Chapter Seven

“Just a minute!” Andrea called, having already decided to keep him waiting at the door as long as possible. “I’m not decent.”

Actually she was to die for, clothed in pale blue latex, a second skin that began at mid thigh and ran no higher than the hollow of her breasts. Only one shoulder was covered, and as for what the dress did for her ass, suffice it to say it would make a dead man blush. The hair, in turn, was a sexy counter statement, upswept and tasteful. As a finishing touch, she wore diamonds, earrings and a choker with subtle but definite implications for a man of Falcon’s background.

Andrea giggled, thinking Tom would have loved the shoes, open toed, wispy silver things with long nasty heels. Painting her toes ice blue was of course a stroke of genius. Examining herself in the mirror, Andrea ran her hand up her flat torso, up under her breasts, which were bare underneath. Underwear just didn’t cut it with this ensemble, though from the outside the outfit still screamed ‘normal wholesome pinup girl’.

She would seduce John Falcon tonight, she decided, adding a bit of frost to her ideally shaped lips, or else kill him in the process. Andrea smiled at her reflection. Things were going her way again. She’d lined up Falcon to find her sister and gotten kudos and grateful hugs from Libby in the process, plus she was certain now she could control this new man. It made her laugh the way she handled him on the phone, telling him in no uncertain terms that he would take her along tonight to The Edge as he started his investigation.

“I work alone,” he’d grumbled, in typical male fashion.

“Well now you have a partner,” she’d told him. “Assuming you do want to get paid.”

Falcon was silent at first, but in the end he agreed to pick her up at her hotel by nine. You have to handle men, she thought, arranging a carefully chosen strand of loose hair. In the end, they are all putty in your hands. Even Lucas and Bosco, with their tough guy routine. Hadn’t they just given her what she wanted, after all, and on her terms, treating her to the rough sex she craved and then telling her what she wanted to know about Ashley?

No more knuckling under, she vowed, walking coolly and seductively to the door. From now on, she would take care of herself, and her men—bringing them to their knees, like she did with Tom. Dad would be proud of me, she thought. In fact, if things went well, she would call him, maybe get the family together for a reunion when all this was over.

“Why, John!” she cried, oozing saccharine surprise though it was already nine thirty. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

He looked at her, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He was scrumptious this way, hair slicked back and tied in a pony tail, clean shaven, smelling so fresh, arrogantly filling out his t-shirt and jeans.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, thrusting out her left hip, doing her best Vanna White. “Do I clean up pretty good or what?”

John shook his head. “There’s no way you’re going to The Edge dressed like that.”

Andrea stared in disbelief. “And exactly what’s wrong with my dress?”

He shrugged. “It’s too vanilla for one thing.”

Too vanilla? Was he for real?

“How’s this for vanilla?” she challenged, peeling up the hem of her dress to give him a flash of neatly shaved, perfumed beaver.

Falcon narrowed his gaze. “All right, that’s the last straw. Excuse me, please.”

Andrea tried unsuccessfully to lay a wet kiss on his neck as he brushed past her, moving with clinical precision.

“Falcon, are you gay?” she demanded, hot on his heels.

He laughed as he knelt to look under the head of her bed. “You really are a conceited little thing, aren’t you?”

“What the hell are you doing down there?” she asked, ignoring his childish insult. “Have you gone mad?”

“Checking on a little insurance,” he said, straightening himself to his full five foot ten inches. “Andrea, I don’t know how to put this in a way you’ll understand. The person we are after, the Tiger, is a very dangerous man by the name of Simon Rice. For him, whips and handcuffs aren’t a parlor game, they are a way of life. Women who get mixed up with him disappear, Andrea, and men, too. If I’m to find your sister, I have to be able to move freely, unencumbered.”

“I can move freely,” she said huskily, slithering towards him attempting to place a hand on his crotch. “And I’m great undercover.”

Falcon seized her wrist in midair. “No, Andrea, you’re not. You’re about as subtle as a five hundred pound gorilla in a china shop.”

“You’re hurting me!” she lied. “And it’s not a gorilla in a china shop, it’s a bull.”

“Whatever. And for your information, this is not even close to the pain you’ll be in for if Rice gets hold of you. I assure you, the man plays for keeps.”

Andrea tried to tug on his hand, with her whole weight, using his arm as a swing, but all she succeeded in doing was ending up on her knees. “For a man who doesn’t like dominating, you sure are a bully!” she cried. “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to get me to do down here with my mouth at your crotch.”

John brought her back to her feet, grabbing both her wrists this time. “Andrea, I really don’t have time for this. I’m going to ask you one more time. Will you promise to stay in your room tonight till I come back?”

“No! I’m going to the club with you tonight, whether you like it or not!”

John nodded. “That’s what I thought you’d say. You leave me no choice, then.”

“What are you doing?” she cried, as he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and slapped one of the bracelets on her right wrist. “Get that off of me, you bastard!”

“Sorry, kiddo, it’s too late for negotiating,” he said, pulling a second pair of cuffs from his pocket.

“More cuffs?” she cried. “And I’m supposed to believe you’re not into bondage?”

Falcon lifted her in his arms and deposited her on the bed. “It’s security,” he explained. “For your own good.”

Holding her squirming stomach down with one hand, he used the other to link up the cuffs, securing the free end to the bed frame.

“Much better,” he said grimly, having made her a prisoner her on her own bed. “Now I can work in peace.”

Andrea tugged uselessly on the chain. “I’ll scream,” she threatened.

“I anticipated that,” he nodded, producing a rubber ball gag. “Will you behave, or do I have to use this?”

Andrea lifted her hips seductively. “I haven’t behaved so far, have I?”

“This isn’t a joke. I’m trying to save your life—or at least your freedom.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be free,” she taunted, her eyes glazing. “Look, Falcon, you showed me who’s boss. You win. I stay here in chains, you go to the club. Is there any law says you can’t enjoy your victory a little before you leave? I’m good, everyone tells me I fuck as good as I look.” She ran her free hand over her body, advertising its potential, from her ripe breasts down to her sopping pussy. “It’s here for the taking, Handcuff Man.”

He watched as Andrea dug her heels into the bed and spread her legs, giving him an unencumbered view. His expression was unreadable.

“Admit it. You hate me,” she taunted, tracing her long fingernails down her nether lips and inserting the fingers of her free hand. “You’ve pegged me as an ignorant, shallow slut, a BDSM wanna be, a poseur. You’re dying to teach me my place, make me beg and come and squeal all night. You’ve been turned on since the beginning, but you needed a reason to want me. Well, now I’m going to give you one—a chance to hate me. You know why my wholesome sister went to a BDSM club? Because she caught me scening with her fiancée. That’s right, he had his cock up my slutty ass, he was riding me, and I was collared and harnessed, too, totally nude on his bed.”

Andrea started undulating, trying to bring herself off. “I know that makes you want to punish me, Johnny Boy. But wait—” she put her cum soaked hand to her lips in mock distress. “Oh dear, I forgot. You aren’t into BDSM. Oh, well.”

Falcon smiled wryly. “That’s true,” he agreed. “Of course if I were, the way I would torture a girl like you wouldn’t be to fuck her; it would be to not fuck her.”

Andrea froze in mid stroke. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a smart girl, think about it. Now, I’ll ask you once more, will you promise to be quiet?”

“If you kiss me first.”

“That settles it then.” He popped the ball in her mouth, securing the straps behind her head with a tiny padlock, one her free hand would never be able to release. “I’ll be back later,” he said. “Anything you need in the meantime? A blanket to cover with, more pillows. You can watch TV if you like.”

She flipped him her middle finger.

“No TV it is. Of course, I do hope you realize there’s no escape. I’m putting up the Do Not Disturb and I’m going to pay the desk clerk good money to see you’re not bothered in any way. You won’t mind if I take the money from your purse will you? Consider it part of my expenses.”

She flashed a withering glance, then did her best to ignore him as he carefully counted out the money, wrote a receipt and put it in her purse with her wallet.

“Wish me luck, then,” he said, turning off the light on his way out. “Try to get some sleep. And by the way, when a real submissive begs for sex, she does so in silence, offering up her pussy, not touching it, not saying a word, begging with her eyes.”

Andrea started fighting as soon as he was gone. The first thing she tried to do was get off the bed, but when she tried rolling herself, she discovered she wasn’t close enough to the edge. By twisting herself, she did manage to kick the wall a few times, doing a half summersault, but this grew tiring very fast. Kicking the lamp over didn’t do any good, either. As for pulling on her chained wrist, all that got her was a chafed wrist.

At long last, she lay still. He’d really done it, hadn’t he. Made her a prisoner, gotten his way. No one had ever done that to her before. The frat games were just that, games, played with steel and rope and lots of beer. But this was no fraternity boy, this was a grown-up man who’d decided to keep her a prisoner on her own bed. Damn it, why was she still so horny? The bastard was long gone—why did her pussy do stuff like this to her?

Could it be that being chained against her will was the cause of her arousal? There was a sobering idea: Andrea Daniels enjoying hardcore domination, actually getting off on her total lack of control of the situation. She thrust a greedy hand into her pussy. Might as well get comfortable, she thought. It was going to be a long night. But what to fantasize over? The bellhop who brought room service today was pretty cute, or maybe one of the soccer players she’d seen in the lobby?

Andrea tried them all, but in the end, she was frustrated. She couldn’t help it, all she could think of was Falcon, and what he’d done to her. How she had to lay like this in her scandalous dress, unable to get up or even go pee, and how she’d have to stay this way till he came back, till he decided to let her go. Flashes of heat moved down her cheeks and to her breasts and belly. Suddenly it didn’t seem like a game, lording it over men with her easy submissiveness, controlling them with her come hither beauty, making them feel like conquerors, like men.

She took her hand from her pussy. He’d said the way he’d punish a girl would be by frustrating her. Andrea put her free hand over her head, as though it, too, were bound. She spread her legs, as far as she could, till the hem of her short dress had written up to her waist. She imagined this was the way Falcon had ordered her to wait, burning, open unsatisfied. For hours if he so desired. Andrea moaned into her gag, a shadow prisoner, in her dark room. On the verge of orgasm, and yet denied. Clothed, and yet utterly bare to the man’s devices.

And at this very moment (and here was the most arousing thing of all) he was out there, with her money, her key, visiting a sexy club, maybe thinking of her, maybe not. But always knowing, in the back of his mind, that she was there for him and him alone, in his chains, locked away.

The saliva dribbled from Andrea’s mouth in a steady stream, staining the bed. Her swollen nipples pressed at the latex as her fragrant pussy wafted the smell of her submission. Never had she felt like more of a slut. Falcon had put her in her place, all right. Single-handedly, he’d made her horny enough to fuck a boatload of bellhops, but denied her to anyone but himself.

Over and over, she thought of touching herself, but she couldn’t bring her hand down to her sweet spot. Not without permission. How she wanted him to come back for her, to walk in the door, to sink himself deep and hard into her softness, till she cried and begged and submitted. Submitted for real, in the way Falcon told her real slaves did, using only their eyes, their captive bodies.

Your body was made to please this man, she thought, the oddly phrased remark coming to her twice in as many days, filling her every nook and cranny till it obscured all else, a mantra to still the agony, the struggle. Please, she begged, please.

***

“You are mine for the next two weeks,” the silver blonde woman said, looking at Ashley from across the mahogany desk. “And according to these papers, I am allowed anything, anything at all, with the exception of vaginal penetration.” She took off her glasses, put them down on Ashley’s folder. “You do realize,” she said, leaning forward, her face a mask of deadly seriousness. “That I am going to break you?”

Ashley stared at her shoes, the same ones she’d worn to the secret slave hotel. It was the same dress, too, because he’d never let her change, but had had the driver take her upstate, up a long winding road, well off the highway. Another of his men, clearly there for security purposes had ridden along. Rice had been a perfect gentleman on the way, though she’d wished otherwise.

“I want to see Simon,” she said, holding her back straight and proud. “I belong to him and him alone.”

The woman, who was wearing pearls and a gray skirt suit and whose hair was high up on her head, and who was pretty enough to work in real estate, inclined her eyes very slightly, signaling something to the two guards who were standing behind Ashley. The men were dressed in riding boots, khaki pants and white shirts, open to the waist. They had wide leather belts, with straps across the shoulders. Each had a whip, a taser like device and a small nightstick.

At the woman’s signal, the guards touched the tasers to Ashley’s upper arms, causing her to crumple to the floor.

“Get her up again.”

They had to hold her to keep her from collapsing once more.

“That, my dear was a love tap. As I said, I will break you. Don’t try to keep on my good side, I don’t have one. My job is to train female slaves and I am quite good at it. When I’m done with you, you will think, speak, act and respond as a slave. You will come like a slave, fellate like a slave, look like a slave. You’ll mark like a slave under the whip and you’ll cry alone at night in your cage like a slave. The pleasure of your superiors will not only be the first thing on your mind, it will be the only thing. I can assure you, your days of eating at tables, sitting in chairs and shopping for shoes are at an end. Whoever ultimately buys you may feel differently, but so long as you are here, I will see to it that you are prepared for the most degrading, humiliating conditions one human being can inflict on another. Consider that a little gift which you can’t possibly appreciate right now. I won’t ask if you understand. You can’t, and it wouldn’t matter if you did. The important thing to remember is that things will be done to you, things you will be powerless to prevent. Your three rules are submit, submit and submit. That is all.”

She inclined her head to the guards once more, causing them to seize Ashley’s arms in a grip of steel, pulling her back to the door. “One more thing,” the woman called out. “These men are called Handlers. They will handle you. I am the Keeper. I will keep you. From this moment on you will not speak.”

Within minutes of hearing the Keeper’s words, Ashley was learning her first lesson, naked, on all fours, the scraps of her torn clothing around her as the two Handlers worked her, one making use of her mouth, the other her anus. After awhile, they switched places, though neither one ejaculated inside her. Instead, they taught her to kneel up, a technical position where the girl squats on her heels, head raised, alert and ready. The legs must be kept spread, a rule she learned by the corrective presence of the riding crop across her shoulders and the instep of one of the Handler’s boots at her crotch, widening her stance.

Ashley could imagine a number of purposes to the position. In this case, it allowed both of the men to ejaculate on her face. Because the girl’s hands belong behind her head, she is unable to interfere with whatever may be happening. They made her wait like this, the come drying on her face, as their erections subsided. This complete, the penises were again aimed at her head, only this time the stream was warm, liquid, gushing on her cheeks and breasts and trickling down her belly.

There were grates in the steel floor of the room, directly beneath, into which the urine ran. This helped keep the floor clean. The men, too, were kept clean, making sure to spray water on the bottom of their boots using a hose on the wall. Ashley was thirsty, seeing the water, and if allowed to speak she would have asked for water. Instead, she merely watched them.

She wondered what these men thought of her, the fact that she had come to this place willingly, and that now, she’d allowed them to tear off her clothes, sexually possess her, ultimately spoiling her with jism and even their own hot urine.

And how now she was just kneeling there, legs spread, waiting for the leash and collar so they could lead her, crawling to a tiny cage where her only bath would consist of a hosing, daily administered to the girls in their cages. What kind of girl would submit to this and did these men enjoy it or was it a job? Sleep, she needed sleep.

The cage wasn’t so terrible. It was secure and quiet. It must be very late at night, she decided, for the other girls, the other new slaves, were sleeping. There were seven other cages she could see, laid out across the room. High fluorescent lights shone from the ceiling, but these were turned down as soon as they had put Ashley in place. She had to enter the cage on her hands and knees. She’d heard one of the Handlers laughing about her ass, and how there was come on it, oozing out. To hurry her in, a whip was applied, lightly, just hard enough to make her feel like a slave.

She could have sat up, but she chose to lay flat, curled up. She laid her head by the empty water dish. Thoughts flashed through her mind, images of the swirling days that had passed since she’d seen Tom and Andrea together. That seemed a lifetime ago now. Really, she had them to thank for helping her discover her true identity. How jealous her mother and sister would be now! Ashley, the naïve one, surpassing them both, attaining the level of a full slave. Lifestyle slave as it were.

Simon’s slave, though she might never see him again. She hadn’t asked and nothing was said the entire ride to the Center. It wouldn’t have seemed fitting. He’d simply left her at the door, his face expressionless. Such a proud man! Such an enigma. How she loved him so. Enough to obey him, enough to fulfill her own destiny.

A slave’s lot is hard, Ashley hears in her sleep, as she slips sweetly into the land of her other existence. A slave’s lot is indeed, hard. She cannot help but love her master, and yet the master, to be worthy of the name, cannot overly care for her, or allow his will to be shaken. These words were spoken to Tia, by an ancient one, one of the old pirates, who spoke grandly and effusively from the bottom of his bottle of rum. He alone among the pirates takes the time to speak with her, and though she must serve him sexually as all the others, he is content for her to stroke him lightly, spilling his paltry seed upon the ground. He is nearly blind, wizened, his skin brown and shriveled like a raisin. In his prime, he was a captain, the mentor of her Pirate Lord.

At the moment, Tia hates her lord, for he has just announced at the feast that they shall set sail, once again upon the deep seas. It is the hunting season, when once again the ships of Spain, fat and slow, laden with gold, plod their way across the billowing waves. Tia will not go. She is to be auctioned off at a nearby island, where there is a market for rare and exotic goods. Ivory from the sun drenched plains, jade from the east, savory spices from India, and females, lithe and vital, sluts of every race, whores who dance to the lash and kiss the feet of strong men.

Tia weeps. Upon her knees, her hand on the old man’s cock, cheek upon his bony thigh. A sip of rum he gives her and a song, an ancient song, sung by the seafarers of the ghost ships, lost in the recesses of time. His ancient hand upon her back, gives comfort. She has been whipped tonight, by her lord, on account of her begging to stay with him. He brooked no weakness, no sentimentality, and he was merciless with her. By the hair he dragged her, to man after man of the drunken lot, till one would take her and fuck her. With the whip he struck her, seeking her humiliation. Only the ancient one would take her tonight. He alone holds his liquor, proud and strong, perched upon his log, like a parrot, like an old sea dog.

Tia goes to sleep at his boots, beside the log. In his day the old man would have ravished her, she knows this. But now, all is sweet sleep. In her cage, at the fulcrum of her life’s journey, Ashley sleeps as well. She smiles, knowing that contrary to what the Keeper says, she will not be broken. For she will be Tia and Tia will be her. And together, they will find their peace, embracing their fullest captivity in the arms of their true masters, whomever they may be.

***

Falcon returned to the hotel well past four in the morning. He had a vague sense of guilt for leaving Andrea so long. It had been necessary, of course, because a woman like that, so headstrong and passionate would have interfered, distracted, ruined completely his chances to learn anything about the last known whereabouts of her twin, Ashley.

Was the twin as beautiful as Andrea? he wondered.

There was a strange thought. The kind of voice that comes to you in the wee hours, when you know you’ve stayed up too late. He punched in the number on the elevator. Andrea was a very sexy girl, no doubt. An incredible combination of innocence and wanton sensuality. A little girl, in a woman’s body, with the desires of a thousand year old whore. Women like this were dangerous. He’d had his fill of taming them for one lifetime. If he had a nickel for each one—well, you know how that story goes.

She was a submissive. She had that much right about herself. It was just she hadn’t really touched her own core. And she had an imagination too, and spunk. The man who claimed her would have to give her lead, allow her certain freedoms. Ten years ago, maybe he’d have done it. But he was too old. Thirty-eight, to be exact. That sounded young sure, but he’d seen too much, gone too far.

He found Andrea asleep on her belly, one leg dangling on the floor. Her ass, round, and lean was fully exposed and it looked like she had been struggling to the end. The crazy kid had red marks all over her wrist, like she was actually trying to slip the handcuff or remove her own hand. He ought to wake her, tell her what he’d learned, that he now had a pretty good idea where Simon Rice had taken Ashley and that come morning he was going to check it out, bringing a couple of well muscled buddies of his.

Breaking into an operation of Rice’s wouldn’t be easy. And if anyone should know, it would be John Falcon, his former chief of security and number one slave hunter. Andrea proved to be a sound sleeper. The little thing had worn herself out. If only she knew how adorable Falcon found her, with her haughtiness and sluttiness and false bravado.

Damned, he was tired. In one night, he’d gone from the Edge to a bistro on the south side and finally to a stakeout a discrete distance from 234 Central, headquarters of Trident, in which Rice kept a secret penthouse, a location known only to his top operatives. It was hats off to the working men of the world for giving him the clues he needed to follow Ashley’s trail thus far. The bouncer at The Edge had seen Ashley—whom he mistook for Andrea—take off in Rice’s limo and had overheard him tell the driver to take them to Cirelli’s.

According to a bartender there, one of Rice’s security men had bragged that when the boss got this new little cookie home (she was apparently drugged or in a trance) he was going to dip his wick for once, too. The man had mentioned Trident, and that was when Falcon remembered the penthouse. Staking it out revealed nothing. Rice was no fool. What he would be able to find at Trident tomorrow, he had no idea. Ashley could be anywhere by now. A brothel in Singapore, a cheap nightclub in Tijuana, or in the private dungeon of a Japanese executive.

He hadn’t the heart to tell all this to Andrea. Which was odd, because in his line of work he was anything but sentimental. Taking the case had been odd, too. Sure, he could pad up a pretty big bill, just to tell them in the end what he already knew—the girl was long disappeared into the fleshpots of the 21st century slave trade—but that wasn’t his style. So why didn’t he just tell Andrea to piss off? And why in blazes had he told her—pretty damned near promised her—he could find her needle of a twin sister in a haystack?

Falcon looked down, realized he’d taken off the girl’s shoes, covered her in the comforter and taken off the handcuffs. Christ, was he going to tuck her in now, too. Time for a drink, he decided, time to raid the wet bar and remind himself what he was: a has been, a drunk of the worst kind, the sort who lacks not only his present dignity, but even any record of past dignity. Swallowing the tiny scotch bottle whole, Falcon made his decision. He was going to take himself off the case. A note would be best. “Thanks for thinking of me, but go hire yourself a real detective,” or something like that.

“Falcon?”

John heard the forlorn whisper. Something gripped his gut. Failure, guilt, or just plain lust, it was all the same at this point. “Shh,” he soothed.

“But my sister.”

Andrea had gotten out of bed and come to him. She had tears in her eyes. She’d read his lack of hope, written all over his face and her balloon had crashed, her crazy soaring hot air balloon, in one fell swoop. Blast it, was he really all she had? “Andrea, it’s all right, kid. We won’t give up.”

Tough, ready-to-play Andrea was a blithering mess, sobbing out parts of the story, indicting herself all over again, consumed by her own overwhelming helplessness. Without really thinking about it, he found himself lifting her into his arms and bringing her back to bed. Her eyes were big and shy, emptied of bravado as she asked if he would lie with her, just a little while. It was no game now, just the little girl in her, the barely adult woman up past her bedtime, in over her head.

He felt like a babysitter. Or was it more than that?

She read the struggle in him as he laid her down, intent on leaving, on fighting his feelings. “Please, Falcon. I’m a brat, I know. But I’m so goddamned scared right now.”

He touched her cheek, drawn in like a moth to her flame. Andrea was an easy kisser, as he’d expected. She reached up, molded her lips to his with art and flair, and she held nothing back. God, what a nymph, he thought, a total and utter nymph. She was wanting this, willing her body to press against him, but still, he ought to know better, ought to be thinking for the both of them.

“This dress,” she said huskily, “get it off me. I hate it.”

Andrea put her hands over her head, arched her back, so the latex rode up in one easy motion. When it reached her wrists, he left it there, using his hands to hold her this way, breasts proffered, body still and pinned for his pleasure. He had a condom in his pocket—hell, he had everything in these pockets. She took him in like a tidal pool, like he’d been her master of a thousand years.

“Yes,” she moaned over and over, sucking in tight little breaths through teeth clenched lower lip. “Harder. Do it harder.”

Falcon reared back his head and roared like a lion. It had been too long; forever in some ways. Unable to hold back, he drove her onward, towards climax. He’d come inside her, he took her head upon his chest, sweet breath blowing the curl hairs, lulling them both to sleep.