The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Next morning I woke refreshed. I’d gone to bed with the germ of an idea, and overnight it blossomed into a fully fledged plan.

I got up at six thirty, and headed off in search of Kitten (I had no doubt that she would be up; slaving is like any other form of animal husbandry—up at dawn, down at dusk). She was in the kitchen having breakfast, the leather outfit of last night replaced by a cute latex French maid’s outfit, which was probably for my benefit. It seemed the teasing was on again. She was reading a book but when she saw I was up she quickly put it down and headed for the stove. “Sunny side up!” she announced cheerfully. “Right, Master?”

I nodded. The Marines had got me used to the idea of getting up early, but at some primal level my body still didn’t like it. She took a moment to pour me a large mug of coffee and went back to assembling breakfast. While her back was turned, I looked at the book—“The BIG Book of Girl’s Names.” It had a cute picture on the cover of a woman playing with a baby.

“Getting a little ahead of yourself aren’t we?” I commented. “She may have a boy.”

Kitten turned around, confused. “I’m sorry, Master?”

“I was saying, you’re just a little ahead of yourself with Maria’s baby,” I repeated, holding up the book for emphasis.

“Oh, that’s not for the baby,” she said, putting a large plate of pancakes on the table. “That’s for me.”

“You?”

“Yes. I’m choosing my new name. At the moment I can’t decide between Caitlin and Kathryn. I think Caitlin sounds better but it has all those beach bunny, 90210 connotations. Kathryn’s more stuffy but hey, she’s a Starfleet Captain.”

She seemed to be making sense. “Um, I think I fell off a few names back,” I said lamely. “What exactly are you talking about?”

“Doc asked me if I wanted a new name.” Kitten explained patiently.

“Why?”

She smiled and arched her back, sucking her stomach in at the same time. Her breasts pushed out, straining against the imprisoning latex. Suddenly I was hard again. “If you haven’t noticed, Master,” she purred, “I’m hardly a kitten anymore.”

Now that she mentioned it, I realized she was right. I knew intellectually that she had grown up—I’d fucked her, for God sake—but in my gut there were still two Kittens, the sex vixen and the thirteen year old girl in that freezing alley. Finding that they were the same person after all would take some adjustment. Perhaps a new name wasn’t such a bad idea.

“What was the second one again?” I asked.

“Kathryn. It’s with a y. Do you like it?”

“Um. . .no, not especially—I just didn’t hear it the first time. What are the others?”

She ran through a whole list. It didn’t take me long to see the pattern. “Do all these names shorten to Kat?”

“I thought I’d stick with the feline motif,” she said, giving me a one-shoulder shrug that flashed a millimeter of breast over the bodice top. “Seems to make sense—besides, I like it.”

“Then why not just stick with Kat?”

She made a face. “It’s. . .a little common, don’t you think? Bit too trailer trashy for me.”

I gave up. “Just let me know when you settle on something. Speaking of changes, Doc tells me you handle discipline these days.”

“Oui, monsieur.” She deftly flipped a pancake on the frying pan, then slid it onto a waiting stack. I was presented with the plate and a bottle of real Vermont maple syrup. “Do you want to know about our methods or hardware?”

“Methods. How good are you at torture?”

“For pleasure or punishment?”

“There’s a difference?”

“There is if you do it properly, Master,”

I grinned at the suggestiveness in her voice. “Seriously, I need to get some information from Beth,” I said. “I figure she’s either going to hold out on us, or she may tell us the wrong thing completely.”

“Such as?”

“Her bank card number,” I said, taking my first bite of pancake. After that mouthful, I had to shut up and savor the moment. Doc was an excellent cook with exceptionally high standards, so it came as no surprise that this was one of the first things he’d taught his young house slave. Kitten’s pancakes were excellent, equal to the best you could find in the finest restaurant in the world.

“Are they good, Master?” she asked innocently.

Now she was teasing me with food. I ignored the obvious trolling for complements. “About those numbers.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Piece of cake. Should take about an hour.”

“An hour?” I frowned. I’d expected Beth to be more resilient than that. Of course the money wasn’t much good to her now, but it would be a while before she accepted her new status.

“Probably less,” Kitten said returning to the stove.

“Hon, I don’t want to question your professional opinion,” I said, mouth full of pancake, “but I know this kind of girl. Even if you took a whip to her, she’s too stupid to know when to give up.”

“An hour,” she insisted. “Tops. Of course, if you don’t believe me we could have a small wager. . .”

I laughed. “What do you have to wager?”

Kitten smiled and bent over, thrusting her latex covered tush at my face. She brought a gloved finger up to her mouth and looked at me over her shoulder with a confused expression on her face. It was an almost perfect reproduction of a fifties cheesecake shot. “Gee, Master,” she said wiggling her ass, “I can’t think.”

“Okay, you made your point. What do I have to put up?”

She kept on cooking, but I could see this sinister little smile on her face. “Well. . .I’ve always liked the idea of a boy toy,” she said thoughtfully. “A male slave of my very own.”

I nearly choked on my coffee. “You can’t be serious?”

“Aha, but I am. Unless you’re not so sure of your Beth after all?” she said, taunting. “Or just not man enough to take the risk?”

I found myself flushing. The idea of being Kitten’s slave did not appeal at all—I’m too dominant for that. Unfortunately, I’m also too macho to back down. “No drugs?” I asked.

She gave me a pained look like I’d just asked her to heat up a TV dinner. “No drugs.”

That made me feel a little better. Beth was a Saint Mary’s girl, a bitch of the first order. I doubted she’d be smart enough to give up that number in an hour if her life literally depended on it. “Deal,” I said. “Get the number in less than an hour and I’m yours for ONE night.”

Kitten gave me an extremely feline grin. “No restrictions?”

“No restrictions,” I agreed. “As long as when you LOSE there are no restrictions while you’re mine.”

“Agreed.” She handed me a fresh plate with more pancakes, ham, and eggs. “Now eat up and let’s go get our pigeon.”

Needless to say the breakfast was excellent. We ate in silence but Kitten’s body language told me that she was supremely confident. I began to feel nervous.

Afterwards, we headed down to the dungeons. Doc had explained the history of the place to me; it had been built in the fifties as some kind of Government survival shelter. The idea was that certain key members of the Massachusetts State legislature would hide here in time of war. Needless to say, everything from construction details to stocking list was kept top secret, not only to hide it from the Russians but also to prevent the possibility of the local people trying to break in during an alert. In ‘62 the place got its first tryout during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the Powers That Be discovered the hideout’s two major drawbacks: one, it was too damned small for all the politicians and their hangers-on, and two, it was too hard to get to. Figures. So the feds started building a new shelter north of Boston and this one was earmarked to be destroyed. Somehow, in the general confusion following the Kennedy assassination, it was missed. Then Doc bought it from the government as an undeveloped parcel of land in ‘65—with a group of slaves, he built the house and the complex we know today.

We walked down the corridors listening to the muffled sounds of the slaves in their cells. The design of the cells was a little unusual and reflected some of Doc’s thinking about the training of slaves. Each cell had a section of steel bars about two feet wide, floor to ceiling, just to the right of the door. This allowed air and sounds in from the corridors and let the slaves see various comings and goings throughout the day. As the bars were always to the right of the doors and the slaves are chained to their bunks, however, it wasn’t possible for a slave to look out into another’s cell. The slaves remained gagged so it also wasn’t possible for them to communicate, but they could hear each other and know that they weren’t alone. Doc claims this greatly speeds up the breaking of a slave because they share each other’s despair without the benefits of any camaraderie. After watching naked, gagged women being dragged past her cell to an uncertain fate, the slave starts to think that if all these others couldn’t escape, what chance did she stand? Eventually it overwhelms her.

By now we were outside Beth’s cell. Though the cells are designed for double occupancy, Doc always gives a new recruit single quarters for the first few days—he doesn’t think it’s fair to bother other slaves with a new girl’s tantrums.

Kitten picked up a clipboard from beside the door and checked the contents. “Some of the paperwork hasn’t been done,” she said. “Want to do it now?”

I reached for the clipboard but she pulled it back. “In there,” she said with a smile.

As we entered the cell, Beth was struggling to stand. Doc had a standard uniform for slaves that almost all of them wore—it started with high heeled ankle boots. These consisted of a wooden sole attached to a solid platform heel. The uppers were made of strong black leather, like the stuff they use to make army boots, and ran from the toes to a broad leather strap circling the ankle. The strap was really a type of cuff and was fastened with a padlock which effectively made it impossible to remove the boots. A couple of spare D rings on the cuffs allowed for additional restraint. At the moment a short length of chain was also clipped between the cuffs, hobbling Beth’s ankles. The whole look was workmanlike and functional, if a little ugly. The boots were battered and old—I figured countless slaves had worn them through the years, and there were probably dozens more in their future. But they served a useful purpose; not only did they get the slave used to walking in heels, they also made escape more difficult. Doc claims that the tendons in the back of the leg starts to shrink if a girl wears heels too long. While that makes it easier for her to walk in the boots, it also means that flats become uncomfortable. In nine months, Beth would have no choice than to be a high-heeled slut.

The rest of Beth’s “outfit” was brief. Around her waist was a chastity belt arrangement of two wide leather straps—one was fastened tightly around her waist, and the other was attached to the first at the front and back, passing between her legs on the way. A couple of simple locks held everything in place and ensured it couldn’t be removed, but it was possible to unlock the crotch strap separately in order to gain access to her twat.

At cunt level, the crotch strap had a small metal plate for various attachments. At the moment it was being used to hold a vibrating dildo deep in her twat. I hoped she liked it, because something, organic or otherwise, would fill her cunt every second of her time here. It was yet another of Doc’s training aids. He says it educates the slave that her natural condition is to have a cock inside her. He claims that after processing his slaves no longer feel comfortable without something in there.

Beth’s arms were covered in a pair of black latex opera gloves that reached up to just above her elbows. Doc likes gloves and his conditioning technique ensures that even after they leave the girls continue to wear them. Apart from his little fetish, he says it also helps reduce the chance of a stray fingerprint being found. Two leather cuffs covered the latex on Beth’s wrists and were fastened to the chastity belt, locking her arms by her sides. A further clincher at her elbows had the very desirable side effect of thrusting her wonderful, naked breasts outwards.

By now she had struggled to her feet, and stood looking at me with an incredible hatred in her eyes. Bound as she was, there was nothing she could DO about it, but I was still glad that the metal collar around her neck kept her chained to the wall near her bunk. She tried to say something through one of Doc’s leather gags. On Beth the thing seemed huge, extending from her chin to her cheeks—in fact, a little dimple had been cut into it for her nose. Like the belt, it had a removable section at the front that allowed for the fitting of various attachments. The section was full, and I knew immediately that Kitten had stuffed in a penis gag, to get Bethie used to the feeling of a cock in that pretty young mouth.

I turned to find her waiting. “Shall we begin?” she asked, giving me an amused look. “These are questions about your requirements. Usually these are passed from the customer by our agent, but as you’re here—”

“Oh, uh, yes,” I replied, aware of my huge hard-on. “Let’s do it.”

“Fine. Slave’s name?” I must have blinked, because she added, “We have her here as Beth. Do you want to change it?”

It was usual for a master to give his slave a new name, as much for security as anything. In all the years of Doc’s operation not a single slave had been recognized by someone who knew her in her former life. Most of this is to be expected, since slaves are rarely placed near the area where they were recruited, but logically there must have been some near misses.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I said slowly. Then suddenly, I knew. “No, wait—Jane. Her name is Jane.”

“Slave Jane,” Kitten repeated making a note on the clipboard. “Okay, now, color.” She make a little clicking noise with her tongue. “Slave Jane is blonde at the moment—you want her brunette or redhead?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so, but we still have to ask.” She made a tick on the clipboard. “Now, breasts—we can enlarge them if you want, but Doc asked me to remind you that his offer only covers our costs. Cosmetic surgery and doctors fees are extra.”

I snorted. “After he gets Maria and that valuable baby for free?”

She shrugged. “That’s a management decision. You’ll have to take it up with Doc.”

I reached forward to feel Beth’s tits. She squealed into the gag and started to back up. Quick as a flash, a crop appeared in Kitten’s hand and she brought it down hard on one of Beth’s exposed nipples. The squeal became a full fledged scream, although the gag reduced it to almost nothing.

“Hold still, bitch,” Kitten hissed. “This man is your new owner. He has every right to inspect his property. Now stand up straight, legs apart. Move again and I’ll make you regret it.”

Beth obeyed, sobbing. She stiffened but didn’t resist as I gently caressed her naked breasts. I felt a slight tremble as my hand lingered, and her nipples started to harden. Just like her mother, I thought, far too sensitive for her own good.

“I think these are fine,” I said judiciously. “I’m not sure about the nose though.” The only real difference between Beth and her mother at this age was the shape of the nose. Jane’s had been strong and straight—Beth’s was more of a button affair. “Is it possible to get a nose job that makes it bigger.”

Beth’s eyes widened over the gag while Kitten shook her head. “I’m afraid she’s still a little young for that, Master. Plastic surgery while the features of the face aren’t fully mature is a little risky. Maybe in a year?”

I nodded. Kitten reached down and unlocked Beth’s crotch belt. She pulled the dildo free, raising a groan from her helpless captive.

“Damp one,” she commented. “As you can see, we’ve shaved her to our usual pattern with a small tuft of hair for decoration. Is this acceptable, or do you want more or less? It’s usual practice to permanently denude all the shaved area for easy maintenance.”

“All of it,” I said. “Completely, permanently clean.”

This raised a stifled noise from Beth. She was of an age when she could still remember it naked, when pubic hair was a mystical mark of her womanhood. I reached down and ran my hand over her smooth pubis. She stiffened, but with hands strapped by her side and mouth gagged she was helpless to stop me. I stroked her pretty little mound gently, feeling the faint tremors as her hips shook. In nine months of electrolysis and hot wax, this area would be permanently clear. I looked into her eyes and saw her silent plea. If I removed the hair, she would be marked as a slut forever. Every doctor, every lover would know immediately.

“Yes,” I said. “Lose it all.”

Kitten nodded, her gloved hand stroking Beth’s belly. “Of course, we will put her on a vigorous workout regime to get rid of the last of this puppy fat.” That raised a muffled protest which Kitten chose to ignore. “Final extras. We have started heel training—is that acceptable?”

“Yep.”

“Figure training, piercing, tattoos, special training?”

“No figure training,” I said. “Silver rings in both nipples, navel, clit hood.” Beth stiffened. “I’d have to see the patterns for the tattoos. I want the works on the training, both male and female, dancing, oral, etiquette, housekeeping, child care—”

Kitten scribbled furiously. “We have nine months,” she said, a bit sarcastically. “Why not sign her up for everything, it saves writing.”

“Okay. May as well get Doc’s money’s worth.” I grinned. “Besides, it improves her resale value.”

Nothing comes close to describing the look on Beth’s face. That expression of horrified shock made me feel so damned good. To be talked of in the same way that someone might discuss the options on a new car, to have other people decide how your body will look for the rest of your life—it must have been a first for her. I think she especially hated the idea of the rings, since her body activity had increased markedly since I brought them up.

Kitten handed me the clipboard. “Sign, please.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” I took the clipboard, “I want to talk to her.”

“Now?”

“Now,” I said and picked up the pen.

As I signed, Kitten went to reach behind Beth’s head, removing the gag. I’d been a recruiter long enough to know that this would be the moment of truth, when you found out exactly what you’d got. As Doc’s orders on local hunting meant that we didn’t operate even near Boston, New York was our nearest major hunting ground. The trip to Doc’s at a nice legal fifty involved at least one layover, so at some stage the gag had to come out in order for them to drink. How they reacted told you a lot about how they’d take training. The dumb ones start screaming and carrying on, calling you names, yelling for help. A few quick slaps brings them back in line long enough to feed and water them. The smart ones say nothing—they knew that you wouldn’t be doing this anywhere they had a chance of rescue, so they do nothing to provoke you into hurting or killing them. The real smart ones talk quietly to you, hoping to get you on their side. I usually gag those ones again as soon as possible.

Beth’s gag popped out. Immediately, she started swearing, “Let me go, you bitch!”

Kitten’s eyes rolled.

Then my Bethie turned to me. “You fucking asshole! Should have realized you were a prick!” she snarled.

Kitten smiled. “You know, we could cut her vocal cords,” she offered. “It’s not part of the usual service but it is effective.”

Beth’s jaw dropped. Her reaction had been one hundred percent predictable, exactly what a St. Mary’s girl, spoilt and born to privilege, would be expected to do. Now, finally, she realized her danger, and the snarl dropped away like it was never there. “Please let me go, mister,” she pleaded, turning on the waterworks. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise!”

I tried to look thoughtful. “What about Maria? My friend wants her baby so badly.”

“You can have it,” Beth offered, quick as a flash. “I’m sure if you let us go she’ll give it to you.”

Self-centered little bitch. “But that mean’s we’ll have to wait nine months.”

She looked hopeful. “Okay—then let me go now and release Maria later. I can help you. I can tell people she’s changed her mind, run away.”

I was underwhelmed by her loyalty. Just like her mother, she used people up and spat them out. I decided it was time to tell her the truth. “Your mother’s maiden name was Walters, wasn’t it?” I said cheerily.

“Yes, but—”

“Jane Walters?”

Only then did she realize the significance of her slave name. I could actually see the understanding filtering through her.

“Oh god. . .” she moaned.

“That’s right, slut. The woman I told you about, the one who jilted me, was your mother,” I said, leaning back against the cell wall. “You know, I really used to like the idea of making your mother my slave, of bringing her up here and having Doc break her for me. But last night I realized something—all I wanted from your mother could be done in three days. I could pick her off the street, take her to a cabin in the woods somewhere and take everything I wanted in three days. Then I could just bury her up there.” I shrugged, enjoying her flinch. “You see, it wouldn’t be worth making her a slave. She’s what, thirty seven now? Loose pussy, sagging tits. I mean, really, why waste my time with her? The girl I really want is your mother as she was twenty years ago, young pussy in her prime.” I leaned in, just a bit. “What do you have to say for yourself now, Jane?”

“But I’m—” she began. I nodded to Kitten and the crop struck nipple once again. This time she did scream and immediately the muffled noises from the other cells ceased.

“Let’s try that again,” I murmured, once the echoes died down. “How are you, Jane?”

“V...very good, sir.”

“Mmm, that’s better. But I prefer Master. Remember that, Jane.” I pushed the gag back into “Jane’s” sobbing mouth and the conversation was over.

Kitten knelt and gently pushed the dildo back into Beth’s sopping cunt. The girl moaned at the sensation, and a look of humiliation flashed through her blue-green eyes.

Then my neo-slave mistress looked up at me. “Now can we settle the other matter? I don’t want to rush you but I have fifteen slaves to feed this morning.”

I nodded and held Beth steady as Kitten released her collar and fitted a nipple leash. The leash was uncomfortable and Beth obviously didn’t like it. Still, that was the price of slavery and once her nipples were clamped she became much more manageable.

We led her towards one of the dungeon areas on the south side. Beth seemed a little stunned by it all, since she’d been brought to her cell blindfolded and had little idea as to the scale of the place. At one point we had to stop while the door at the end of a corridor was opened, and I noticed Beth looking into a nearby cell. Inside were two girls, one white, the other Asian, bound and gagged as Beth was. The length of the chains fastening them to their bunks seemed to have been badly chosen because they could just reach each other. The white girl was bending over, rubbing her leather gag against the Asian’s exposed nipples. The Asian groaned into her own gag, her small body shaking a little. The white girl went further, drawing her long brown hair over the Asian’s belly and breasts to the other girl’s obvious delight. Eventually they switched roles and the Asian started rubbing her gag against the white girl’s inner thigh. Of course they couldn’t get off, not wearing the chastity belts anyway, so to an extent they only worsened each other’s torment.

I found the scene strangely erotic—two slaves taking what little pleasure they could find. Kitten looked disgusted, I figured the chain would be shortened soon.

At length we reached the dungeon Kitten wanted. I’d never been here before, as it was one of Doc’s training areas. It seemed very small and was filled almost completely by a computerized console. Kitten dragged Jane to a door and removed the leash. Then she did a surprising thing—opening the door, she quickly freed the cuff from the girl’s left wrist and pushed her inside. Slamming the door closed, Kitten hurried over to the console. “Time starts now!” she said, and pushed a button.

I watched the tiny TV monitor on the console with interest. It showed a fish eye view of the small room Beth had been pushed into. The girl seemed stunned, and a second later it got worse. A strobe light flashed on, at low speed but uncomfortably bright. Beth spent a good few seconds trying to bring her free hand to her eyes. Then she suddenly stiffened and her gloved hand tried to move to her ear instead.

“Oops! Forgot the sound,” Kitten said. “This is what she’s hearing at the moment.” She pushed a button and from a tiny speaker a sound emerged that went straight down my spine and pushed panic buttons that I thought were long dead, putting every nerve on edge. Seeing my reaction, Kitten mercifully turned it off.

I was surprised to find that I’d involuntarily moved perhaps three steps away from the console. I looked at the monitor—there was no doubt that the sound was much louder inside. Beth was pacing the walls like a caged animal, face contorted above the gag. Her free hand flapped around in a desperate attempt to shield her senses from the onslaught.

This continued for about five minutes, by which time the girl was almost catatonic. Then it stopped. Kitten hit the button and we could hear what was going on in the cell. A small panel with a keypad had opened in the wall next to the door, and I could hear an automated but friendly female voice saying, “Sequence will start again in. . .ninety. . .seconds. Please enter security number to open the door.” Beth staggered to the panel and frantically started punching buttons while the polite voice counted down. Even when the count reached zero and the awful sound started again she kept typing, tears rolling down her face. Eventually she was overwhelmed and just rolled up in a ball. Kitten hit a button and the sound stopped, then studied a small screen in the console.

“As requested, Master, your number is 110681,” she said, satisfied.

“Sounds like a date.”

“Probably is. Why do you think banks went from four to six digits? The brain works by association—that’s why some numbers are easier to remember than others.”

“How do we know it’s the right number?”

“She entered that sequence fifteen times in two minutes, five of those times was after the stimulus was reapplied. We call this the “Disorientation Chamber”—I can assure you, it’s very difficult to think in there. The keypad is of the same type as used in most automatic teller machines, and the height angle and distance into the recess are also exactly the same. Unable to think, she’ll do whatever she would normally do with a keypad of that type.” Kitten chuckled a little. “Still, if you don’t believe me, we can always verify it at the bank.” She glanced at the clock. “And fifteen minutes is you’ll agree, much less than an hour.”

I scowled. “You haven’t proved it works yet.”

“It will. Now we’d better get your girl.”

Beth was too stunned to struggle. Kitten rebound her hand and we led her back to the cell. I had no doubt she’d be fighting again within a few hours, but for now she was drained. I have to admit, I actually felt a little twinge of pity for her, but I ignored it as I helped Kitten attend to the breakfasts for the other slaves.

Maria seemed to be adjusting well. By comparison to the others her cell was a palace. Obviously designed for single occupancy, it had a real bed, a small desk and a bookcase. Admittedly, most of the books were sex manuals but it was still stimulation. She was still chained at the neck and her wrists were fastened to a chastity belt like Beth’s, but I could tell from the way she moved that her cunt was empty. She was also ungagged and immediately started asking questions. Only a threat from Kitten finally shut her up, but I used the opportunity while she ate to ask some questions of my own. She was bowed and subservient—above all else, Maria was a realist. She had seen the conditions that prevailed for the other slaves, and must have realized that only her unborn child separated her fate from theirs.

In between bites, she told me about the abortionist, who had recommended him to her, who knew where they were going and how long those people were expected to cover for them. It confirmed that there had been no one along that road between the trucker dumping them there and my picking them up. Now confident that my plan would work, I had Kitten unfasten Maria’s off hand and passed her a book on child care, then wished her luck and left. I wouldn’t see her again until after the baby.

“What do you think?” Kitten asked. I looked up, and had to admit that the effect was stunning. In Beth’s clothes, Kitten looked the image of a St. Mary’s girl. The uniform fit her perfectly, making me happy we hadn’t cut it to pieces.

I nodded. “Try the whole thing on, the wig too.” I had to admit that the thought of a street kid dressed in the uniform of one of New England’s most exclusive academies held a little subversive thrill. Yet, good as she looked in the outfit, all this would be for nothing if she couldn’t pass herself off as Beth.

After feeding the slaves I’d recovered the girl’s packs from my car. Then, dressed in surgical kit to minimize the forensic evidence, we had carefully gone through the contents. Inside Beth’s bag we had found a small purse containing a billfold and some makeup. The money came to about two hundred in small bills, which I pocketed. The bank card I put away for later. Maria had about six fifty on her, five hundred of which we knew was the cost of the abortion. This seemed a little steep, though to be honest I didn’t know what the going rate was. Still, I expect that the guy adjusts his prices according to ability to pay.

In Beth’s pack we’d also found an “X Files” baseball cap, something that would make our job a little easier. We put the contents of the packs into a number of large ziplock bags. Since the packs themselves had been in contact with my car, we carefully incinerated them and then placed the ashes in a separate bag.

Tucking her own hair into a small knot, Kitten slipped the wig on, adjusting it so that it fell naturally around her face. I stood up and circled her for the full effect. Sensible shoes and socks led in turn to plaid skirt, above which was the tight school sweater. Beth’s leather jacket and purse completed the outfit. Kitten wore a pair of woolen gloves that we’d found in Beth’s pack, with a set of surgical gloves underneath so that no overeager forensics type could pull prints off the wool surfaces. The blonde wig, a close match to Beth’s hair, was the final touch, and since Beth hadn’t bothered to bring a raincoat the addition of the baseball cap to the outfit seemed reasonable.

I cast a critical eye over everything. Beth and Kitten weren’t all that similar, facially, but that didn’t matter. Height, weight and clothes carry many more clues to identity than most of us would care to admit, and from a distance I felt she could probably fool anyone.

“Let’s go,” I said.

I drove the van slowly towards the town of Worcester.

Doc had extensively landscaped around his house to hide the extent of the underground complex. As I said before, the place now looked like your average New England frame house, an effect both he and the government had spent a lot of time and money to achieve. Unfortunately, the large garage needed to maintain the transport side of his business would look inappropriate. The van and a small car were the only vehicles he kept there, and a small industrial lot in Worcester had to serve the rest of his business needs.

In the back of the van, JoJo and Myra shuffled uncomfortably in their bondage. After a lot of discussion, we had finally agreed that two trips to Worcester were a waste of time. As I had Kitten with me, it would be safe to take Doc’s shipment along and secure them in the warehouse until I was ready to leave.

“How’s it going?” I shouted.

“They’re a little restless, but I think we’ll survive,” Kitten said from the back seat, where she was keeping an eye on the cargo.

“Think they’ll stay quiet at the warehouse?”

“No problem—we made some improvements to the room we use as a transit cell there,” Kitten informed me. “They’ll be just fine.”

At last we turned into the courtyard of the lot. I pushed the remote to open the loading doors. Doc’s business relies on cars and vans more than most (after all, you can hardly Fed Ex a slave to your customer), so we keep a variety of vehicles available in order to match the environment in which we’d be working—a Caddie on an industrial site would draw the wrong kind of attention, as would a delivery truck outside a fancy nightclub. Recently, Doc has been thinking about using a small private plane for the long trips to the West Coast. He’s paid for my pilot’s license, even for a conversion to choppers, but he’s still undecided. Things as concrete and verifiable as a flight plan tend make him nervous.

In addition to our agents, some of whom do their own recruiting, we have 6 recruiters/delivery personnel. As far as I know, though, I am the only one who ever knows the final destination. Most deliver to a staging area like this, and I pick up the recruits from there, which means that these places always need some kind of short-term slave storage area. In this particular warehouse, it was a small room around the back, marked “inventory.” As we unloaded the slaves, I saw what Kitten meant—since the last time I had been there, the door had been replaced by a solid steel industrial one and a layer of acoustic tiles had been applied to the walls, making it almost completely soundproof. After the shipment was stored, we headed out in a different, more anonymous van from the pool.

Maria’s address led to an older, more affluent area of town where each house was set apart on its own grounds. The houses were large and Victorian, and the neighbors seemed to keep to themselves. Our back street abortionist was doing well for himself, I thought. I circled the area, checking for security systems and access to the back. There were no obvious closed-circuit cameras, but I told Kitten to be careful anyway as I dropped her off. She was wearing a small wire, equipment we got from the same people who supply the FBI—it comes in very handy during the surveillance of potential recruits. As agreed, Kitten would hang around out front for a while, as if undecided. This would make sure that our man’s discreet neighbors got a good look at the uniform. While that was going on, I went around back, finding a position where I could watch the back door. It was almost funny—I had done shit like this so many times in the service, and it still made me nervous. Finally, I heard Kitten over my headpiece—she was going in.

I waited as Kitten went up to the house and knocked. There was the creak of a door opening, and she stammered out a few words of explanation—she had a friend who was in trouble, another friend had recommended she come here. A man’s voice invited her in. As soon as the door closed, I was over the back fence and heading towards the house, blessing those discreet neighbors in my mind. Another blessing happened when the back door turned out to be open.

I mentally reviewed Kitten’s orders; she should keep him talking as long as possible while trying to avoid him getting too good a look at her face. Trusting her abilities on this, I headed down to the basement. As I’d hoped, the guy had an old coal fueled boiler, the logical place to dispose of his business’s ‘remains,’ and the coals were hot and ready. As Kitten started asking about prices and clinical details in this trembly little voice, I was loading the contents of the girl’s packs into the furnace, finishing off with the ashes of the packs themselves. I waited a few minutes to make sure everything was burning nicely. It would probably seem odd to any subsequent forensic examination, but by that time they’d have way too much evidence to worry about some bobbles. I figured in fifteen minutes everything would be gone, leaving only the telltale residue and ashes.

On schedule, I was at the back door when Kitten started to leave. She would be back soon with her friend, she said, if the doctor could see her now. The man agreed, even offering to take her to her ‘friend.’ Kitten politely refused, explaining that the friend was nervous enough already, and repeated that she’d be back. Silently, I slipped outside and vaulted the fence, then headed back to the van. As before, Kitten hung around in front of the house for a few minutes, then headed off. Any neighbors who were watching would remember the blonde girl in that distinctive plaid skirt.

I smiled when Kitten finally slipped into the back of the van. “Right on time, master,” she said, twinkling. “How did it go?”

“Burning nicely. And the other thing?”

She held up a small evidence bag. This morning, it had contained fibers from Maria’s shredded clothes and hair brushings from both girls. Now it was empty. “Sprinkled in every high traffic area I could find,” she said proudly. “In a few hours, they’ll be trailed all over the house.”

Now it was time for the final moves. I rejected the first two ATMs as too modern, but finally I found what I needed. The little hole-in-the-wall ATM next to the convenience store would accept Beth’s card—furthermore, it was within a few blocks of the abortionist.

I asked Kitten if she was ready. She nodded. Finding another quiet alley, I dropped her off and waited. These days, all ATMs have cameras. Most are fairly discreet so you don’t have a lens stuck in your face when you make your transaction, but they all have them in one form or another. Older machines hide them behind a plate just above your head so that they look down at your face. The newer machines use CCD camera’s or angled mirrors to look directly at you, which is why we needed an older machine. With baseball cap in place and looking directly down, Kitten managed it so that the camera never got a good view of her face. The ten or so shots the machine would take would show a girl of the right hair color, height and weight wearing the victim’s clothes and using the victim’s PIN. Just to be sure, she would be using her left hand, matching Beth’s left-handedness. The transaction would put her alive and well in Worcester sixteen hours after the kidnapping and just four blocks away from the abortionist.

In a few minutes, Kitten returned. She handed me the money and the receipt. “Two hundred and fifty as ordered. Told you it would work.”

“When you’re good, you’re good,” I admitted. “And you looked down all the time?

She showed me a magazine. “I was reading.”

“Good girl.” I snuggled her a little, giving her a nice kiss on the cheek. “Now hurry up and get changed back there.”

By the time we pulled back into the warehouse lot, Kitten was back in more Kittenish attire—leather boots, short leather miniskirt and a silk top. We transferred the clothes and things back to Doc’s van and then collected the shipment. In the two hours or so we’d been away, neither girl had budged a single bond. Satisfied, I fed, watered and toiletted them for the road, then said good-bye to Kitten.

“I’m taking the limo like we agreed,” I concluded. “Give me fifteen minutes to get clear, then head out.” I turned around and headed towards the black Caddie limousine.

“Oh slaaave,” she sang.

Shit. I turned around.

Kitten cocked her hip and smiled at me. “Don’t forget our little wager. . .”

I flinched, which seemed to be exactly the reaction she wanted. With an almost childish glee, she danced back towards the van, and I knew I was in big trouble. Still, something about the whole thing bothered me, and it wasn’t just the idea of being indentured to Kitten for a night.

“Hey, Kitten,” I called.

She turned around, waiting.

“You got that number in 15 minutes.”

“Yes, slave,“ she said with relish.

“So why did you originally tell me it would take an hour? You obviously knew you could get it faster.”

She actually started laughing. “Because you’re not a fool, dear. If I said I could get it in fifteen minutes, you’d realize there was a trick to it. This way, you thought there was a chance I’d fail and you’d get your grubby little mitts on me. It’s a classic case of the little head doing the thinking for the big head.” She gave me an extremely arch look. “Now stop talking to me and get on the road. The sooner you go, the sooner I get to collect on our bet.”

Yes, definitely in trouble.

On the road, I found a decent rock station and started humming along as I drove. I was generally happy with the way things had turned out. Of course, some ashes and scattered hair and skin scrapings wouldn’t be enough for the local cop shop to arrest our abortionist friend—depending on how well he cleaned out his furnace, there might not be any evidence at all. But when the girls failed to come back, the alarm would be raised, and I was sure one of their co-conspirators would finally break. Combined with their testimony, the bank transaction linking “Beth” with the house in Worcester would neatly direct the police in that direction and away from the quiet road where I found the girls.

I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I didn’t even notice them at first. It was deja vu all over again. Two girls on the side of the road, hitch-hiking. And here I was, driving Doc’s shipment down to New York in his big black limo. Like I said before, I’m simply not allowed to stop, but today I wanted to do something special, so I pulled over.

The first girl was blonde, bundled up against the cold in a huge green raincoat. No fancy school clothes here, just ripped-up jeans and a pair of old Docs. She ran up alongside the car as soon as I stopped.

“Going to New York, mister?” she asked hopefully.

“Yeah, but I can’t give you a lift,” I said. “My boss is asleep in the back, and he won’t pick up hitchers.”

By now her brunette friend had wandered up. “So why did you stop?” she asked. Not bitchy, just curious. I liked that.

I pointed back the way I came. “Because if you go back there, you’ll find a big truck stop,” I told them. “It’s dry and warm, and you stand a better chance of a lift than waiting here.”

“Back there?” the brunette asked doubtfully.

“’Bout a quarter mile.” I reached over and handed her a C-note. It was part of the money we’d taken from Beth’s account, so it seemed strangely appropriate. “This will buy you dinner while you wait.”

“Thanks, mister!” they said in unison.

“Shush,” I whispered, jerking my head towards the tinted partition window. “If he wakes up, I could lose my job.”

They looked at me conspiratorially, and the blonde winked. I had to ask. “Do you girls have a place to stay when you get there?”

“Oh yes, we have a friend there already,” the blonde said quickly. She wasn’t a very good liar.

“Yeah. Look, while you’re eating dinner, do a little rethinking,” I said. “A lot of places won’t allow extra tenants and your friend may not be able to let you stay. New York is a bad place to live on the streets.”

The brunette smiled politely. “Thanks, but we’ll be okay, honest.”

Hey, I tried. I pulled away, feeling a little better with the C-note and everything. Just as I rolled up the window, I heard the blonde shout, “Thanks, mister! See you in New York!”

I winced. For her sake, I hoped not.

Once on the road, I lowered the partition and looked into the back. JoJo sat in her strange fetish outfit, hands cuffed behind her back and one of Doc’s gags strapped in her mouth. She sat passively, looking through the tinted window. Next to her, Myra was similarly bound and quiet. So far, she’d been no trouble and I still had the will suppressant as a backup.

I grinned to myself. “Just a couple of hitchhikers, ladies, nothing to worry about,” I said, just like a proper chauffeur. We continued along our merry way, down to New York.