prtn
Governor
The daughter looks stunning!
-
Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.
Sexpionage IV
- Thread starter Fossy
- Start date
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
IT'S HERE THE NEW SERIES OF SEXPIONAGE, 'GIRL, TAKEN' ... ENJOY.
Girl, Taken (1)
The back of a Van on the M2 heading from Canterbury to Lukesfield Airstrip in Tonbridge, UK 05:00 am, Tuesday April 2nd 2024
Issy Underwood awoke not knowing where she was... Her head hurt. Opening her eyes, feeling nauseous, she could see she was in a small enclosed area despite vaguely recalling a black BMW inside which she had been assaulted by, whoever these men were, Issy knew that she was now in the back of a van.
Craning her neck, Jason Underwood’s nineteen-year-old daughter looked up to find there were no windows in the side so it must be a working van like those of a cable installer or utility worker. Would that help anyone find her, or … God, what was going to happen to her?
She tried hard to remember where she had been, and the harder she thought about it the more the back of her head ached and throbbed. Slowly through the pain it came to her. She had been out, at the store. Two men, dragged to a car and then, oh God! Issy recalled the hand inside her panties, the touch, the unwanted climax and suddenly she felt how sticky she was between thighs.
The confused and frightened teenage girl began to feel a little more lucid. She tried to bring her hands to her face, but found that they wouldn't respond, and so she started struggling and though a tingling numbness she could feel something binding her wrists behind her back.
Tied up? What the fuck? What was going on?
Trying really hard not to panic was almost impossible. She kept telling herself that panicking would only make things worse, but the back of her uncertain brain wondered if things weren't already worse? At least she still had her jeans and tee shirt on.
Rolling to her side allowed more blood to flow to her bound hands and they started to feel as if they were on fire in just moments. She had been bound and then laid on her hands for God knows how long? Once on her side she could see more of the inside of the van, and the closed compartment in which was contained. The driver’s cabin was separated from the back, but Issy could see an outline of what looked like a window, that had been blocked with cardboard.
This was bad. Was it to do with her dad? He was still over in the US, but she also knew that he would be arrested if and when he ever set foot back in the UK.
Issy started looking frantically all around trying to find some way of escape. She had to move her head slowly because if went from one position to another too quickly it hurt and her bilious stomach threatened to revolt on her.
As she was looking around the van slowed down, and she could feel the deceleration - both her hopes and fears rose.
“Help! Help me!” She started calling out for anyone to come to her aid. The van came to a complete stop and she heard voices and a door slam. Then cold air, as a moment later the large, single back door opened and a man whom she recognised as been one of her assailants, appeared.
"You're awake. Good, we were afraid that we might have dosed you too high on the propofol.” Was all he said.
Issy tried to control the fear in her voice as she asked "What's going on? How did I get here?"
Ignoring her questions, the man reached up on a shelf towards the top of the van and pulled down a roll of tape. Ripping off a length, he placed it across her mouth and then reached down and caressed Issy's cheek and smiled at her, and said, "Don't worry we'll be there real soon".
“Where, where?” Was the word inside Issy’s head. But all that came out were muffled sounds, as she tried to scream and fight, but her cries were muted and her struggles got her nowhere. Her hands still had no feeling and, in her fighting, Issy realised that her legs were also bound. All she did succeed in doing was shaking her head too violently and then she lost consciousness again.
When she re-awoke the van was on the move once more. Issy tried to change position, to let the blood back to her hands and in doing so she felt her shirt hanging loose at her sides. Her top was ripped and her bra was missing. Issy commanded herself to remain calm, because she felt that if she passed out again then who knows what might happen. She had obviously been assaulted again whilst she was unconscious.
The bound girl looked down at herself and saw a drying substance, splattered across her chest and knew immediately what it was. The guy had ejaculated on her, her breasts were sore and were now adorned by red marks and scratches.
Truly scared now, she gently moved her legs to see if her jeans were still intact and almost cried with relief when she saw that they were. In pure survival mode, taking a leaf out of her father’s book, she started looking around for something she could use as a weapon. She found her bra cast aside, and could see a cut strap. She then understood how he got it off of her without her shirt actually being removed.
But there was nothing else. The blade that had cut through her underwear was nowhere to be seen, and with her mouth still taped, Issy lay back and let out a muffled groan.
It seemed an age before the van stopped again, and when it did Issy stiffened, recalling what happened last time they stopped moving.
She didn't want him to know she was awake, and so closed her eyes and tried to act like she was still out cold, but it didn’t work.
"Now, now, little slut ... don't give me that ... I heard you moving around back here.”
When she continued to remain still, Issy sensed him get closer and a few moments later she felt his hands on her breasts again. When he pinched her nipple hard, she cried out and opened her eyes, to find him looming above her, smirking down into her face.
"There we go ... that's better ... I like your eyes open ... they're pretty... you're pretty, very pretty."
Issy tried to look away, but her terrified mind wouldn't do what she wanted. She watched this guy bend over her and when his lips pressed against her now throbbing and painful nipple, she started to fight again.
Not the best idea given she was still bound wrist and ankles. Her captor sat back up and slapped his captive hard across the face, first one way with his open palm, and then across the other cheek with his backhand. She saw blackness across her vision and realised she was close to passing out again. Afraid it would cost her more than a few minutes of unconsciousness this time, she stopped fighting him.
"Enough of this girl, now stay still!” He growled. Issy made herself lay motionless while he leaned over her again. This time when she felt his lips on her nipple she didn't struggle, instead she arched her back to avoid laying on her hands, but her actions only encouraged him to think that she was enjoying his attentions.
Issy whimpered from under the tape gag, and she could hear his repulsive words … "Much better ... oh yeah ... I lovely ... tits ... So full ... so firm ..." Issy's control was slipping she didn't know what this man had in mind or even where she was being taken!
Then the guy’s hands began moving down her body, to her slim waist and she started rocking back and forth in an attempt to dissuade him, but as his hand cupped between her legs Issy’s struggling became almost violent … but it was all to no avail.
Twenty minutes later, with her jeans now bunched around her thighs, her panties torn away and her pussy sticky from her own release, the man left her alone and the van resumed its journey.
TBC
Girl, Taken (1)
The back of a Van on the M2 heading from Canterbury to Lukesfield Airstrip in Tonbridge, UK 05:00 am, Tuesday April 2nd 2024
Issy Underwood awoke not knowing where she was... Her head hurt. Opening her eyes, feeling nauseous, she could see she was in a small enclosed area despite vaguely recalling a black BMW inside which she had been assaulted by, whoever these men were, Issy knew that she was now in the back of a van.
Craning her neck, Jason Underwood’s nineteen-year-old daughter looked up to find there were no windows in the side so it must be a working van like those of a cable installer or utility worker. Would that help anyone find her, or … God, what was going to happen to her?
She tried hard to remember where she had been, and the harder she thought about it the more the back of her head ached and throbbed. Slowly through the pain it came to her. She had been out, at the store. Two men, dragged to a car and then, oh God! Issy recalled the hand inside her panties, the touch, the unwanted climax and suddenly she felt how sticky she was between thighs.
The confused and frightened teenage girl began to feel a little more lucid. She tried to bring her hands to her face, but found that they wouldn't respond, and so she started struggling and though a tingling numbness she could feel something binding her wrists behind her back.
Tied up? What the fuck? What was going on?
Trying really hard not to panic was almost impossible. She kept telling herself that panicking would only make things worse, but the back of her uncertain brain wondered if things weren't already worse? At least she still had her jeans and tee shirt on.
Rolling to her side allowed more blood to flow to her bound hands and they started to feel as if they were on fire in just moments. She had been bound and then laid on her hands for God knows how long? Once on her side she could see more of the inside of the van, and the closed compartment in which was contained. The driver’s cabin was separated from the back, but Issy could see an outline of what looked like a window, that had been blocked with cardboard.
This was bad. Was it to do with her dad? He was still over in the US, but she also knew that he would be arrested if and when he ever set foot back in the UK.
Issy started looking frantically all around trying to find some way of escape. She had to move her head slowly because if went from one position to another too quickly it hurt and her bilious stomach threatened to revolt on her.
As she was looking around the van slowed down, and she could feel the deceleration - both her hopes and fears rose.
“Help! Help me!” She started calling out for anyone to come to her aid. The van came to a complete stop and she heard voices and a door slam. Then cold air, as a moment later the large, single back door opened and a man whom she recognised as been one of her assailants, appeared.
"You're awake. Good, we were afraid that we might have dosed you too high on the propofol.” Was all he said.
Issy tried to control the fear in her voice as she asked "What's going on? How did I get here?"
Ignoring her questions, the man reached up on a shelf towards the top of the van and pulled down a roll of tape. Ripping off a length, he placed it across her mouth and then reached down and caressed Issy's cheek and smiled at her, and said, "Don't worry we'll be there real soon".
“Where, where?” Was the word inside Issy’s head. But all that came out were muffled sounds, as she tried to scream and fight, but her cries were muted and her struggles got her nowhere. Her hands still had no feeling and, in her fighting, Issy realised that her legs were also bound. All she did succeed in doing was shaking her head too violently and then she lost consciousness again.
When she re-awoke the van was on the move once more. Issy tried to change position, to let the blood back to her hands and in doing so she felt her shirt hanging loose at her sides. Her top was ripped and her bra was missing. Issy commanded herself to remain calm, because she felt that if she passed out again then who knows what might happen. She had obviously been assaulted again whilst she was unconscious.
The bound girl looked down at herself and saw a drying substance, splattered across her chest and knew immediately what it was. The guy had ejaculated on her, her breasts were sore and were now adorned by red marks and scratches.
Truly scared now, she gently moved her legs to see if her jeans were still intact and almost cried with relief when she saw that they were. In pure survival mode, taking a leaf out of her father’s book, she started looking around for something she could use as a weapon. She found her bra cast aside, and could see a cut strap. She then understood how he got it off of her without her shirt actually being removed.
But there was nothing else. The blade that had cut through her underwear was nowhere to be seen, and with her mouth still taped, Issy lay back and let out a muffled groan.
It seemed an age before the van stopped again, and when it did Issy stiffened, recalling what happened last time they stopped moving.
She didn't want him to know she was awake, and so closed her eyes and tried to act like she was still out cold, but it didn’t work.
"Now, now, little slut ... don't give me that ... I heard you moving around back here.”
When she continued to remain still, Issy sensed him get closer and a few moments later she felt his hands on her breasts again. When he pinched her nipple hard, she cried out and opened her eyes, to find him looming above her, smirking down into her face.
"There we go ... that's better ... I like your eyes open ... they're pretty... you're pretty, very pretty."
Issy tried to look away, but her terrified mind wouldn't do what she wanted. She watched this guy bend over her and when his lips pressed against her now throbbing and painful nipple, she started to fight again.
Not the best idea given she was still bound wrist and ankles. Her captor sat back up and slapped his captive hard across the face, first one way with his open palm, and then across the other cheek with his backhand. She saw blackness across her vision and realised she was close to passing out again. Afraid it would cost her more than a few minutes of unconsciousness this time, she stopped fighting him.
"Enough of this girl, now stay still!” He growled. Issy made herself lay motionless while he leaned over her again. This time when she felt his lips on her nipple she didn't struggle, instead she arched her back to avoid laying on her hands, but her actions only encouraged him to think that she was enjoying his attentions.
Issy whimpered from under the tape gag, and she could hear his repulsive words … "Much better ... oh yeah ... I lovely ... tits ... So full ... so firm ..." Issy's control was slipping she didn't know what this man had in mind or even where she was being taken!
Then the guy’s hands began moving down her body, to her slim waist and she started rocking back and forth in an attempt to dissuade him, but as his hand cupped between her legs Issy’s struggling became almost violent … but it was all to no avail.
Twenty minutes later, with her jeans now bunched around her thighs, her panties torn away and her pussy sticky from her own release, the man left her alone and the van resumed its journey.
TBC
Twonines is well onto his game
Crafting verse that’s never lame
The cadence is right
Always clever and bright
Without him a story’s never the same
Hadrianus127
Tribune
Nice poster. It would make a good movie.
Girl, Taken (2)
SIS HQ, South bank of the River Thames in Vauxhall, London. Office of Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service of the United Kingdom, Roger Moore, 2 pm, Wednesday April 3rd 2024
“It’s a fucking nightmare Roger, that’s what it is.” The Home Secretary was not happy. Although the holding of MI6 Major Jason Underwood was technically an issue for the Foreign Office, what the Chief of the UK’s Secret Intelligence Service was asking for required sanction from the Home Secretary, and so Roger Moore was currently on the secure line to the Head of the Home Office.
“Yes Mister Home Secretary, I know but …”
“So let me summarise your request …” The Home Secretary cut in. “… you’re holding Jason Underwood pending a trial for treason, believing that he intervened in a joint US and UK operation to bring down an international drugs and sex trafficking ring so that he could save his wife and his lover.”
“Well, yes, that’s true Sir …”
The Home Secretary laughed incredulously. “And now you want to have him released as part of an operation to find and free his daughter, who is currently being held at the hands of these criminals?”
“Yes Mister Home Secretary. Underwood is their real target and they have taken his daughter so that he will go to them. Despite his untimely intervention in a major operation a few weeks ago, Underwood was key in bringing most of that organisation down, and it appears that the parts of it that remain want revenge on him.”
“And how do you know this?
“We have received a video of her captivity and treatment, which is more than a little harrowing Sir. It was sent directly to Underwood’s phone, which we had in our possession, and so they clearly do not know that he is being held by MI6 Sir.”
“And so,” The Home Secretary continued, “… you intend to show Underwood this video and then offer him up as bait so that we can secure his daughter’s release and catch the bastards who have her?”
“Yes, precisely.”
“No.” Was the Home Secretary’s one word answer.
“No?” Moore repeated.
“No. If I agree to that, and I think you’ll find my colleague in the Foreign Office agrees with me, then our American allies will be all over us!”
“So, what should we …?” Moore hadn’t expected that, nor did he expect what the Home Secretary said next.
“So what you will do, is quietly release Underwood and let him go alone, without support or backup, to find the bastards. You will instruct him to get as close as he can and then call you in, and his involvement, as well as being ‘dark’, will also be conditional upon him turning himself back in when we have secured his daughter’s freedom and have her captors in our grasp. IS that understood.”
“Yes, Mister Home Secretary.”
Roger Moore had to sit down after the call. Did he get what he wanted? In truth he wasn’t really sure.
Conference Room 1, SIS HQ, South bank of the River Thames in Vauxhall, London. 5 pm, Wednesday April 3rd 2024
A small group, including Roger Moore, was assembled in conference room 1 at the SIS HQ in London, England. Jason Underwood sat cuffed waiting for the video to begin. He already felt sick.
Then the lights went down and the film started up.
On the screen is a girl tied, arms and legs, to a chair. She is dressed in a torn white shirt and jeans that are opened at the zipper.
A light shines into her face as the bag flies off her head.
It’s a dim light but it’s clearly Issy. Jason Underwood stands and viciously remonstrates, needing to be restrained by the guards either side of him, before, with his chest heaving, he settles back down into his seat.
Four men stand around the captive girl. They're dressed all in black. Long sleeves, long pants, boots, and black ski-masks. All anyone can really tell is their heights. Not much for anyone to go on. One of them steps forward and crouches down in front of the chair.
“What is your name?”
“You k ... know m … my name,” she stutters, obviously terrified.
“I know your name,” he says. “I know a lot about you, but I want you to say it again for the film.” His voice is calm and menacing.
“Issy Underwood,” She answers clearly.
“Okay, good. And, your father?”
The girl looks at the camera, and seems to quietly sob. “Jason Underwood.”
“Good girl,” the man says, before reaching behind his back to pull out a knife.
Issy looks at the man. “What do you want with me? Please, tell me.”
He slips the knife blade under the short hem of her tee shirt, pushes it against the fabric and then slits it up the middle, exposing her bare breasts underneath. Then he turns to the camera.
“So, Major Jason Underwood, from this minute onwards your very pretty daughter will be our sex toy, so the sooner you find us and come to us, the better it will be for her. But we don’t want you to spoil our fun too quickly, and so you need to figure out for yourself where we are holding her.
And with that the screen went blank
Jimmy Mac’s Bar, Langley, Virginia a short distance from Broadmoor Luxury Apartments, 11 pm, Wednesday April 3rd 2024
“Thar she is … right on schedule as always,” drawled the bartender, his back-country Virginia drawl on full display. “Eleven o’clock! Without fail.”
The customer to whom he spoke, an out of town businessman in a dark suit, spun about on his barstool to take a gander, across the way, at an obviously tipsy young woman engaged in rudely shoving her way past a departing couple.
“What’s the skinny on her?” The customer asked. “Quite the looker, if you ask me!”
“Name’s Barbara Moore. And, yeah, she’s a looker alright. Been turning up here at Jimmy Mac’s, about this time, every night for quite some time now. Usually she’s already half soused, comes in and orders herself a drink, pops a pill or two, and then goes and occupies a booth until near closing. By the time she leaves, she’s downed a few more, attracted quite a lot of male attention … like bears to honey .. and ends up leaving on some lucky son-of-a-bitch’s arm.”
“She’s a hooker then?”
“The usual!” She slurred, perching herself on a barstool, but not without nearly knocking it over.
She wore a short and slinky little black sleeveless dress, silver heels and carried a matching silver bag. And was quite the sight, alluringly perched on the barstool with shoes planted on its highest supporting rung, the hem of her dress creeping high enough on her thighs to offer a tantalizing glimpse of the black thong she wore underneath.
“Coming up,” responded the bartender with a knowingly sly wink at the bemused customer. “What’ll it be, Barb? The usual glass of Riesling?”
“You got it,” she asserted, withdrawing a couple of pills from a container that she’d extracted from her handbag.
“James Steele,” offered the customer softly, acting on a whim and extending his hand.
She popped the pills, washed them down, and directed her attention to him, appraisingly looking him up and down several times with her beguiling doe-like brown eyes.
“Pleased to meet you … uh … James, was it? I’m Barb. You married?”
Taken somewhat aback by her impertinent manner, and glancing at the barkeep, who gave him a sly wink, he answered, “not to my knowledge.”
“Mmmmm,” she said, swiveling around to face him fully and placing a warm hand on his knee to give it a gentle squeeze, “care to join me in a booth?”
“Uh … sure … why not.”
She took him by the hand, slid down off her stool, and escorted him over to the relative seclusion of one of the establishment’s high-backed booth’s, signaling on her way to the bartender for a refill on her drink.
Rather than taking a seat across from him, she ordered James, who had set himself down on the right hand side of the booth, to move over. And when he did, she promptly planted herself down right alongside him.
Together they talked and drank, and it wasn’t too long before she’d laid her head on his shoulder and, beneath the table, began to gently and suggestively stroke what soon became a growing bulge in his pants. A highly provocative advance to which he responded in kind, stroking her between her parted thighs … the tip of his forefinger engaging the damp and slippery fabric of her thong.
Moments later she had just playfully lowered his zipper when they were suddenly and unexpectedly accosted by another bar patron, who slid in on the bench alongside Barb with a hearty, “Hey Babs, how’s tricks? What’s this? Got yerself a new beau here? Hey! Better watch out pal! Babs here is a real nympho. Ask anybody ‘round here, and they’ll tell ya that she is!”
“Go away, Beau!” she hissed.
“Awww … that’s not very hospitable of ya, Babs. What’s he got that I ain’t got? Huh? I’m quite the stud, ya know that from experience now, don’t ya? Why just the other night, you and I …”
“Look friend,” intervened James, half rising to his feet. “Buzz off!”
“You gonna make me?”
“I can take care of myself,” she snarled, suddenly rising to her feet and gently pushing them both back and away from a direct confrontation with her in the middle.
“You’re stinking’ drunk, Babs! Maybe you’d fancy a double fuck tonight … me and him .. you sandwiched between us? Whadda ya say?”
“Leave, Beau! Now!”
“Why should I? Who’s goin’ to make me?”
At which point her CIA training kicked in. Moving quickly and deftly, she took him by the wrist, snapped his arm sharply behind his back and toppled him to the floor with a knee to the groin.
“Come on, James, we’re leaving,” she announced, taking him by the hand and leading him around her victim who lay doubled over, moaning pitifully on the floor.
Calling out to the bartender as she headed for the exit with James trailing close behind, “put the drinks on my tab.”
“Right.”
******
Two hours later she and James lay naked, side-by-side, on the bed in her apartment. They’d lost no time after reaching her place. They’d had an unbelievably wild sex romp together … in which she’d insisted that he slap and mistreat her. And, after which they’d fallen fast asleep in one another’s arms … a sleep from which they’d now awakened.
“I think I’m in love,” he said dreamily to her as he raised himself on one elbow and casually began to trace tight little circles with his index finger around one of her erect nipples with the intention of initiating another go. “I have to say, Barb, what we did earlier was the best sex ever. I hope you agree.”
“It was okay,” she allowed noncommittally.
“Uh … ouch! … I’m not sure I understand you.”
“Don’t even try, James, ‘cause you can’t,” she murmured, blocking him with a raised arm from taking her nipple into his mouth. “I’m complicated, you see … I mean really complicated … carrying a helluva lot of baggage you’d never ever understand.”
“Seems so, but ….”
“Shit, my phone is ringing. Who could possibly be calling at this hour...?” O’-fucking-Shaughnessy, that’s who, Barb thought to herself, “Stay here. I’m going to go answer it.”
Sliding out of bed, she padded naked across the bedroom to the table onto which she’d tossed her silver handbag, opened it and pulled out her iPhone. The screen showed an incoming international call from what she knew to be the UK.
“Hello? Who’s calling?”
There was a pause.
“Oh my God! Jason? Is it really you?”
TBC
Like
SIS HQ, South bank of the River Thames in Vauxhall, London. Office of Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service of the United Kingdom, Roger Moore, 2 pm, Wednesday April 3rd 2024
“It’s a fucking nightmare Roger, that’s what it is.” The Home Secretary was not happy. Although the holding of MI6 Major Jason Underwood was technically an issue for the Foreign Office, what the Chief of the UK’s Secret Intelligence Service was asking for required sanction from the Home Secretary, and so Roger Moore was currently on the secure line to the Head of the Home Office.
“Yes Mister Home Secretary, I know but …”
“So let me summarise your request …” The Home Secretary cut in. “… you’re holding Jason Underwood pending a trial for treason, believing that he intervened in a joint US and UK operation to bring down an international drugs and sex trafficking ring so that he could save his wife and his lover.”
“Well, yes, that’s true Sir …”
The Home Secretary laughed incredulously. “And now you want to have him released as part of an operation to find and free his daughter, who is currently being held at the hands of these criminals?”
“Yes Mister Home Secretary. Underwood is their real target and they have taken his daughter so that he will go to them. Despite his untimely intervention in a major operation a few weeks ago, Underwood was key in bringing most of that organisation down, and it appears that the parts of it that remain want revenge on him.”
“And how do you know this?
“We have received a video of her captivity and treatment, which is more than a little harrowing Sir. It was sent directly to Underwood’s phone, which we had in our possession, and so they clearly do not know that he is being held by MI6 Sir.”
“And so,” The Home Secretary continued, “… you intend to show Underwood this video and then offer him up as bait so that we can secure his daughter’s release and catch the bastards who have her?”
“Yes, precisely.”
“No.” Was the Home Secretary’s one word answer.
“No?” Moore repeated.
“No. If I agree to that, and I think you’ll find my colleague in the Foreign Office agrees with me, then our American allies will be all over us!”
“So, what should we …?” Moore hadn’t expected that, nor did he expect what the Home Secretary said next.
“So what you will do, is quietly release Underwood and let him go alone, without support or backup, to find the bastards. You will instruct him to get as close as he can and then call you in, and his involvement, as well as being ‘dark’, will also be conditional upon him turning himself back in when we have secured his daughter’s freedom and have her captors in our grasp. IS that understood.”
“Yes, Mister Home Secretary.”
Roger Moore had to sit down after the call. Did he get what he wanted? In truth he wasn’t really sure.
Conference Room 1, SIS HQ, South bank of the River Thames in Vauxhall, London. 5 pm, Wednesday April 3rd 2024
A small group, including Roger Moore, was assembled in conference room 1 at the SIS HQ in London, England. Jason Underwood sat cuffed waiting for the video to begin. He already felt sick.
Then the lights went down and the film started up.
On the screen is a girl tied, arms and legs, to a chair. She is dressed in a torn white shirt and jeans that are opened at the zipper.
A light shines into her face as the bag flies off her head.
It’s a dim light but it’s clearly Issy. Jason Underwood stands and viciously remonstrates, needing to be restrained by the guards either side of him, before, with his chest heaving, he settles back down into his seat.
Four men stand around the captive girl. They're dressed all in black. Long sleeves, long pants, boots, and black ski-masks. All anyone can really tell is their heights. Not much for anyone to go on. One of them steps forward and crouches down in front of the chair.
“What is your name?”
“You k ... know m … my name,” she stutters, obviously terrified.
“I know your name,” he says. “I know a lot about you, but I want you to say it again for the film.” His voice is calm and menacing.
“Issy Underwood,” She answers clearly.
“Okay, good. And, your father?”
The girl looks at the camera, and seems to quietly sob. “Jason Underwood.”
“Good girl,” the man says, before reaching behind his back to pull out a knife.
Issy looks at the man. “What do you want with me? Please, tell me.”
He slips the knife blade under the short hem of her tee shirt, pushes it against the fabric and then slits it up the middle, exposing her bare breasts underneath. Then he turns to the camera.
“So, Major Jason Underwood, from this minute onwards your very pretty daughter will be our sex toy, so the sooner you find us and come to us, the better it will be for her. But we don’t want you to spoil our fun too quickly, and so you need to figure out for yourself where we are holding her.
And with that the screen went blank
Jimmy Mac’s Bar, Langley, Virginia a short distance from Broadmoor Luxury Apartments, 11 pm, Wednesday April 3rd 2024
“Thar she is … right on schedule as always,” drawled the bartender, his back-country Virginia drawl on full display. “Eleven o’clock! Without fail.”
The customer to whom he spoke, an out of town businessman in a dark suit, spun about on his barstool to take a gander, across the way, at an obviously tipsy young woman engaged in rudely shoving her way past a departing couple.
“What’s the skinny on her?” The customer asked. “Quite the looker, if you ask me!”
“Name’s Barbara Moore. And, yeah, she’s a looker alright. Been turning up here at Jimmy Mac’s, about this time, every night for quite some time now. Usually she’s already half soused, comes in and orders herself a drink, pops a pill or two, and then goes and occupies a booth until near closing. By the time she leaves, she’s downed a few more, attracted quite a lot of male attention … like bears to honey .. and ends up leaving on some lucky son-of-a-bitch’s arm.”
“She’s a hooker then?”
“The usual!” She slurred, perching herself on a barstool, but not without nearly knocking it over.
She wore a short and slinky little black sleeveless dress, silver heels and carried a matching silver bag. And was quite the sight, alluringly perched on the barstool with shoes planted on its highest supporting rung, the hem of her dress creeping high enough on her thighs to offer a tantalizing glimpse of the black thong she wore underneath.
“Coming up,” responded the bartender with a knowingly sly wink at the bemused customer. “What’ll it be, Barb? The usual glass of Riesling?”
“You got it,” she asserted, withdrawing a couple of pills from a container that she’d extracted from her handbag.
“James Steele,” offered the customer softly, acting on a whim and extending his hand.
She popped the pills, washed them down, and directed her attention to him, appraisingly looking him up and down several times with her beguiling doe-like brown eyes.
“Pleased to meet you … uh … James, was it? I’m Barb. You married?”
Taken somewhat aback by her impertinent manner, and glancing at the barkeep, who gave him a sly wink, he answered, “not to my knowledge.”
“Mmmmm,” she said, swiveling around to face him fully and placing a warm hand on his knee to give it a gentle squeeze, “care to join me in a booth?”
“Uh … sure … why not.”
She took him by the hand, slid down off her stool, and escorted him over to the relative seclusion of one of the establishment’s high-backed booth’s, signaling on her way to the bartender for a refill on her drink.
Rather than taking a seat across from him, she ordered James, who had set himself down on the right hand side of the booth, to move over. And when he did, she promptly planted herself down right alongside him.
Together they talked and drank, and it wasn’t too long before she’d laid her head on his shoulder and, beneath the table, began to gently and suggestively stroke what soon became a growing bulge in his pants. A highly provocative advance to which he responded in kind, stroking her between her parted thighs … the tip of his forefinger engaging the damp and slippery fabric of her thong.
Moments later she had just playfully lowered his zipper when they were suddenly and unexpectedly accosted by another bar patron, who slid in on the bench alongside Barb with a hearty, “Hey Babs, how’s tricks? What’s this? Got yerself a new beau here? Hey! Better watch out pal! Babs here is a real nympho. Ask anybody ‘round here, and they’ll tell ya that she is!”
“Go away, Beau!” she hissed.
“Awww … that’s not very hospitable of ya, Babs. What’s he got that I ain’t got? Huh? I’m quite the stud, ya know that from experience now, don’t ya? Why just the other night, you and I …”
“Look friend,” intervened James, half rising to his feet. “Buzz off!”
“You gonna make me?”
“I can take care of myself,” she snarled, suddenly rising to her feet and gently pushing them both back and away from a direct confrontation with her in the middle.
“You’re stinking’ drunk, Babs! Maybe you’d fancy a double fuck tonight … me and him .. you sandwiched between us? Whadda ya say?”
“Leave, Beau! Now!”
“Why should I? Who’s goin’ to make me?”
At which point her CIA training kicked in. Moving quickly and deftly, she took him by the wrist, snapped his arm sharply behind his back and toppled him to the floor with a knee to the groin.
“Come on, James, we’re leaving,” she announced, taking him by the hand and leading him around her victim who lay doubled over, moaning pitifully on the floor.
Calling out to the bartender as she headed for the exit with James trailing close behind, “put the drinks on my tab.”
“Right.”
******
Two hours later she and James lay naked, side-by-side, on the bed in her apartment. They’d lost no time after reaching her place. They’d had an unbelievably wild sex romp together … in which she’d insisted that he slap and mistreat her. And, after which they’d fallen fast asleep in one another’s arms … a sleep from which they’d now awakened.
“I think I’m in love,” he said dreamily to her as he raised himself on one elbow and casually began to trace tight little circles with his index finger around one of her erect nipples with the intention of initiating another go. “I have to say, Barb, what we did earlier was the best sex ever. I hope you agree.”
“It was okay,” she allowed noncommittally.
“Uh … ouch! … I’m not sure I understand you.”
“Don’t even try, James, ‘cause you can’t,” she murmured, blocking him with a raised arm from taking her nipple into his mouth. “I’m complicated, you see … I mean really complicated … carrying a helluva lot of baggage you’d never ever understand.”
“Seems so, but ….”
“Shit, my phone is ringing. Who could possibly be calling at this hour...?” O’-fucking-Shaughnessy, that’s who, Barb thought to herself, “Stay here. I’m going to go answer it.”
Sliding out of bed, she padded naked across the bedroom to the table onto which she’d tossed her silver handbag, opened it and pulled out her iPhone. The screen showed an incoming international call from what she knew to be the UK.
“Hello? Who’s calling?”
There was a pause.
“Oh my God! Jason? Is it really you?”
TBC
Like
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Girl, Taken (3)
A disused warehouse, East Side, Vågen, Bryggen, Bergen, Norway, 11 am, Thursday April 4th 2024
Tears roll down her cheeks. Her ripped jeans are in a heap on the floor, along with her torn shirt, and they'll soon have good company with her panties as the knife slides through and rips them away.
The girl’s trainers have long since been discarded and now Issy Underwood is fully naked. There's nothing left between her body and all the eyes of the anonymous men in this room, a spotlight shining on her face means that she’s on full display.
Issy has no idea who they are. They rarely speak, except for the main man, and he speaks with an accent, Eastern European she thinks, and she assumes the bastards who abducted her are part of this little gang too. But so far they remain covered.
“Pl … please no,” the young girl begs as the main man brings the knife down under her chin and lifts her face up to meet his.
“Just think. He'll be seeing this, seeing your naked body. Your father, he'll watch you show yourself naked to strange men. Do you think he will be repulsed Issy, or do you think he will feel maybe just a little stimulated?”
“You’re fucking sick,” she whispered, unable to stop the words from coming out.
The man laughed, “But y’know pretty little thing, it doesn’t matter how tough he is, that would upset anyone. No one wants their daughter on display like that. No one.”
Issy stares into his blank, covered face, and she can practically hear him getting off on this, the sick bastard.
She struggles against her bonds, not because she thinks she can break free, but because she wants to show some sort of defiance, no matter how meagre.
“Good,” the man says. “You don't want him to think you staged all of this. Better to make a show of it for him.”
Issy’s eyes go wide. Why would he even say something like that? How could he possibly think that she has that kind of relationship with her dad, that things are so dysfunctional between them, that she would fake her own kidnapping?
“Don't worry Issy. He won't suspect you of anything after this.”
Another man steps forward. He pulls his glove off and kneels down in front of the captive girl and pushes her thighs wider, exposing her pussy for the whole room to see.
“No, fuck, no don’t please …” she begs to no avail other than to heighten the stimulation of her captors. Issy attempts to close her legs, but he holds them open, proving to her how utterly helpless she is.
“Oh God, please,” she whispers to no one except the video camera, as she watches his hand move between her legs, slithering slowly up her thigh.
Her heart races – she is beyond terrified!
Issy looks into his eyes and then at the other man, the one who's been talking to her. He stands clear of the view finder and watches closely.
It's pathetic, she thinks, if he was a real man, he would grope her himself. Instead, he's having some other guys do it all for him. The finger presses against her clit, then, as he circles two long digits slide inside her body, opening her, stretching her. His exposed eyes look at her and she is certain that she recognises this man from her abduction ... what kind of sick pervert is he?
He pulls out a little and then thrusts back up inside of her, causing Issy to, somewhat lasciviously thrust her hips forward with a jerk. It's sudden and harsh, and she hears her assailant say, “You're a fucking disgusting whore…” the man, seemingly the one in charge, then adds, “You're soaking wet.”
And Issy wishes that he was wrong. But he isn’t. She is desperate not to feel aroused right now, but the evidence is there.
“You fucking want this little whore, don’t you?”
“N … n … noooooooooo!”
The man pushes another finger all the way inside of his captive, making her legs tremble, and a moan squeezes out of her clenched throat.
“Fuck!” More whispered expletives came from Issy’s mouth, who so wishes that she could take her response back, and not give these bastards one ounce of satisfaction.
“So, you are a whore,” the lead man mocks his bound captive. He steps over and circles around behind Issy, moving in very close, right up against her left ear. “A dirty fucking slut. I'm glad your daddy gets to see this. How being tied up naked and touched turns you on so much. Look up at the camera Issy. We're getting you from all angles.”
She does and sees the lenses filming her, and there are several. The man pleasuring her moves in just the right way and surprises his captive as Issy rocks against his fingers.
Then …
“Fuuuck noooo, noooo stop! Ohhhh noooooo!”
No, there's no way. She can't possibly cum in this situation. But the feeling is quickly becoming overwhelming, and then a relentless, powerful sensation floods her system, and shivers convulse through her as she tightens her lips and sucks in air through her nose.
The feeling is so full and all-encompassing that Issy squeezes her cunt around the man’s finger still embedded deep inside her, until all of the orgasmic aftershocks have passed.
“Good girl. He's going to love that, your daddy.”
On Flight United 924, from Washington DC to London Heathrow, 6:39 pm EDT, Thursday April 4th 2024
Wheels up. She was on her way at last.
Barb adjusted her travel neck pillow, and settled back into her ‘premium economy’ window seat. She’d have preferred ‘first class’, of course, but had thought better of it, thinking that flying in coach offered her a more assured level of anonymity.
Not that anyone was necessarily paying attention to her, but then again in her line of work one never knows, does one? She’d had to go and ask Clark O’Shaughnessy, her CIA boss, for an immediate ‘personal leave of absence’ to visit a terminally ailing friend, which he’d readily granted. But she’d not put it past him to put a tail on her. For Clark, nothing and nobody was above suspicion. That’s the way he was.
Aside from securing leave, the previous day had been a whirlwind of frenetic activity. She’d had to unceremoniously boot James Steele, her besotted ‘pickup lover’ of the previous night, out of her apartment. He’d protested vigorously, refusing to leave, and she’d finally been forced to play the one card that would send him off with his tail between his legs … revealing to him that she’d discovered the wedding ring he’d secreted in his pants pocket.
She’d also had to resist the urge to feed her addiction to drugs and alcohol, which wasn’t easy, in addition to booking her flight, packing her bag, arranging for a neighbor to care for her cat and water the plants, and ordering a taxi to pick her up and transport her the 16 miles from Langley out to Dulles at the very height of the late afternoon rush hour.
Now as the ‘flight tracker’ display on the seat-back screen in front of her showed that the plane had reached cruising altitude and was headed out over the Atlantic, she tried to decide whether to watch a movie or try to nap … concluding that the latter made far more sense given her accumulated deficit of sleep over the past 48 hours or more, and the likelihood that she’d need to be fully alert when she reached London and rendezvoused with Jason.
Her telephone conversation with him the night he’d called had been maddeningly brief and cryptic. All she knew for certain was that Jason needed her! Barta apparently had somehow gotten his hands on Jason’s daughter, Issy … that Jason was going ‘dark’ in a desperate attempt to somehow locate and rescue her … and that on the coming morning he expected her to join him in London. He’d said he’d be waiting for her at a small ‘walk-up’ hotel in Soho called Mimi’s.
But before settling in for the night, she craned her neck for one last look around to see if she could spot any ‘tail’ that O’Shaughnessy may have assigned to keep an eye on her.
And it was at that moment that the woman seated next to her … a blonde woman … attractive, quite fashionably outfitted, and about Barb’s age or slightly older … took notice and said, “are you looking for someone? Perhaps a travel companion seated in another row? I’d be happy to trade places with him or her, if you like, so you can be together.”
Her accent was English … very RP.
“No, thank you. I was just checking for the location of the lavatories.”
“Of course. Always good to know where they are.”
Barb smiled, shifted in her seat, kicked off her shoes, tugged at her skirt which had ridden up, and was about to don her sleep mask and close her eyes, when she saw it … the ID tag attached to the handle on the woman’s travel bag stuffed under the seat at her feet had a Langley street address on it!
International Arrivals, Terminal 2, London Heathrow, 7:55 am, Friday, April 5th 2024
Barb, like everyone else, found herself inching along the metal-barrier-enforced, back-and-forth winding lines that channelled arriving passengers through immigration. The lines were incredibly long, and it took a good 45 minutes or more before she reached the point where she could finally walk up to one of the digital kiosks, place her passport on the scanner, and be cleared to pass through to grab her bag and exit through customs.
During all that time she’d kept a constant lookout for her English seating companion on the flight over. But the woman had seemingly vanished into thin air. They’d gotten off the plane together, and had both stopped in to use a lavatory on the way to Immigration, but that was the last time Barb had seen her.
Yet, when Barb emerged from Customs, there she was, chatting with a man not far away and positioned in a place where she could observe Barb the moment she emerged.
By then Barb was all but certain her seat mate had to be CIA, and was determined that the woman not be given an opportunity to tail her to the Soho hotel rendezvous with Jason.
Without looking right or left, Barb walked briskly out the terminal entrance. And abandoning her roller bag, dodged artfully through the narrow gap between two parked London buses, beyond which she changed course and ran straight towards one of the mini buses that transport passengers from the terminals to the car hire lots.
There she barged her way through several people standing in a queue, banged vigorously on the door of a departing bus, and managed to gain entry as it pulled away. But before it had trundled along for any distance on reaching the airport’s perimeter road, she told the driver she’d made a mistake and demanded to be let off the bus. After which she scuttled across a grassy perimeter strip and and exited onto Newbury Road, where she ducked into a Hyatt hotel and asked the clerk at the desk to order her a taxi.
An hour and a half later, she found herself standing, minus her luggage, on a quiet street off Shaftesbury Avenue in Soho, viewing the entrance to Mimi's. Sucking in her breath, she crossed over the street, went inside and was about to approach the front desk, not knowing exact what to say as she very much doubted that Jason was registered there under his real name.
But before she was able to say anything to the desk clerk, Jason seemingly materialized out of nowhere to take her firmly by the arm and steer her over to and into the lift.
“Thank God, you’re here, Barb!” he exclaimed, as the lift door closed and it began its trundling ascent.
“I do hope you’re whisking me off to a room with a nice comfy bed!” She loudly declared, before leaping into his arms, wrapping her legs around him at waist level and proceeding to smother him with hot kisses.
TBC
A disused warehouse, East Side, Vågen, Bryggen, Bergen, Norway, 11 am, Thursday April 4th 2024
Tears roll down her cheeks. Her ripped jeans are in a heap on the floor, along with her torn shirt, and they'll soon have good company with her panties as the knife slides through and rips them away.
The girl’s trainers have long since been discarded and now Issy Underwood is fully naked. There's nothing left between her body and all the eyes of the anonymous men in this room, a spotlight shining on her face means that she’s on full display.
Issy has no idea who they are. They rarely speak, except for the main man, and he speaks with an accent, Eastern European she thinks, and she assumes the bastards who abducted her are part of this little gang too. But so far they remain covered.
“Pl … please no,” the young girl begs as the main man brings the knife down under her chin and lifts her face up to meet his.
“Just think. He'll be seeing this, seeing your naked body. Your father, he'll watch you show yourself naked to strange men. Do you think he will be repulsed Issy, or do you think he will feel maybe just a little stimulated?”
“You’re fucking sick,” she whispered, unable to stop the words from coming out.
The man laughed, “But y’know pretty little thing, it doesn’t matter how tough he is, that would upset anyone. No one wants their daughter on display like that. No one.”
Issy stares into his blank, covered face, and she can practically hear him getting off on this, the sick bastard.
She struggles against her bonds, not because she thinks she can break free, but because she wants to show some sort of defiance, no matter how meagre.
“Good,” the man says. “You don't want him to think you staged all of this. Better to make a show of it for him.”
Issy’s eyes go wide. Why would he even say something like that? How could he possibly think that she has that kind of relationship with her dad, that things are so dysfunctional between them, that she would fake her own kidnapping?
“Don't worry Issy. He won't suspect you of anything after this.”
Another man steps forward. He pulls his glove off and kneels down in front of the captive girl and pushes her thighs wider, exposing her pussy for the whole room to see.
“No, fuck, no don’t please …” she begs to no avail other than to heighten the stimulation of her captors. Issy attempts to close her legs, but he holds them open, proving to her how utterly helpless she is.
“Oh God, please,” she whispers to no one except the video camera, as she watches his hand move between her legs, slithering slowly up her thigh.
Her heart races – she is beyond terrified!
Issy looks into his eyes and then at the other man, the one who's been talking to her. He stands clear of the view finder and watches closely.
It's pathetic, she thinks, if he was a real man, he would grope her himself. Instead, he's having some other guys do it all for him. The finger presses against her clit, then, as he circles two long digits slide inside her body, opening her, stretching her. His exposed eyes look at her and she is certain that she recognises this man from her abduction ... what kind of sick pervert is he?
He pulls out a little and then thrusts back up inside of her, causing Issy to, somewhat lasciviously thrust her hips forward with a jerk. It's sudden and harsh, and she hears her assailant say, “You're a fucking disgusting whore…” the man, seemingly the one in charge, then adds, “You're soaking wet.”
And Issy wishes that he was wrong. But he isn’t. She is desperate not to feel aroused right now, but the evidence is there.
“You fucking want this little whore, don’t you?”
“N … n … noooooooooo!”
The man pushes another finger all the way inside of his captive, making her legs tremble, and a moan squeezes out of her clenched throat.
“Fuck!” More whispered expletives came from Issy’s mouth, who so wishes that she could take her response back, and not give these bastards one ounce of satisfaction.
“So, you are a whore,” the lead man mocks his bound captive. He steps over and circles around behind Issy, moving in very close, right up against her left ear. “A dirty fucking slut. I'm glad your daddy gets to see this. How being tied up naked and touched turns you on so much. Look up at the camera Issy. We're getting you from all angles.”
She does and sees the lenses filming her, and there are several. The man pleasuring her moves in just the right way and surprises his captive as Issy rocks against his fingers.
Then …
“Fuuuck noooo, noooo stop! Ohhhh noooooo!”
No, there's no way. She can't possibly cum in this situation. But the feeling is quickly becoming overwhelming, and then a relentless, powerful sensation floods her system, and shivers convulse through her as she tightens her lips and sucks in air through her nose.
The feeling is so full and all-encompassing that Issy squeezes her cunt around the man’s finger still embedded deep inside her, until all of the orgasmic aftershocks have passed.
“Good girl. He's going to love that, your daddy.”
On Flight United 924, from Washington DC to London Heathrow, 6:39 pm EDT, Thursday April 4th 2024
Wheels up. She was on her way at last.
Barb adjusted her travel neck pillow, and settled back into her ‘premium economy’ window seat. She’d have preferred ‘first class’, of course, but had thought better of it, thinking that flying in coach offered her a more assured level of anonymity.
Not that anyone was necessarily paying attention to her, but then again in her line of work one never knows, does one? She’d had to go and ask Clark O’Shaughnessy, her CIA boss, for an immediate ‘personal leave of absence’ to visit a terminally ailing friend, which he’d readily granted. But she’d not put it past him to put a tail on her. For Clark, nothing and nobody was above suspicion. That’s the way he was.
Aside from securing leave, the previous day had been a whirlwind of frenetic activity. She’d had to unceremoniously boot James Steele, her besotted ‘pickup lover’ of the previous night, out of her apartment. He’d protested vigorously, refusing to leave, and she’d finally been forced to play the one card that would send him off with his tail between his legs … revealing to him that she’d discovered the wedding ring he’d secreted in his pants pocket.
She’d also had to resist the urge to feed her addiction to drugs and alcohol, which wasn’t easy, in addition to booking her flight, packing her bag, arranging for a neighbor to care for her cat and water the plants, and ordering a taxi to pick her up and transport her the 16 miles from Langley out to Dulles at the very height of the late afternoon rush hour.
Now as the ‘flight tracker’ display on the seat-back screen in front of her showed that the plane had reached cruising altitude and was headed out over the Atlantic, she tried to decide whether to watch a movie or try to nap … concluding that the latter made far more sense given her accumulated deficit of sleep over the past 48 hours or more, and the likelihood that she’d need to be fully alert when she reached London and rendezvoused with Jason.
Her telephone conversation with him the night he’d called had been maddeningly brief and cryptic. All she knew for certain was that Jason needed her! Barta apparently had somehow gotten his hands on Jason’s daughter, Issy … that Jason was going ‘dark’ in a desperate attempt to somehow locate and rescue her … and that on the coming morning he expected her to join him in London. He’d said he’d be waiting for her at a small ‘walk-up’ hotel in Soho called Mimi’s.
But before settling in for the night, she craned her neck for one last look around to see if she could spot any ‘tail’ that O’Shaughnessy may have assigned to keep an eye on her.
And it was at that moment that the woman seated next to her … a blonde woman … attractive, quite fashionably outfitted, and about Barb’s age or slightly older … took notice and said, “are you looking for someone? Perhaps a travel companion seated in another row? I’d be happy to trade places with him or her, if you like, so you can be together.”
Her accent was English … very RP.
“No, thank you. I was just checking for the location of the lavatories.”
“Of course. Always good to know where they are.”
Barb smiled, shifted in her seat, kicked off her shoes, tugged at her skirt which had ridden up, and was about to don her sleep mask and close her eyes, when she saw it … the ID tag attached to the handle on the woman’s travel bag stuffed under the seat at her feet had a Langley street address on it!
International Arrivals, Terminal 2, London Heathrow, 7:55 am, Friday, April 5th 2024
Barb, like everyone else, found herself inching along the metal-barrier-enforced, back-and-forth winding lines that channelled arriving passengers through immigration. The lines were incredibly long, and it took a good 45 minutes or more before she reached the point where she could finally walk up to one of the digital kiosks, place her passport on the scanner, and be cleared to pass through to grab her bag and exit through customs.
During all that time she’d kept a constant lookout for her English seating companion on the flight over. But the woman had seemingly vanished into thin air. They’d gotten off the plane together, and had both stopped in to use a lavatory on the way to Immigration, but that was the last time Barb had seen her.
Yet, when Barb emerged from Customs, there she was, chatting with a man not far away and positioned in a place where she could observe Barb the moment she emerged.
By then Barb was all but certain her seat mate had to be CIA, and was determined that the woman not be given an opportunity to tail her to the Soho hotel rendezvous with Jason.
Without looking right or left, Barb walked briskly out the terminal entrance. And abandoning her roller bag, dodged artfully through the narrow gap between two parked London buses, beyond which she changed course and ran straight towards one of the mini buses that transport passengers from the terminals to the car hire lots.
There she barged her way through several people standing in a queue, banged vigorously on the door of a departing bus, and managed to gain entry as it pulled away. But before it had trundled along for any distance on reaching the airport’s perimeter road, she told the driver she’d made a mistake and demanded to be let off the bus. After which she scuttled across a grassy perimeter strip and and exited onto Newbury Road, where she ducked into a Hyatt hotel and asked the clerk at the desk to order her a taxi.
An hour and a half later, she found herself standing, minus her luggage, on a quiet street off Shaftesbury Avenue in Soho, viewing the entrance to Mimi's. Sucking in her breath, she crossed over the street, went inside and was about to approach the front desk, not knowing exact what to say as she very much doubted that Jason was registered there under his real name.
But before she was able to say anything to the desk clerk, Jason seemingly materialized out of nowhere to take her firmly by the arm and steer her over to and into the lift.
“Thank God, you’re here, Barb!” he exclaimed, as the lift door closed and it began its trundling ascent.
“I do hope you’re whisking me off to a room with a nice comfy bed!” She loudly declared, before leaping into his arms, wrapping her legs around him at waist level and proceeding to smother him with hot kisses.
TBC
Heathrow at its worst. Anyone here know what I mean?
Davec5299
Magistrate
Heathrow at its worst. Anyone here know what I mean?
Us Brits enjoy lots of queuing,
In sweaty lines, everyone stewing.
Barb is groaning,
She's not stopped moaning,
But now Jase will give her a doing!
I wish I didn'tAnyone here know what I mean?
Girl, Taken (4)
Secure Wing, Wellington Private Hospital, Wellington Place, London, 8 am Friday 5th April 2024
Grace lay still in her hospital bed, and the more lucid she became the more she struggled to come to terms with the fact that she was no longer an unwilling captive.
Nightmares plagued both her sleep and her hellish reverie. Pictures of her nailed inside a small wooden box waiting to die, hounded Grace continuously.
Every day she is visited by her family. Mum and dad, who are over from New Zealand and staying with her brother, Luke, and his fiancée Alex, with whom she is now, through necessity, reunited.
But not Jason. Never Jason. Bastard.
She misses Issy though, and through her slowly recollecting memories Grace recalls Issy visiting her, but not for a few days now.
Nurse Abigail was more than just her nurse. She had become a confidante, spending hours sitting with the poor girl when her nightmares became too much, and she was clearly working way more than her normal shifts to be with Grace virtually all of the time.
Grace has also seen the guards, armed to the teeth, stationed in the corridor outside the room, catching glimpses of them when the door opens.
“They’re there for your protection,” Luke explained, sitting down on the side of her bed one time when she started to panic for no good reason.
“You need to be safe Gracey.”
Grace just nodded and drifted off back to sleep.
SIS HQ, South bank of the River Thames in Vauxhall, London. Office of Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service of the United Kingdom, Roger Moore, 10 am Friday 5th April 2024
“So did you act as we’d discussed Roger?”
“Yes Home Secretary. Underwood has been freed and he’s headed into London to begin his search and rescue mission.”
“Okay good. Do we know anything more about his daughter?”
“Not really Sir. We had one more video from them, equally as disgustingly harrowing as the first, but now they’ve gone quiet.”
“So we’re tracking Underwood, are we?”
“We are Sir. That way we get him to lead us to those cartel bastards.”
“Does he know?”
“No Sir, if he did, he would find a way to circumvent us. We attached a Gun Alert tracker to the barrel of his MI6 issued Glock. We get a gun location update every 5 minutes.”
“And if he loses the gun?”
“Well then, we need to make a call and send someone out to find him. It was all we could do without him realising he was being tracked Sir.”
“Okay, I understand. And Grace Miller?”
“She’s slowly recovering Sir. We’ve made arrangements for her to leave the service with a substantial fund and move to New Zealand where her parents live.”
“Hmmm, I think that’s for the best Roger, hopefully the money and her signing the compromise agreement will stop her ever going public about your departments shortcomings when it came to looking after that poor girl in the field.”
Roger Moore felt aggrieved by those accusations, but equally he knew better than to offer up any sort of defence, and so, with that, the call ended.
A disused warehouse, East Side, Vågen, Bryggen, Bergen, Norway, 11 am, Friday 5th April 2024
Issy looked up at the wall, right where it meets the ceiling. She had been fixated on that point for a while now. There's a spot of mould … or it might be a dark shadow …
The man, stripped to the waist stood at her front, staring, ogling her nudity, before completing his slow circle and ending up behind her once more.
Then … “Ohhhh fuckkkkkk!” The leather slams into her back, and she feels each knotted strand as she is whipped.
“Forty-six,” she gasps.
There is no point to the whipping. She isn’t being asked any questions, and as far as she knows they are not filming this latest atrocity to be performed on her naked body. This is simply torture to service their warped desires.
Issy’s voice is flat. She doesn’t yell out the numbers, like she did in the teens and twenties, and they no longer come out in sobbing whimpers. The bound girl knows that she can’t offer up resistance to their twisted game of making her count each stroke out like she did when they were still below ten. Issy can still feel the blood trickling down her back from that early defiance.
The ropes tear at the tender skin on her wrists, her arms raised over her head, yanking her up so that she’s balancing on the tips of her toes. Her breathing is shallow and she can feel her heart pumping blood fast around her body in an attempt to ward off the pain, causing her to feel woozy, light headed.
The men no longer keep their identities secret, which Issy guesses means that the filming is over. But it also scares her because she knows now that once her father makes his way to her, then these bastards will just kill them both.
Felix and Jerzy, her initial abductors, were here along with three other men … it had been Jerzy that had fingered her to that humiliating orgasm while tied to the chair. The leader seemed to be called Grzegorz Barta, who spent half his time directing her torture and the other half on his phone seemingly organising a drugs and trafficking network.
Issy keeps her eyes focused on that dark spot. Just that one spot.
“Arghhhhhhhhhh …” The flogger fell squarely across her back once more.
A pause, then … “Forty-seven.”
Anything to keep her mind off the throbbing pain, the sweat and oozing blood. She tries not to think about when this ends, or if it ends.
Another scream and more numbers. “Forty-eight.”
Her dad will see her like this. He'll see her utterly destroyed and humiliated. What about her mother? Oh God. Does her mum even know that she is missing?
“FUCKKKKKKKK!” Issy uses the loud expletive in an attempt to dilute the pain.
“Forty-nine.”
It's hard to think about anything but the agony. She doesn’t want this pain to last any longer than it has to. There will be all kinds of other damage to her body. Do they have medical assistance on hand, Issy wondered. Of course, she knew the answer to that was no.
The final stroke is delivered horizontally across both ass cheeks, and it makes her back arch and her whole body shudder as Issy grunts out, “Fifty.”
“Good work Felix, the man called Barta offer up his praise, as the bound girl hears the flogger drop down on the table behind her.
Is it time to switch to a new weapon of choice?
Her head twists to see one of the other men. One of the two who still remain nameless, and somehow these two scare her even more, and he's holding something she didn't expect. It's not barbed or studded. It's smooth and white. A vibrator, the large, bulbous head glistening in the dim light, clearly intended for her.
The nameless man steps behind her. He’s the one who's going to use the vibrator on her.
Issy feels her ankles pulled wide apart and secured, causing her leverage to the cold floor to become even more tenuous. As the man twists the base of the vibe, he touches the lightly pulsating end to Issy’s inner thigh. Then Barta appears before her and brings his leather gloved hands up to grope her exposed breasts. He squeezes both of them tightly and painfully, causing Issy to gasp anew.
“Begin,” he says. Barta, the man that Issy has started to think off as the boss.
The silent man moves the vibrator up against her clit, and immediately it's uncomfortable. It's too much. Her poor body's just been beaten and smacked around. The poor girl doesn't know how to respond to anything pleasurable as she was expecting more pain.
Then, Barta moves one hand down and as the vibe buzzes away on her blood-filled clit, the boss pushes a gloved finger inside her open body. There's no way she can twist away from this combined assault. She’s completely at their mercy. And, they haven't been merciful yet.
“Say you're a whore,” the boss commands. His voice is a low growl in her ear. The silent man ups the intensity of the vibration ad Barta adds a second finger, curling them inside her, hooking her sensitive walls.
Issy cannot stifle her heavy breaths and soft moans. Then Barta’s other hand moves from her breasts to grip her throat. He squeezes. “Say it, Issy.”
Her legs begin to shake. The feeling is growing way faster than she can process it. With how much she’s been touched and beaten already, any new sensations are totally confusing her. She’s barely even hearing the boss's voice, much less feeling his hand around her throat. The silent man is doing everything to her body that stimulates her pussy in a way that she tries to fight, but can’t.
The warm, familiar feeling of an orgasm is quickly building.
Then … “Stop,” the boss says.
Barta slips his finger out of their naked captive. The vibrator clicks off.
“No. Fuck. No. Don't stop.” Issy can’t stop the words.
“It's simple, girl. Tell me you're a whore.”
She turns her eyes to his, and stares at the boss, eyes unblinking. She can barely breathe, it’s as if all of the oxygen has been sucked out of her body. How is she supposed to speak?
Barta raises his hand and slaps her across the cheek, so hard that Issy tastes a little blood in her mouth.
“I'm ... I'm a whore.” Her voice cracks.
“Go,” the boss says. The vibrator immediately touches against her again, buzzing away. Barta steps back to watch, the bulge at his crotch considerable. But this time it’s the silent man who pushes a finger in, then a second one, and suddenly Issy is hurtling once more towards the edge. The feeling is so intense that she’s squirming against the ropes on her wrist, and they dig in deeper as her body seems to get heavier.
But she is beyond caring. The pain doesn't remotely match the immense unwitting pleasure rushing towards her
“Say you're a slut,” the boss says.
“I...” Issy loses her breath, causing her to gulp in more air. Her throat is so strained and she can't think straight. It's asking too much. She knows that she to say it, or everything stops again.
“I'm … I’m a … a slut.”
“Yes, you are,” the boss says as the first convulsions take hold of her climaxing body.
This is going to be a massive orgasm, and yet Issy still can’t comprehend how this is even possible. She shouldn't even be capable of having one, considering her situation. Strangers have beaten her to a pulp, forced her to humiliate herself, and then continued to debase her. How could any of this be a turn-on?
“Thank your master,” the boss says into her ear.
That cuts through the confusion for the bound girl.
“Thank him,” the boss says referring to the silent man.
Barta’s hand returns to Issy’s delicate throat and he squeezes, even harder than before. “Or this all ends. We'll leave you here. All night. Aching. Throbbing. Needing.”
Issy keeps her mouth closed.
As expected, the silent man takes his cues well and pulls his hands away from her dripping cunt, and even the boss lets go of her.
They are so near, all of them even the three who are just watching, but no one is touching her anymore.
But Issy wants more. She needs more, but now she knows that she has to give away everything to get it. Her dignity, her ego, her body
She opens her lips. “Thank you, master.”
The words come out, along with the tears that accompany them.
TBC
Secure Wing, Wellington Private Hospital, Wellington Place, London, 8 am Friday 5th April 2024
Grace lay still in her hospital bed, and the more lucid she became the more she struggled to come to terms with the fact that she was no longer an unwilling captive.
Nightmares plagued both her sleep and her hellish reverie. Pictures of her nailed inside a small wooden box waiting to die, hounded Grace continuously.
Every day she is visited by her family. Mum and dad, who are over from New Zealand and staying with her brother, Luke, and his fiancée Alex, with whom she is now, through necessity, reunited.
But not Jason. Never Jason. Bastard.
She misses Issy though, and through her slowly recollecting memories Grace recalls Issy visiting her, but not for a few days now.
Nurse Abigail was more than just her nurse. She had become a confidante, spending hours sitting with the poor girl when her nightmares became too much, and she was clearly working way more than her normal shifts to be with Grace virtually all of the time.
Grace has also seen the guards, armed to the teeth, stationed in the corridor outside the room, catching glimpses of them when the door opens.
“They’re there for your protection,” Luke explained, sitting down on the side of her bed one time when she started to panic for no good reason.
“You need to be safe Gracey.”
Grace just nodded and drifted off back to sleep.
SIS HQ, South bank of the River Thames in Vauxhall, London. Office of Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service of the United Kingdom, Roger Moore, 10 am Friday 5th April 2024
“So did you act as we’d discussed Roger?”
“Yes Home Secretary. Underwood has been freed and he’s headed into London to begin his search and rescue mission.”
“Okay good. Do we know anything more about his daughter?”
“Not really Sir. We had one more video from them, equally as disgustingly harrowing as the first, but now they’ve gone quiet.”
“So we’re tracking Underwood, are we?”
“We are Sir. That way we get him to lead us to those cartel bastards.”
“Does he know?”
“No Sir, if he did, he would find a way to circumvent us. We attached a Gun Alert tracker to the barrel of his MI6 issued Glock. We get a gun location update every 5 minutes.”
“And if he loses the gun?”
“Well then, we need to make a call and send someone out to find him. It was all we could do without him realising he was being tracked Sir.”
“Okay, I understand. And Grace Miller?”
“She’s slowly recovering Sir. We’ve made arrangements for her to leave the service with a substantial fund and move to New Zealand where her parents live.”
“Hmmm, I think that’s for the best Roger, hopefully the money and her signing the compromise agreement will stop her ever going public about your departments shortcomings when it came to looking after that poor girl in the field.”
Roger Moore felt aggrieved by those accusations, but equally he knew better than to offer up any sort of defence, and so, with that, the call ended.
A disused warehouse, East Side, Vågen, Bryggen, Bergen, Norway, 11 am, Friday 5th April 2024
Issy looked up at the wall, right where it meets the ceiling. She had been fixated on that point for a while now. There's a spot of mould … or it might be a dark shadow …
The man, stripped to the waist stood at her front, staring, ogling her nudity, before completing his slow circle and ending up behind her once more.
Then … “Ohhhh fuckkkkkk!” The leather slams into her back, and she feels each knotted strand as she is whipped.
“Forty-six,” she gasps.
There is no point to the whipping. She isn’t being asked any questions, and as far as she knows they are not filming this latest atrocity to be performed on her naked body. This is simply torture to service their warped desires.
Issy’s voice is flat. She doesn’t yell out the numbers, like she did in the teens and twenties, and they no longer come out in sobbing whimpers. The bound girl knows that she can’t offer up resistance to their twisted game of making her count each stroke out like she did when they were still below ten. Issy can still feel the blood trickling down her back from that early defiance.
The ropes tear at the tender skin on her wrists, her arms raised over her head, yanking her up so that she’s balancing on the tips of her toes. Her breathing is shallow and she can feel her heart pumping blood fast around her body in an attempt to ward off the pain, causing her to feel woozy, light headed.
The men no longer keep their identities secret, which Issy guesses means that the filming is over. But it also scares her because she knows now that once her father makes his way to her, then these bastards will just kill them both.
Felix and Jerzy, her initial abductors, were here along with three other men … it had been Jerzy that had fingered her to that humiliating orgasm while tied to the chair. The leader seemed to be called Grzegorz Barta, who spent half his time directing her torture and the other half on his phone seemingly organising a drugs and trafficking network.
Issy keeps her eyes focused on that dark spot. Just that one spot.
“Arghhhhhhhhhh …” The flogger fell squarely across her back once more.
A pause, then … “Forty-seven.”
Anything to keep her mind off the throbbing pain, the sweat and oozing blood. She tries not to think about when this ends, or if it ends.
Another scream and more numbers. “Forty-eight.”
Her dad will see her like this. He'll see her utterly destroyed and humiliated. What about her mother? Oh God. Does her mum even know that she is missing?
“FUCKKKKKKKK!” Issy uses the loud expletive in an attempt to dilute the pain.
“Forty-nine.”
It's hard to think about anything but the agony. She doesn’t want this pain to last any longer than it has to. There will be all kinds of other damage to her body. Do they have medical assistance on hand, Issy wondered. Of course, she knew the answer to that was no.
The final stroke is delivered horizontally across both ass cheeks, and it makes her back arch and her whole body shudder as Issy grunts out, “Fifty.”
“Good work Felix, the man called Barta offer up his praise, as the bound girl hears the flogger drop down on the table behind her.
Is it time to switch to a new weapon of choice?
Her head twists to see one of the other men. One of the two who still remain nameless, and somehow these two scare her even more, and he's holding something she didn't expect. It's not barbed or studded. It's smooth and white. A vibrator, the large, bulbous head glistening in the dim light, clearly intended for her.
The nameless man steps behind her. He’s the one who's going to use the vibrator on her.
Issy feels her ankles pulled wide apart and secured, causing her leverage to the cold floor to become even more tenuous. As the man twists the base of the vibe, he touches the lightly pulsating end to Issy’s inner thigh. Then Barta appears before her and brings his leather gloved hands up to grope her exposed breasts. He squeezes both of them tightly and painfully, causing Issy to gasp anew.
“Begin,” he says. Barta, the man that Issy has started to think off as the boss.
The silent man moves the vibrator up against her clit, and immediately it's uncomfortable. It's too much. Her poor body's just been beaten and smacked around. The poor girl doesn't know how to respond to anything pleasurable as she was expecting more pain.
Then, Barta moves one hand down and as the vibe buzzes away on her blood-filled clit, the boss pushes a gloved finger inside her open body. There's no way she can twist away from this combined assault. She’s completely at their mercy. And, they haven't been merciful yet.
“Say you're a whore,” the boss commands. His voice is a low growl in her ear. The silent man ups the intensity of the vibration ad Barta adds a second finger, curling them inside her, hooking her sensitive walls.
Issy cannot stifle her heavy breaths and soft moans. Then Barta’s other hand moves from her breasts to grip her throat. He squeezes. “Say it, Issy.”
Her legs begin to shake. The feeling is growing way faster than she can process it. With how much she’s been touched and beaten already, any new sensations are totally confusing her. She’s barely even hearing the boss's voice, much less feeling his hand around her throat. The silent man is doing everything to her body that stimulates her pussy in a way that she tries to fight, but can’t.
The warm, familiar feeling of an orgasm is quickly building.
Then … “Stop,” the boss says.
Barta slips his finger out of their naked captive. The vibrator clicks off.
“No. Fuck. No. Don't stop.” Issy can’t stop the words.
“It's simple, girl. Tell me you're a whore.”
She turns her eyes to his, and stares at the boss, eyes unblinking. She can barely breathe, it’s as if all of the oxygen has been sucked out of her body. How is she supposed to speak?
Barta raises his hand and slaps her across the cheek, so hard that Issy tastes a little blood in her mouth.
“I'm ... I'm a whore.” Her voice cracks.
“Go,” the boss says. The vibrator immediately touches against her again, buzzing away. Barta steps back to watch, the bulge at his crotch considerable. But this time it’s the silent man who pushes a finger in, then a second one, and suddenly Issy is hurtling once more towards the edge. The feeling is so intense that she’s squirming against the ropes on her wrist, and they dig in deeper as her body seems to get heavier.
But she is beyond caring. The pain doesn't remotely match the immense unwitting pleasure rushing towards her
“Say you're a slut,” the boss says.
“I...” Issy loses her breath, causing her to gulp in more air. Her throat is so strained and she can't think straight. It's asking too much. She knows that she to say it, or everything stops again.
“I'm … I’m a … a slut.”
“Yes, you are,” the boss says as the first convulsions take hold of her climaxing body.
This is going to be a massive orgasm, and yet Issy still can’t comprehend how this is even possible. She shouldn't even be capable of having one, considering her situation. Strangers have beaten her to a pulp, forced her to humiliate herself, and then continued to debase her. How could any of this be a turn-on?
“Thank your master,” the boss says into her ear.
That cuts through the confusion for the bound girl.
“Thank him,” the boss says referring to the silent man.
Barta’s hand returns to Issy’s delicate throat and he squeezes, even harder than before. “Or this all ends. We'll leave you here. All night. Aching. Throbbing. Needing.”
Issy keeps her mouth closed.
As expected, the silent man takes his cues well and pulls his hands away from her dripping cunt, and even the boss lets go of her.
They are so near, all of them even the three who are just watching, but no one is touching her anymore.
But Issy wants more. She needs more, but now she knows that she has to give away everything to get it. Her dignity, her ego, her body
She opens her lips. “Thank you, master.”
The words come out, along with the tears that accompany them.
TBC
Underwood’s released and tracked
No longer disgraced and sacked
Issy’s in deep trouble
needs help on the double
Odds against rescue are stacked
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Girl, Taken (5)
Small Lounge, Secure Wing, Wellington Private Hospital, Wellington Place, London, 2 pm Friday, April 5th 2024
“It’s the right thing to do.” Roger Moore looked across at Grace Miller and then at each of her parents in turn.
The Head of MI6 had feelings for Grace, and not the kind he had for the late Ekaterina Novikova, Grace’s best friend and mentor all those years ago, but more paternalistic. He had plucked her from training school and thrust her straight into the action in an Asian mission that made use of her fluency in Arabic and Mandarin, for which she has a First-Class Honours Degree from Oxford University.
Grace nodded.
She had agreed to head back to New Zealand with her parents on a long haul flight later that day.
“We agree Mr Moore,” Grace’s father, retired wealthy stockbroker, Lawrence Miller said, before adding, “Our daughter has suffered enough in all ways; professionally, personally, physically and mentally, and now we need her with us so that we can take care of her.”
Lawrence, standing behind his daughter, placed his hand upon her shoulder. Grace smiled weakly and slipped her own hand over that of her father.
Roger Moore, returned the nod and the smile. Grace had said very little, and he knew she was still weak, unsurprisingly so. But yet … she was one of the strongest girl’s he had ever come across in the service and when she was well again, fit and strong, which she would be, would Grace Miller really be happy living a closeted life in New Zealand? He doubted that very much.
A disused warehouse, East Side, Vågen, Bryggen, Bergen, Norway, 11 am, 2 pm Friday, April 5th 2024
At the exact same time that Grace was meeting with Roger Moore at the Wellington Private Hospital, Issy Underwood, the hapless nineteen-year-old captive of Grzegorz Barta, was bound to the ceiling of the small warehouse room that has become both her captivity cell and torture chamber.
She is suffering in unspeakable agony.
The ropes tug at Issy’s wrists while she lurches from the belt slamming into her already well beaten ass. This time they don't want her to count. They don't want anything from her, except to be a vessel for their sick sadism.
The poor girl, still naked, exists only as a collection of raw nerve endings for them to use and abuse as they wish.
Bastards
That explains the dozens of clothes pegs that are pinched onto her body, ranging from her slender, bruised thighs all the way up to her tender armpits. Her nipples, her pussy lips, and several folds of skin are all tightly clamped.
And she’s been hanging like this for an age now, though being any more specific about whether that ‘age’ is hours, or minutes or … is impossible for her addled brain. It only hurts when she winces from the pain causing them to pull against her flesh, which is what she does every time the leather belt strikes her nubile body.
At around thirty blows, Barta, the boss, who is administering this torture himself, approaches his bound captive, stands to her front and spits into her face. “Whore.”
The ropes at her wrists are too tight for Issy to be able to wipe it away, and so the thick glob trickles freely down her cheek to hang from her chin.
She takes in a deep breath, doing her level best not to react.
She says nothing, even though she is not gagged.
Felix approaches her holding a vicious looking studded leather paddle. Without ceremony he slams it into her body, front, back, sides, ass, pussy, breasts, again and again.
Issy clenches her fists and rides the pain as best she can.
Once he’s done, he too then spits into her face, hitting her right eye directly.
“Slut.”
She has to survive. Her dad will come, won’t he? But that’s what they want and so is it best that just she dies and he lives, given that her life is over anyway?
The familiar sting of a flogger lands across her back a moment later.
“Arrgghhhhhh!” She arches and the clothes pegs burn once more. Tears fall down her face, but Issy doesn’t sob, even though she’s ready to burst. She is thrashed over and over, and with a slight glance to her side she sees the men that have already beaten her, with their cocks out. They're stroking themselves while they watching her suffer. Four of them in a line, the boss must be the man flogging her.
It couldn't get any more humiliating, she had been reduced to jerk off material, no longer an actual person.
Ten, twenty, thirty hits from the flogger. Issy can't even keep track anymore, as the men get closer, their cock-heads glistening in the low light. The bound girl can hear them running hands along their shafts, their soft little moans, their slight exhales as ecstasy approaches. With small steps, they surround her. The boss, Grzegorz Barta, has dropped the flogger and joined in.
The ropes are loosened around her wrists and hands push Issy down to her knees until her pretty face is at the level of their oozing hard-ons.
They relentlessly jerk and the naked captive girl is helpless to stop them. Just like being spit on. Just like everything they do to her.
One man, Jerzy, steps forward. She gazes at his solid hard cock and he looks like he's ready to burst as he lifts her face up by the chin and then exhales.
Issy sees him erupt and she closes her eyes just in time for his hot, sticky cum to land across her left eye, her nose, and along the sealed, closed length of her dry lips.
He immediately steps away and another man, an unnamed silent one, steps in to take his place. He takes only a few seconds before he unloads onto her as well, catching mostly her forehead and left cheek with his warm load.
The next two finish at almost exactly the same time. Their cocks burst across her face, covering her completely. Cum runs down her chin and slides down her neck, over her breasts to hang from her nipples.
Then the boss approaches. Issy can barely see, she is coated in so much thick, white sperm.
But she sees enough to know he is smiling as he ejaculates up her nose making her choke and splutter.
Before she can recover in any way, the ropes are tightened yanking her back up to her feet. Her mouth is slightly opened and the copious rivulets of male seed slide between her lips. Issy swallows it.
After being manhandled and groped, the clothes pegs are savagely ripped away via the rip cord that was hanging loose from her sides. The pain is so excruciating that for many seconds she cannot make a sound, and then the most feral, desperate scream imaginable is released from her throat.
The men smile and nod, congratulating one another … on what Issy has no idea. On being able to successfully jerk off? Bastards.
Then she is lowered again, untied and thrown back into the cage that they have now taken to keeping her in.
Exhausted and numb from the endless pain and humiliation, she tries several positions before she finally lays on her side, the one that hurts the least, and does her best to wipe her face and body clean with her hands, but only manages to streak the cum over more of her skin. It’s already drying on her. They want it that way. They want to leave their disgusting marks on her.
He'll have to come for her, her dad. Won’t he?
Mimi’s Hotel, Frith St, Soho London, 4 pm Friday, April 5th 2024
Barbara sat propped against two pillows at the head of the bed, busying herself with playing the short video file on Jason’s cell over and over again. Jason had gone off to get a shower following their marathon, afternoon-long, love-making session.
The video content was difficult for Barb to watch … viewing the tortures and humiliations being inflicted by Barta and his crew on poor Issy assaulted Barb’s senses in so many ways, bringing back painful memories of the times she had herself endured Barta’s cruel depravity.
She’d been acting then as a CIA agent, operating ‘dark’, which by definition ran the risk, if captured, of being subjected to interrogation by any means, and without moral boundaries.
But Issy was no captured spy, rather an innocent 19-year old, being used as ‘bait’. What Barta and company were doing to her in the video was totally gratuitous … those bastards were getting off on the poor girl’s sufferings!
Barbara played it again, focusing her attention on the message at the very end: ‘So, Major Jason Underwood, from this minute onwards your very pretty daughter will be our sex toy, so the sooner you find us and come to us, the better it will be for her. But we don’t want you to spoil our fun too quickly, and so you need to figure out for yourself where we are holding her.’
The bastards appeared to delight in challenging Jason to figure out where they were holding poor Issa. But yet, Barbara reasoned, they certainly want him to figure it out eventually. So … there has to be a clue embedded intentionally somewhere in the message.
She replayed it again, and only then did she find what she was looking for!
Letting out a war hoop, she leaped from the bed, crossed over the intervening space between the bed and the bathroom in a bound, threw open the bathroom door, then the shower stall door, and jumped right in.
“Whoa!” Cried a startled and lathered up Jason Underwood. “Not again, haven’t we fucked enough already? Now in the shower, is it? You’re absolutely insatiable, Barb!”
“Shut up!” She hissed, batting away his hands reaching for her bare breasts. “And listen to me. I think I’ve figured out where they’re holding Issy!”
“You have? Where?”
“Somewhere in Bergen, Norway!”
“Bergen? Really? What makes you think so?”
“A faint little tune that can be heard in the background … right near the end … right about the time Barta uses the blade of his knife to cut open the front of Issy’s tee shirt.”
“What little tune?”
“Come on! Dry off and join me in the room. I’ll grab your phone and show you.”
“Alright, give me a sec, and this better be good,” he said, patting her on the ass as she turned to leave.
Moments later, they were seated side by side on the edge of the bed, staring at his phone as it replayed the video.
“There! Right there! Did you hear it?” She demanded.
“Yes, I hear it. But how does that point to Bergen?”
“It was meant to be a clue. I’ve heard it before … when I was visiting Bergen a couple years ago on holiday. The city has a light rail system that rather uniquely plays a little tune … a different one for each stop … to alert passengers to where they are. The tram company’s website lists all the stops and their identifying tunes. That one is especially known to tourists as it belongs to the line’s terminal stop near Bryggen, the old Hanseatic wharf district.”
“How would they expect me to pick up on that?”
“Don’t you see, Henry? They probably didn’t. Barta is toying with you. I suspect there’ll be more clues coming as the days go by, each one a little more explicit. I doubt Barta’s in any hurry to lead you there. He’d rather drive you out of your mind by sending you a daily flow of explicit videos of Issy’s sufferings. They probably didn’t reckon on someone like me, who knows Bergen, being here and figuring it out this quickly.”
“Well, that gives us a bit of an edge then, doesn’t it? We can move in on them while they still think I’m sitting here in London going crazy trying to guess where they are. Nice work, Barb! How can I ever repay you?”
“For now, you can just fuck me again, and don’t be gentle about it!”
TBC
Small Lounge, Secure Wing, Wellington Private Hospital, Wellington Place, London, 2 pm Friday, April 5th 2024
“It’s the right thing to do.” Roger Moore looked across at Grace Miller and then at each of her parents in turn.
The Head of MI6 had feelings for Grace, and not the kind he had for the late Ekaterina Novikova, Grace’s best friend and mentor all those years ago, but more paternalistic. He had plucked her from training school and thrust her straight into the action in an Asian mission that made use of her fluency in Arabic and Mandarin, for which she has a First-Class Honours Degree from Oxford University.
Grace nodded.
She had agreed to head back to New Zealand with her parents on a long haul flight later that day.
“We agree Mr Moore,” Grace’s father, retired wealthy stockbroker, Lawrence Miller said, before adding, “Our daughter has suffered enough in all ways; professionally, personally, physically and mentally, and now we need her with us so that we can take care of her.”
Lawrence, standing behind his daughter, placed his hand upon her shoulder. Grace smiled weakly and slipped her own hand over that of her father.
Roger Moore, returned the nod and the smile. Grace had said very little, and he knew she was still weak, unsurprisingly so. But yet … she was one of the strongest girl’s he had ever come across in the service and when she was well again, fit and strong, which she would be, would Grace Miller really be happy living a closeted life in New Zealand? He doubted that very much.
A disused warehouse, East Side, Vågen, Bryggen, Bergen, Norway, 11 am, 2 pm Friday, April 5th 2024
At the exact same time that Grace was meeting with Roger Moore at the Wellington Private Hospital, Issy Underwood, the hapless nineteen-year-old captive of Grzegorz Barta, was bound to the ceiling of the small warehouse room that has become both her captivity cell and torture chamber.
She is suffering in unspeakable agony.
The ropes tug at Issy’s wrists while she lurches from the belt slamming into her already well beaten ass. This time they don't want her to count. They don't want anything from her, except to be a vessel for their sick sadism.
The poor girl, still naked, exists only as a collection of raw nerve endings for them to use and abuse as they wish.
Bastards
That explains the dozens of clothes pegs that are pinched onto her body, ranging from her slender, bruised thighs all the way up to her tender armpits. Her nipples, her pussy lips, and several folds of skin are all tightly clamped.
And she’s been hanging like this for an age now, though being any more specific about whether that ‘age’ is hours, or minutes or … is impossible for her addled brain. It only hurts when she winces from the pain causing them to pull against her flesh, which is what she does every time the leather belt strikes her nubile body.
At around thirty blows, Barta, the boss, who is administering this torture himself, approaches his bound captive, stands to her front and spits into her face. “Whore.”
The ropes at her wrists are too tight for Issy to be able to wipe it away, and so the thick glob trickles freely down her cheek to hang from her chin.
She takes in a deep breath, doing her level best not to react.
She says nothing, even though she is not gagged.
Felix approaches her holding a vicious looking studded leather paddle. Without ceremony he slams it into her body, front, back, sides, ass, pussy, breasts, again and again.
Issy clenches her fists and rides the pain as best she can.
Once he’s done, he too then spits into her face, hitting her right eye directly.
“Slut.”
She has to survive. Her dad will come, won’t he? But that’s what they want and so is it best that just she dies and he lives, given that her life is over anyway?
The familiar sting of a flogger lands across her back a moment later.
“Arrgghhhhhh!” She arches and the clothes pegs burn once more. Tears fall down her face, but Issy doesn’t sob, even though she’s ready to burst. She is thrashed over and over, and with a slight glance to her side she sees the men that have already beaten her, with their cocks out. They're stroking themselves while they watching her suffer. Four of them in a line, the boss must be the man flogging her.
It couldn't get any more humiliating, she had been reduced to jerk off material, no longer an actual person.
Ten, twenty, thirty hits from the flogger. Issy can't even keep track anymore, as the men get closer, their cock-heads glistening in the low light. The bound girl can hear them running hands along their shafts, their soft little moans, their slight exhales as ecstasy approaches. With small steps, they surround her. The boss, Grzegorz Barta, has dropped the flogger and joined in.
The ropes are loosened around her wrists and hands push Issy down to her knees until her pretty face is at the level of their oozing hard-ons.
They relentlessly jerk and the naked captive girl is helpless to stop them. Just like being spit on. Just like everything they do to her.
One man, Jerzy, steps forward. She gazes at his solid hard cock and he looks like he's ready to burst as he lifts her face up by the chin and then exhales.
Issy sees him erupt and she closes her eyes just in time for his hot, sticky cum to land across her left eye, her nose, and along the sealed, closed length of her dry lips.
He immediately steps away and another man, an unnamed silent one, steps in to take his place. He takes only a few seconds before he unloads onto her as well, catching mostly her forehead and left cheek with his warm load.
The next two finish at almost exactly the same time. Their cocks burst across her face, covering her completely. Cum runs down her chin and slides down her neck, over her breasts to hang from her nipples.
Then the boss approaches. Issy can barely see, she is coated in so much thick, white sperm.
But she sees enough to know he is smiling as he ejaculates up her nose making her choke and splutter.
Before she can recover in any way, the ropes are tightened yanking her back up to her feet. Her mouth is slightly opened and the copious rivulets of male seed slide between her lips. Issy swallows it.
After being manhandled and groped, the clothes pegs are savagely ripped away via the rip cord that was hanging loose from her sides. The pain is so excruciating that for many seconds she cannot make a sound, and then the most feral, desperate scream imaginable is released from her throat.
The men smile and nod, congratulating one another … on what Issy has no idea. On being able to successfully jerk off? Bastards.
Then she is lowered again, untied and thrown back into the cage that they have now taken to keeping her in.
Exhausted and numb from the endless pain and humiliation, she tries several positions before she finally lays on her side, the one that hurts the least, and does her best to wipe her face and body clean with her hands, but only manages to streak the cum over more of her skin. It’s already drying on her. They want it that way. They want to leave their disgusting marks on her.
He'll have to come for her, her dad. Won’t he?
Mimi’s Hotel, Frith St, Soho London, 4 pm Friday, April 5th 2024
Barbara sat propped against two pillows at the head of the bed, busying herself with playing the short video file on Jason’s cell over and over again. Jason had gone off to get a shower following their marathon, afternoon-long, love-making session.
The video content was difficult for Barb to watch … viewing the tortures and humiliations being inflicted by Barta and his crew on poor Issy assaulted Barb’s senses in so many ways, bringing back painful memories of the times she had herself endured Barta’s cruel depravity.
She’d been acting then as a CIA agent, operating ‘dark’, which by definition ran the risk, if captured, of being subjected to interrogation by any means, and without moral boundaries.
But Issy was no captured spy, rather an innocent 19-year old, being used as ‘bait’. What Barta and company were doing to her in the video was totally gratuitous … those bastards were getting off on the poor girl’s sufferings!
Barbara played it again, focusing her attention on the message at the very end: ‘So, Major Jason Underwood, from this minute onwards your very pretty daughter will be our sex toy, so the sooner you find us and come to us, the better it will be for her. But we don’t want you to spoil our fun too quickly, and so you need to figure out for yourself where we are holding her.’
The bastards appeared to delight in challenging Jason to figure out where they were holding poor Issa. But yet, Barbara reasoned, they certainly want him to figure it out eventually. So … there has to be a clue embedded intentionally somewhere in the message.
She replayed it again, and only then did she find what she was looking for!
Letting out a war hoop, she leaped from the bed, crossed over the intervening space between the bed and the bathroom in a bound, threw open the bathroom door, then the shower stall door, and jumped right in.
“Whoa!” Cried a startled and lathered up Jason Underwood. “Not again, haven’t we fucked enough already? Now in the shower, is it? You’re absolutely insatiable, Barb!”
“Shut up!” She hissed, batting away his hands reaching for her bare breasts. “And listen to me. I think I’ve figured out where they’re holding Issy!”
“You have? Where?”
“Somewhere in Bergen, Norway!”
“Bergen? Really? What makes you think so?”
“A faint little tune that can be heard in the background … right near the end … right about the time Barta uses the blade of his knife to cut open the front of Issy’s tee shirt.”
“What little tune?”
“Come on! Dry off and join me in the room. I’ll grab your phone and show you.”
“Alright, give me a sec, and this better be good,” he said, patting her on the ass as she turned to leave.
Moments later, they were seated side by side on the edge of the bed, staring at his phone as it replayed the video.
“There! Right there! Did you hear it?” She demanded.
“Yes, I hear it. But how does that point to Bergen?”
“It was meant to be a clue. I’ve heard it before … when I was visiting Bergen a couple years ago on holiday. The city has a light rail system that rather uniquely plays a little tune … a different one for each stop … to alert passengers to where they are. The tram company’s website lists all the stops and their identifying tunes. That one is especially known to tourists as it belongs to the line’s terminal stop near Bryggen, the old Hanseatic wharf district.”
“How would they expect me to pick up on that?”
“Don’t you see, Henry? They probably didn’t. Barta is toying with you. I suspect there’ll be more clues coming as the days go by, each one a little more explicit. I doubt Barta’s in any hurry to lead you there. He’d rather drive you out of your mind by sending you a daily flow of explicit videos of Issy’s sufferings. They probably didn’t reckon on someone like me, who knows Bergen, being here and figuring it out this quickly.”
“Well, that gives us a bit of an edge then, doesn’t it? We can move in on them while they still think I’m sitting here in London going crazy trying to guess where they are. Nice work, Barb! How can I ever repay you?”
“For now, you can just fuck me again, and don’t be gentle about it!”
TBC
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Exceptional Dave