait until we got to the hotel to try and find something there. I was still hungry, and wolfed down a pair of Big Macs, large fries, and a chocolate shake.

Kidnapping and crossing state lines with a minor gets you 20 years to life in a federal penitentiary. Murder-1 in most of New England sees you doing an average stretch of 8 years with good behavior, in a state pen, too. Just random facts floating around in my head at 0252 hours on a cool August morning as I ate a burger and fries.

Before getting back in the van I did a few stretches and cricked my neck. I’m an active guy, and sitting still for most of the day had made me all tense. I checked Jackie again, no change, and got back on the road, carefully observing the speed limit

I pulled into the Rodeways Inn in Hartford fifty minutes later. I make it a point to use that particular motel if I’m making a grab in New England and I can get there without going out of my way or messing the schedule. Not just because they make it nice for travelers and truckers without making it feel like a truck stop, but because they’re used to having people come and go at all hours, some dead on their feet, and have implemented a convenience feature I find absolutely invaluable. They’d gone away from door keys and onto key cards, and if you didn’t particularly feel like going through the check-in process, you could make your reservations and prepay with a credit card. That credit card was then the room key that would open your door. You could deal with this place without ever having to make contact with another human being. I threw business their way whenever I could for that courtesy. Plus, there was free coffee if I felt like going down to the check-in area, real coffee from a Krupps brewer, not the brown dishwater liquid machines spit out. Inside, the rooms were large and clean, and the beds were comfortable. There was an indoor pool with Jacuzzi and sauna. A good bar, an okay restaurant. I wouldn’t drive out of my way to get there, but it was worth planning the trip to stop there.

I backed pulled the van into the nearest empty space near my room, so that the cargo door faced the hotel-room door. I’d requested a room on the ground floor, 112, and found it without much fuss. I got out and took a look around. There was a separate parking lot for big-rig trucks that had more vehicles than the normal lot did. There wasn’t a person in sight. I heard only the distant sounds of cars of the freeway, and the hum of halogen lamps that cast a subtle tint over the lot. I moved Jackie’s suitcase and my own into the room first, both to get the smaller stuff moved before the bigger, as well to test that my credit card was working. It was.

I got into the back of the van and switched on the light. Jackie was starting to stir, slightly, coming up from her drug-induced sleep. I unfastened the locks binding her in place, but kept the bands around her wrists and ankles. I put her back in the canvas girl-bag, and took a last look around to make sure I had privacy. I managed to transfer her from the van to the room, taking only a few seconds.

Back in the room, I unzipped her from the bag, and set her on the bed furthest from the door. I pulled the bed away from the wall to prevent the headboard from banging, and prepared the bed to hold her for a few hours.

From my bag I retrieved two long, thick leather straps with fastening buckles on either end. These had been measured and cut by me to attach to most double and full-sized beds easily. I draped them across the bed, around the mattress and box spring, and between the box spring and frame. The first one crossed the bed at head level, the second at the foot of the bed. I attached Jackie’s cuffs to rings in the leather, once more drawing her arms to the side and legs apart. I took off the blindfold and collar, but left her gagged. She was making noises as I finished securing her, and I felt that she would be awake soon. I drew the curtains open and taped black garbage bags all around the window frame, behind the blinds before reclosing the curtain. Trust me, light through a hotel room window is a killer when you’re on a nocturnal sleep schedule. I switched on the lights, and left the room long enough to move the van across the parking lot. I grabbed some coffee from the check-in area, and sipped it as I tried to find a spot where I could get cell phone reception. I called two numbers, a voice mail system and that of a private residence in Virginia. There were no messages waiting for me at the first number, and when I reached the second number and heard the connection, I spoke two words: “Pink butterfly,” before hanging up.

When I got back into the room, Jackie was awake. She must have just woken, too, because she was fluttering her large blue eyes rapidly, probably to clear the cobwebs that chemical sedation induces. I smiled at her as I entered, and those eyes turned fearfully to me.

“Hello,” I said.

Her first reaction was fairly predictable; she tried to scream through her gag and pulled at the bonds holding her in place.

“That won’t do you any good. No good at all. I’m not an amateur here, you realize,” I added this with a touch professional pride. “I think it’s important that you understand that you’re not getting out of those straps until I release you.” She stopped struggling, but started up again when I sat down on the bed beside her. “You’ve probably got a headache, it’s normal, and it will pass. So will your disorientation and light-headedness.” I got a penlight from my pocket and shone it in her eyes. “Do you see any black spots in front of your eyes, or have blurred vision?”

She didn’t make a move to answer me as I examined her pupils. I looked down at her and put the penlight away. “Petulance isn’t going to help you, Jackie.” She started at the sound of her name, her face grew a little paler, her eyes a little wider. “I’m asking these questions to make certain that you haven’t had any unforeseen reactions to the drug I used on you that will come back to bite you in the ass later on. It’s for your health that I’m asking, not mine. Do you see any black spots?”

She took a long, nervous look at me before she shook her head.

“Good,” I said. “How about your vision? Are things all blurry?”

Again the blonde head shook from side to side.

“All right,” I said. “Now let’s have us a talk, a serious type talk. But there’s a problem. If we’re going to do that, I’m going to have to take your gag out of your mouth. Your first impulse is, understandable enough, going to be to scream. Jackie, I cannot caution you strongly enough against that. Not only is it going to earn you some painful consequences, but it’s futile. Let me show you.” I got to my feet and walked to the wall behind the beds. Her head craned up to follow me as I pounded on the wall with my first, hard, three times. “Hear that princess? That’s the sound of a foot and a half of concrete. They had that in mind when they built this place, that a man should be able to get a good night’s sleep without being woken up five times by the neighbors fucking. You can scream your head off, and nobody’s going to hear a thing unless they’re right outside the door.” I walked back to the bed slowly, letting my shadow fall over her body narrowed my eyes. “I’d bet that you could even fire a gun in here, and nobody would know. Are we clear, Jackie?”

She looked away from me, tears welling in her eyes.

I grabbed her by the chin and forced her face back to me. “Clear?” I snapped?

She nodded.

“All right. I’m going to take your gag out now. Remember what I said. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. If you don’t make me hurt you, you will find our time together much more enjoyable. Or at least much less painful. It’s the same to me in the end.” She stared hard at me, and I realized that I was mistaken when I’d called her eyes blue. Or at least, merely blue. They were clear-vibrant blue, but – shadowed over by heavy lids and long, thick lashes – they darkened to purple. Opening them wide, therefore, had the effect of seeming to change their color. I watched her do this a few times, enraptured.

“Do you understand me, Jackie?” I reached for the strips of duct tape and pulled them slowly from her face. They left behind angry red marks at the sides of her mouth. She tried to pull away when I put my hands in her mouth to pull out the padding, but relented when she tried to spit it out and failed. She coughed and hacked, her mouth and throat parched.

“Thirsty,” she croaked. I had a sports bottle of water ready, and held it to her lips. She drank as much as I allowed, but we had less than an optimal position, and a good bit of it ran down the sides of her face. I took a napkin to her cheeks and dried them off, smiling to myself at the intimacy of the gesture, the first I’d had with her while she’d been a awake and aware.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“Hmm. You chose where,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Jackie, as you’ve no doubt learned from your English classes, there are six kinds of questions. Who, what, when, where, why, and how. The very first question you asked me wasn’t who I was, or what I had done to you, but where you were. Now why was that, Jackie?”

She didn’t answer me right away, only slunk down a little and shrugged her shoulders.

“Don’t know? Ahh, forgive me, one of my hobbies is to play amateur psychologist. Anyway, to answer, you’re in a hotel room. By the way, you did the right thing in not screaming. Very smart of you. I would have had to hurt you if you had, and I hope you believe me when I say that I have a way or two of hurting little girls.”

She straightened herself out and summoned up as much pride and dignity as her situation would allow. “Why have you done this?”

“For reasons that have nothing to do with you as a person, and everything to do with your age and sex, in equal importance.”

In conversing with her, I gained an admiration for Jackie Friedman. She was holding herself up remarkably well, and didn’t bandy about by pleading with me to let her go, or degenerate into sobbing for her mother. I felt a curious sense of pride, as if she was my own daughter being subjected to this stress and fear, and bearing it so well. And she had a fair bit of acumen, too. Talking to her, I almost forgot that she was a child, because she spoke to me so intelligently. “Are you going to rape me?” she asked.

I raised an eyebrow at her. She took a very deep breath. “Mom says that I have to be very careful about talking with strangers, or going in cars with them, and stuff like that. It’s because sometimes little girls get kidnapped and raped.”

“I see,” I said levelly as I stood up and paced at the foot of her bed. “And do you know what rape means, princess?”

Her cheeks deepend slowly into a bright, crimson color, and she had to look away from me again.

“Is that a yes?”

She didn’t answer, so I pressed a finger into the posterior interosseous nerve, on the back of her left forearm. The pain, as I’ve experienced when that particular nerve is stimulated by someone with sufficient strength and anatomical knowledge, is nothing less severe than that induced by a branding iron. She screamed, shrieked really, and jerked in her bonds.

“A word of advice, princess. In the future when you are asked questions, you’d be advised to answer them promptly. Now I’ll ask you again. Do you know what rape means?”

“Yes, yes!” she cried, her resolve beginning to crack. Tears welled up in her eyes again. I sat down on the edge of the bed next to her, and she shied away from me as best she could.

“Good girl,” I said. “Now tell me.”

She didn’t want to at first, but I put my finger on her thigh and slowly started to add pressure. She broke before I hurt her. “Stop, please. It’s when a man…a man puts his…his…”

“Penis,” I supplied.

“Penis…inside a…in a girl when she’s said no.”

“Where in a girl?” I asked.

She took a deep breath. Shame and fear had deepened her blush to an almost maroon shade. “In her vagina,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

I took my hand away from her, and she rested easier. “That’s an awful grown-up thing for such a young girl to know about,” I said. “Did your mom tell you all that.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Why did your mom tell you all that stuff?”

She looked away, but she had learned better than to fail to answer a question I put to her. Her voice was tinted with sad recollections. “I knew a girl two years ago who had to be taken out of school. I asked why, and I heard that Cheryl had an uncle who had molested her and raped her before he was arrested and sent to jail. I asked Mom what it meant.”

“And she gave you the talk? About sex?”

“Yes,” she said.

I bent down and kissed her on the top of her head. She jerked as if my lips had been red hot, and I smiled at her. “No, darling, I’m not going to rape you.” I was being honest with her, at least.

She wasn’t to be fooled. “You’re not?”

“Oh my,” I said. “Some of us are so sharp that we should be careful that we don’t cut ourselves.” I was lighthearted as I said this, and surprise surprise, it only seemed to make her indignant, and drove the fear away.

“But someone else will?” she pressed.

I think that we passed the need to lie to each other at some point, so I just shrugged. “Yeah. Probably a lot by the time they’re done. What did you expect?”

She didn’t have an answer, nor did I expect one. I went to get my overnight bag and unzipped it on the bed I was going to use that night. She craned her neck to look at what I was doing. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m the guy that’s kidnapped you, Jacqueline Marie Friedman,” I said with my back to her. Whatever effect I figured her full name would have on her, it didn’t.

“What’s your name?”

“Why do you want to know?” I asked.

“I could just say ‘you’ whenever I talked to you. But that’s not respectful.”

I laughed, something I don’t do very often, not out loud, not because of other people. She put me in a better mood than I thought. “Tell you what. Since we’re so intimate and all, me having been up to your room, why don’t you call me David. It is my Christian name, after all.”

“Is it really?”

“Yes it is, believe it or not. And no, I have no fear of telling it to you. It wouldn’t do you much good, I’m afraid.”

I could almost see the process of her reasoning. “But if I get away,” she said hesitantly. “I can give your name. I know what you look like.”

“Oh, that’s true enough, princess. But that will only do you good if you get away. I’ve been doing this long enough to be able to tell you that’s a non-issue. Now, would you like me to untie you?”

She was eager, but not so much that it overrode her common sense. “Why?” she asked.

“Because we have some work to do that, for reasons which you will soon learn, require you to be untied. You can either choose to cooperate with me and behave yourself, or I can give you a shot that will put you out again and do what I need to do while you sleep.”

She set her jaw, and stared at me. I had to give her credit for being amazingly brave, braver than I would have been, to tell you the truth. “If what you say is true, if I’m not going to be let go, and all the bad things that are going to happen to me, then why should I do what you say?”

Nodding, I conceded the point to her. “Here’s why. As long as you’re untied and conscious, there’s the chance, no matter how improbable, that I’ll make a mistake, leave you a window that you could use to get away. You won’t be able to take it if I keep you under sedation the entire time.”

Jackie spent some time thinking about that. I had gotten what I needed, and set the shaving kit I carried with me to the side. I was a little tired, but not too tired that I wouldn’t let things unfold how they would.

“If there’s a chance with me awake that you could make a mistake,” she said in a slow, methodical tone. “Then why aren’t you keeping me asleep the whole time?”

“A few reasons,” I said. “First of all, it’s not that good for you to be sedated again and again like that, in quick succession. It probably wouldn’t be a factor for the trip we’re going to make; as it won’t take longer than two days from tomorrow to get where we’re going.” I held up my hand to stop her question. “No, I won’t tell you where we’re going. It’s against the rules, princess. Keeping you sedated would probably be safe, but drug reactions are very tricky, and it’s probably less risky from my point of view to keep you bound, but awake. Secondly, and probably more importantly, I’m keeping you awake because I like little girls, I like their company. I’ll admit that I’ve never met one like you, but that just makes me like you all the more.”

She gave me a hard stare that women twenty years her senior would have had trouble matching. “You’re a pedo,” she said, as if stating a fact she’d read in a school textbook.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re not mad that I called you that?”

“Why should I be mad? It’s true, plain and simple.”

“I thought it was a bad thing.”

“It is. I’m a bad guy, remember? Now do you want me to untie you or not?”

She weighed her options, and nodded.

“All right. But first we have to have an understanding. An agreement. Just like a contract. Do you know what a contract is?”

“Yeah. It’s like a promise.”

“Right. Exactly like a promise, Jackie. You have to promise me that, when I say so, you will let me tie you up again. You won’t try to beg and plead, kick or scream, carry on or argue with me over it. If you do, you won’t be able to stop me from doing it anyway, and I will punish you for breaking your word. Not gentle like before, no, if you go back on this I will hurt you bad, Jackie. And I keep my promises.” I saw her think about it, long and hard, and at length she nodded.

“All right. Just remember your word if you should be seized by a sudden impulse to do anything foolish. Look at the bruise on your forearm before you decide to do anything. I’ll get to untying you in just a minute. Something I need to take care of first.”

Her eyes widened like two Blue Willow dinner plates when I came back to her bed with a pair of heavy-duty scissors in my hand. I lifted her tight cami top and began cutting. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice shrill and panic-gripped.

“No carrying on, Jackie. Don’t break your promise before I’ve even untied you. It’s nothing I haven’t seen, or touched before.”

“You…you touched me?”

I nodded, and saw once again the anger that rose up and pushed her fear aside. She stared daggers at me as I cut her shirt, from top to bottom, along both sides, in the center of her chest, and the thin spaghetti straps over her supple shoulders. I separated the pieces, and pulled them off of her, beholding clearly for the first time her naked chest. She had only the smallest of curves from her waist to her hips, and her stomach had a slight cushion of puppy fat. Her breasts were tiny bumps beneath her coral pink nipples. There was a light smattering of freckles across her stomach, and tan lines across her childish breasts from a bikini top. I felt such a rush at seeing her, bound to the bed dressed only in a pair of checkered boxer shorts that I felt lightheaded myself. I licked my dry lips and brought my hands near her, not touching, but almost. Jackie sensed the intensity of my gaze, and tried to squirm away from my caress. Doing so brought her right hip into contact with my left hand, and I felt her bare skin’s warmth, and that touch was like the first I’d ever had, electric, sending currents racing down my arm and back, tightening my breath and making my dizzy with lust. I exhaled, my breath ragged and shuddering, and I think I said something like, “So beautiful,” but wasn’t sure.

Next came her boxer shorts. I cut them from leg to waist, on the outsides of her legs, making the cuts small. I easily spent five minutes on this task, and at some point it became too much for her, and she began to beg me not to strip her. She did so without raising her voice, so I didn’t bother to respond. Snip, snip, snip, with slow movements I completed my task, and drew the shredded material aside.

Her thighs were firm, but soft, and quite slim without being skinny. Her bottom actually had a more beautiful curve to it than I would have expected, even having seen how well she filled her jeans and sweat shorts. Her pussy was smooth and hairless, and gaped slightly from the position of her legs, showing the folds of her inner labia, the hood of her pearl. She started to sob, silently, tears spilling down her cheeks, and sniffling.

The first thing she did when I had unchained her was to curl up, and cover her chest with her arms, her shoulders heaving. I actually removed the cuffs, not merely unfastened them from the bed, and she rubbed at her chafed wrists, at the red, indented flesh the soft lining had been unable to prevent. I walked to the brief hallway separating the sleeping area of the room from the bathroom. “Go ahead and use the bathroom if you have to. I’ll be along in a minute. Don’t close the door.”

She slunk away like a dog that had been whipped. She obeyed me by not closing the door, though she did swing it to block my view of her reflected in the hall mirror, leaving it ajar by a foot. I heard the sound of her blowing her nose and flushing a few times, but she evidently had difficulty making water with me so close, because after a minute she turned the faucet on and covered up any sounds from that point on. I figured that she also would have checked the bathroom for a window or an air conditioning vent large enough for her to crawl through, but even if either of them had existed, I doubt she could have tossed aside her mortification at being naked for them to do her any good. Then again, she was an extraordinary child, and I wouldn’t have put it past her to run out into the parking lot stark naked if she had the chance. I better make certain that she didn’t have the chance.

I placed her cut garments in her suitcase, and selected another outfit; a modest skirt and a flower print blouse in a nice pastel yellow color. Those I set on the round table in the room. I fetched her wallet, and emptied it of cash, then returned it to the case. There wasn’t much money, forty bucks, maybe, and a few pictures and other things. Money is money, and I took it, but everything else got put in her case and set next to the door. I pulled on a pair of latex gloves and went to the bathroom, armed with the shaving kit.

The faucet was still running, hot water steaming the large medicine cabinet mirror. She sat on the edge of the bathtub in abject misery, covering herself as best she could, and my heart, and my cock, were swayed by her helplessness, her beauty, her youth. I wanted her.

“Turn the bath on,” I said.

“Why?” she asked, her voice no louder than a mouse’s breath.

“Because I told you to,” I said, laying the shaving kit on the sink. I took out another pair of scissors, a pair smaller but sharper, barber’s scissors, and a pair of plastic bottles. Each was half full, one with a clear liquid, the other with a viscous black gel. The bottle containing the clear liquid had a squeeze-top, the gel a twist cap.

She turned the water on, throwing glances over her shoulder, either to see that I wasn’t looking, or in curiosity at what I was doing. I transferred the black gel into the other bottle and replaced the top. I stoppered the top with my finger and shook the mixture vigorously. The gel lost its consistency in the clear solution, and it all turned murky and slightly thicker than cream.

“Come here.”

She came to me, her hands crossed over her cunt. “In front of me,” I said, “looking into the mirror.” The bathroom was wide enough between the sink and the rear wall to accommodate both of us, and I rested my glove-encased hands on her shoulders. She realized the futility of trying to cover herself then, since I could see her front in the mirror and her backside with my own eyes, if I lowered my gaze. She let her hands hang at her side, blushing furiously, teary-eyed. Jackie looked at me in the fogging mirror, and I looked at her for a long, silent moment. Then I handed her a comb from the kit. “Brush out your hair.”

The hours of sleep she had gotten before I grabbed her, combined with my treatment afterwards, had tangled her hair in several places, aided by its own natural thickness. It took her some minutes of work even with the wide-toothed comb to get out enough of the tangles so as to be able to brush from scalp to end without snagging. I gave her a finer comb, and she did even better, dressing her strawberry-blonde tresses into a shimmering cover of her shoulders and back. I smiled as I watched her, and she glared back at me.

“Get your hair wet, just a little damp, under the faucet,” I told her. She stepped into the tub, and turned as if she was waiting for me to leave. I folded my arms across my chest and leaned against the door, closing it. She stared at me. I stared at her. Finally, with a frustrated sob, she lowered herself with as much dignity as possible, and dunked her head beneath the spray of water. I went over to her and lifted her from the tub, setting her down in front of the mirror again.

“Keep your hands at your sides, princess. You’re probably not going to like me for this, but them’s the breaks. Remember your agreement?”

“I remember,” she replied sullenly.

“Keep remembering.” I squeezed a dollop of the hair dye onto my fingers, and began to work it into her scalp. I can’t say that I have great massage technique, but I’m at least passing fair. I once had a girlfriend, or at least, a friend who was a girl, at least, teach me how to shampoo hair. She picked up some extra money in the summer, shampooing hair in her mother’s beauty salon, and received excellent tips for her skill. Whatever skill that was that had passed to me, Jackie was now receiving the benefit of it. She closed her eyes when my fingers smeared the thick goop over the slight widow’s peak, rubbed it into the thinner, finer hairs around her temples and behind her ears. There wasn’t enough dye in one application to get all her hair, but there was enough for my purposes. I kept working, applying more dye when I had the need, from scalp on down, until I had coated her hair down to her shoulder blades. Her eyebrows were probably dark enough, but I played it safe and took a Q-tip and rubbed a smidge there as well. A good foot of her hair remained undyed, and I then picked up the barber’s scissors.

“Remember not to fight me, Jackie. I can just as easily do this with you unconscious.” I could tell this was an effort for her as I began cutting her hair. Nothing fancy, I just went in a straight line half-an-inch below the dye-line. The long strands of reddish-blonde fell to the ground at her feet, and when I’d finished I gathered up all that was visible and put it in the sink.

“You’re changing my hair color and style so that no one will recognize me if they see me,” she said.

“Very good,” I said. “You get the cookie.”

“Do you really think that’ll work? I mean, it’s kind of obvious.”

I chuckled again as I pulled the gloves from my fingers. “You know Jackie, that’s the great thing about people. They just don’t notice, they’re like horses. You cover their heads with the littlest disguise, and they’re completely docile. Don’t touch it!” I snapped as her hand strayed to explore the new line of her hair. “You’ll get dye on your fingers.” I told her to sit on the toilet while I gathered the spent dye applicator, gloves, and the hair from the sink and put them in a plastic bag. I got a bit of rubbing alcohol and cleaned out the interior of the sink, and a lint brush and swept the bathroom floor in the direction of the room for the maid to vacuum up when we departed the premises.

Before instructing her to lie back in the tub, I slipped into a fresh pair of gloves. I had her hold her head beneath the faucet for a good five minutes, until the run-off was moderately clean, and then gave her a fresh scrubbing with shampoo. Not the free shampoo they give you with the room, but salon-grade stuff from a travel bottle I carry. I washed until all the dye that was going to come off had come out, and shut off the water. At some point in the proceedings, my t-shirt had gotten soaked, so I pulled it off and set it down somewhere. I shut off the water, Jackie’s hair black and smooth against her head. She sat up, her eyes dried, but miserable. I gave her a towel and had her come back to the sink.

I examined her critically. I could already tell from her eyebrows what effect the dye would have on her. Her brows were slim, graceful lines, and they had been darkened considerably by the dye. It had the effect of making her skin seem lighter, her forehead higher, the line of her hair more exact. I took over the combing this time, and evened out her hair cut. I took it even shorter, the tips just gracing the swell of her shoulders, and played with the part. Jackie, in the days I had watched her and in photos I had seen, brushed her hair back and ponytailed it. I parted it in the middle and swept it over her ears as it dried. The dye had the effect of weighting her naturally wavy hair, straightening it, and the little girl looking back at me in the mirror looked little like the one that had gone into the bathroom, to the unfamiliar eye.

“Still think it’s a feeble disguise, princess?”

“Why do you call me that?” she said.

I shrugged, and once again dumped my gloves in the Ziploc bag and swept up her hair. She went and sat on the toilet without me having to ask her, and began to cry, really cry for the first time since she’d woken. Not from shame, as she had when I stripped her, but from the stress of the situation, her fear and sadness; a genuine cry, in other words, the kind that degenerates into wracking heaves and sometimes hyperventilation. I let her carry on as I worked in straightening up the bathroom, having long ago become immune to the cries of pain and suffering from others.

Her hair was starting to dry, and I called her back from the toilet so that I could examine it again. She didn’t come to me immediately, so I called her again, and when she didn’t respond I came over to her. She tried to flee into the corner, but I grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her over. She thrashed in my arms and threw her head back and forth, and I was about to punish her when she turned around and threw herself at me. I though she meant to try to push me back and run, but her tiny arms flung around my waist, and she pressed her face into my midsection, and held me as she broke down in crying. It wasn’t something that had happened before, leastways from a victim of mine, and I didn’t know what to do. I put my hands on her shoulders, and felt her smooth cheeks pressing into my stomach, wetted by her tears. As I held her, my eyes drifted downwards to her ass, to those sweet, pale cheeks that seemed to me to yearn for a caress, and squeeze, a pinch. No apple, overripe on the bough, yearned so much to be plucked. Yet I did not do so. I didn’t know how to offer her comfort in anything other than a vaguely instinctual way. I stroked her shoulders, sat down and gathered her into my lap and rocked her for a few minutes. She seemed to calm, and pulled back after a time. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and her nose was running. Her wide, desperate blue eyes looked into me, and it seemed that she had nearly forgotten her predicament, her nakedness, everything but the sensation of my arms around her, and that she found them not unpleasant. Then she spoke.

“Let me go,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

“Sorry, princess. No can do.”

She hung her head, and vacated my lap, and went to stand out of the way, not looking at me. I retrieved one last item from my shaving kit, a pharmacist’s pill bottle, and shook its contents into my hand. It was a variety of pills, some round white tablets, some capsules, some gel-caps, some big horse pills. I filled a glass with water and handed the lot to her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Multivitamins. An analgesic; that’s Tylenol. Vitamin C, B-12, iron supplements, calcium and some other sundries. Your next few meals may be erratically paced, depending, and these can’t hurt you any. Besides, after that bawl I’m pretty sure you could use some painkillers. So how about it?”

She took them, one at a time, swallowing large gulps of water in between. I didn’t mention that the “other sundries” included a very mild tranquilizer, comparable in potency to a white Valium, that would help relax her. I took her by the wrist and led her back to the main room of the hotel suite.

“Time’s come to make good on your word, Jackie. Are you going to let me tie you up again?”

She nodded dully, and sat down on the bed. I took the cuffs she had worn earlier and fastened them about her limbs once more. As I secured her ankles, I saw the braided anklet I’d noticed much earlier, in her bedroom. I got the scissors, but when I moved to cut them she pulled away. “No, please,” she said.

“Sorry. Now give me back your leg.” She did so, and I snipped the anklet and put it in my pocket. “Lay down.” She lay back on the bed, reclining on her elbows like a lover, inviting a suitor to her boudoir. I felt a lurch in my chest, swept my eyes again and again over her nubile form, from the undeveloped chest to the baby-smooth folds of her pussy lips. I felt hot, all of a sudden, as if the room had turned into a sauna. I tried to fasten her cuffs to the anchor points on the bed-straps, but fumbled the first few times I tried to catch them. Her legs parted, and my eyes swept their lean lines to their apex, and I decided to get a breath of fresh air. After I locked her hands to the straps, I reached into my bag and pulled out the leather gag.

I don’t know if she knew what it was, but she didn’t like the look of it. I held it up to her lips, but she wouldn’t take it in. “What is that?”

“A gag, Jackie. I did tell you that the rooms were nice and soundproofed, but this is just to keep you from getting any ideas. Are you going to take it?” She shook her head, and I didn’t really feel like arguing the point over it with her. I punched her, mindful to control my strength, in the knee, in the same place a doctor’s mallet strikes during a reflex test, the large patellar branch of the long saphenous nerve. It was enough to make her scream, and when she opened her mouth I slipped the gag in past her teeth and fastened the buckles as quick as one-two. She was fighting me full-out by this time, throwing her weight against the bonds that held her, casting her head from side to side and arching her back to try to break the straps, but it didn’t do her much good. The gag had a wide padded leather section that covered her lips and a strap that tightly fastened around her head. The ball wasn’t particularly big for her, but had an oblong shape and extended deep into her throat. She learned quickly that when she tried to make noise it would irritate the back of her throat, possibly even triggering her gag reflexes.

“Ease off, princess,” I said. “It’s no fun trying to vomit around a gag, and that’s the only thing you’ll get by carrying on with that.”

Even after I’d finished, she still bucked and struggled like a horse new to the bit. She was able, with a good deal of effort, to rock the bed from side to side, enough to disturb me, maybe, if I was trying to sleep, but since we were on the ground floor, it wouldn’t do too well as a call for help. The bedframe was too heavy for her to scoot it across the floor to slam against the wall, and even if she could I hadn’t been lying about how thick the walls were in Rodeways. She’d be where I left her when I came back.

I walked to the door, and turned to regard my little princess. “Try to calm down, Jackie. Something you might want to consider is that I haven’t even begun to punish you for breaking your promise.”

I switched off the lights and closed the door to the sound of her muffled screaming.

*****

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