C.A.B.
3rd Level White Feather
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"The Grays Document" by C.A.B.
(Fiction. M/f, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
Becky steps from the chain bookstore and into the cool air of deep night. Coffee still in hand, she pauses to note that the parking lot is now mostly empty but the lights are still buzzing with a bright impersonal glare. Her heels clack purposefully as she makes her way around the building, having been forced to park out back when the store was packed with silent weekend literary bugs, acne scarred gamers, and lonesome shelf stalkers trolling for some miracle eye contact and subsequent (if just as unlikely) romance over double espressos.
But now there was only moths and mercury vapor, and the thin haze of dew sweat on her black car; half in the shadows near the dumpster with its reek of grinds and cardboard. Her girlfriend canceled their dinner hours earlier and she was left dressed up with nowhere to go. The bookstore was always a last ditch at salvaging a Saturday night, so why not; people watching is interesting... even the creeps. But now, later than she was used to staying, she had to admit defeat and crawl home to bed. Another bland weekend.
In her car, the door shuts and keys jingle. Suddenly a rush of breath and a panic. A firm hand. The acrid smell of gun muzzle. And then there was the first of a voice that would rule her nightmares.
"...that's it. Nice and calm. I will talk."
Pounding heartbeats thrum in her ears. Nausea.
"Now. Turn on the car and drive. I'll tell you where to go."
Twenty minutes later, shaking hands steer out of town and down snaky back roads. The next county, and then the next, and then the unfamiliar. Ahead, a dim, rusty sign. The pink neon should read 'Snow Hope Motel' but the letters not burned out make it read, "no Hope Motel" Becky feels a cold sweat wash over her anew.
"Turn here. Park at the end of the building away from the office. That's right, that last room. The end space," The lot is silent, no lights in the room windows and just a car or two. The office is dim with nicotine stained windows which casts sickly and weak evidence that someone inside is in attendance. The muzzle at her temple, "Open the door when I do, walk in front of me. To the last door there."
Becky's thoughts are everywhere and nowhere. The man has a gun. She does not want to die tonight. Humor him, then maybe...
He shuts the door motel room door behind him. The room is dark but for a sad glow from the bathroom. The air conditioner rattles loudly and smells of mildew. "Face down, on the bed. Now!" There is no time for easiness, no sooner is she knee up on the bed then he is pushing her down. A wrist is grabbed and pulled behind, cuffed, and then to the other. "Slide to the floor and sit forward." She is pulled, then pushed. A second set of cuffs ratchet closed on the first, and then to the mattress frame. He stands, puts his pistol on the far dresser and takes off his coat. Then crosses his arms. Leaning. Staring.
Becky dares to glance up and meet his eyes. In the light of the room they look black and full. He is trim and tall, but there is nothing gangster or smarmy about him. Nothing criminal like one imagines. He looks as if he might have just stepped from an insurance office or bank. He smirks and rolls up the sleeves on his white shirt, one by one, methodically. His tie is plain and might be deep red or purple. His slacks are off the rack, more utility than suit. And the same goes for his shoes, dressy, but with tread sport soles for comfort... or physical work.
"That's right," he says, "Make a note for the Home Office. It doesn't matter to me. If I really cared about you listing the landmarks on the way here do you really think I would have let you drive?"
Becky blinks. Not understanding or too frightened to comment, or both. Her eyeliner has begun to smudge with teary eyes, "Please... Mister..."
"Save it," he throws up a palm dismissively, "Let's not pretend. If we get down to business we can both get out of here before Monday. Yes. Monday. That's all the time I have to deal with you. After Monday, I go home. You do not. Clear?"
"Mister, please! I don't..." she begins to cry.
"Okay. We'll play it your way. Listen up," he stares, "Listening?"
"Please! What do you..." He moves quickly, unexpectedly. His palm leaves her face red and smarting.
"Listening?" he cups her jaw.
"...yes."
"The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
"What?"
He exhales, and repeats, "The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
"Mister I don't know what you're talking about this is some kind of mistake why am I here why are you doing this I want to leave..." Becky trails into a run-on sob and her face contorts flushed and wet.
The man stands erect and stares, more disgust than confusion, "Okey dokey, then. Not 'my way' or 'your way,' but he 'hard way.'"
Becky bounces a little in frustration and cries out, "Let me go! LET ME GO!" then she screams as loud as she can.
He turns to the dresser, shaking his head. Amused. "That's good. That's real good. Do you think anyone can hear you? These old places are really thick walled. Cinder block. Then you got the noisy AC in every fucking room. I paid for the next three adjoining rooms. And I paid the night manager... in crap Budweiser, if you can believe it. And, of course there's old State Road 4 out there which died when they put in new Route 31. Ghosts and three year old roadkill jerky, is all you'll find out there at this time of the early morning," he chuckles, "So how about we shit can the damsel in distress routine?" Then he mocks her lightly with hands fluttering, "Help me! Oh help!"
Becky coughs and sputters on tears, "What are you going to do with me?"
He leans on the dresser again.
"Not 'with you,' ...'to you.' I'm going to ask you again and if you don't answer, I'm going to do things 'to you.'"
"I don't understand! Who are you? Why me? I don't know you at..."
"Me? You might say I'm a freelancer. The folks who want that information hired me. I've been tailing you for three weeks. You even smiled at me passingly in the supermarket. But this is neither here nor there," he glances at his watch, perturbed, "The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
Becky shakes her head from side to side and begins to wail uncontrollably. The man hangs his head and starts for the door. Becky calls disparately, "Wait! Don't leave me here!"
The man turns, bemused.
"I'm not going to leave you here. I'm gonna get my things. And when I come back, I'm going to start torturing you."
* * *
Becky pulls at her handcuffs until her wrists are raw. Her perspiration gave her hope that they might slip off, but her efforts only made her hands swell, defeating the attempt. Outside, she can hear her captor whistling casually at what must have been his own parked car. There was no way to see, so no way to tell the cops. If she lived to see the cops at all, she morbidly corrects herself.
She startles a little as he enters the motel room, banging the large case on the doorjamb, "Whoops!" he chides himself, "Don't want to tear the leather." She sees now that it is a folding table of some sort, heavy and padded. He puts it down and leaves again, returning with a large black satchel. He winks at her, "The 'Bag O' Tricks!'"
He hums and whistles pleasantly as he sets up. The table unfolds, legs clacking solidly in place. He grunts as he moves the other bed over some to make more room. The unit is high and resembles a massage table, but with articulated arms and legs; a bizarre and horrid gingerbread man of ill intent. It's heavy straps loll over the sides like lazy snakes in wait.
Becky cranes to see what he begins to pull from his bag and lay out on the other bed. Items that are not all identifiable. But some evoke her stomach and throat to tighten; whips, clamps, a bamboo cane. Some of the things have electrical cords. There are also things meant to be inserted, or worse. Becky begins to whimper anew.
"Music to my ears, girl. Keep it up." he mocks.
"Please, PLEASE!!! Mister, don't do this! Please, just let me go! I won't tell anyone."
"Careful what you wish for," he states low and under his breath.
"I want to go home! I WANT TO GO HOME!" Becky cries and rattles her handcuffs.
The man continues the layout and, satisfied, gives the table some test pushes while making adjustments, "There. Alright then, this will be a lot easier on you if you just jump up on here when I key you loose. Just pop your ass up here and lay back on your cuffs," he moves to the dresser and re-cocks his pistol to put a point on his request, "Understood?"
Becky nods. Her hair ragged with sweat and ordeal.
"Good," he bends to release her, waving the gun before her eyes "I have no qualms about breaking your nose, so do as you are told."
Weakly, Becky hefts herself up backwards onto the table and trembles as she lies back. He waists no time buckling each of her legs to the armatures; ankles, knees, and thighs. A large belt is pulled over her ribcage and pulled snug under her breasts; the leather is thick and it bites. She in very conscious of the odor of tanning and sour metal clasps and fasteners. She also smells a hint of old perspiration, the table had been used recently. Everything abruptly becomes very real, and Becky starts to thrash. He is on her immediately, rough hands pushing her down by the collarbone.
"Ah! Now, now. You were doing so well. Settle down," his voice is stern but amused, "Relax..."
"Fah... fuck you! FUCK YOU! F..." full on panic.
Becky sees bright flashing lights, momentarily like little colored sparkles, then smells another odd odor. It is the smell of a nose in shock. Then her face warms where she was slapped. She finds herself quite still on her back, waiting for the stars to fade.
"...relax," He says low, and begins to buckle her arms outstretched on the arms of the torture table.
He leaves her to consider her position, and she hears him behind her as he happily washes his hands and face in the low, cigarette burned, bathroom sink. She tests and pulls at her bonds with no satisfaction. She is as stoic as the table now, bonded together as one. Movement is no longer a luxury.
He comes back and stares into her makeup stained eyes, "You see? It's all quite real now, isn't it?" he half smiles, "So, I'll ask again... The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
A long pause. Only the rattle of the ancient air conditioning between them.
"No? Okay." He grabs at her blouse with both hands and begins to tug and pull violently, the thin material does not resist and Becky sobs as it tears and shreds, her resistance abandons her with the fabric. Her bra is manipulated and pulled away from under, her young breasts feel the naked cool of the room. Her favorite skirt, the one she 'borrowed permanently' from her sister comes away in three loud rips. Her panties fare even less fortunate, forcefully torn away in his meaty grip. Becky cries to an uncaring room. She strains to look at herself, half unbelieving that her most intimate self is exposed to this nightmarish stranger.
"Oh, don't act so surprised. This is par for the course. When I start to torture you we can't have your threads in the way can we?" he smiles, "Nice skin. Sensitive?" he runs a finger the length of her and Becky squirms, "Whoops! No shoes either, I'm afraid," And he pops off each of her heels in turn, pausing to inhale deeply as he cups one over his nose.
"...mmmmm. The smell of sexy perspiration. Such dainty feet," and caresses one, "Nice and damp and soft."
"You SICK FUCK! You're a sick fuck!" Becky spits, "Let me fucking go!"
"No," he returns with lengths of nylon rope, "That's not going to happen. Quite the opposite actually. I really don't like the make of these bondage tables. You would think that people who take so much pride in their fetishes would fashion better restraints. They work well until things get hot and heavy, but a strong young gal, like yourself, could really pop some rivets. That's why I like to add some insurance. You can never have enough bondage, and some good tight rope is torture in itself after awhile."
He begins to tie her lower legs more securely to the armatures, winding and knotting taught like a seaman of old. He does the same for her arms and upper thighs. He captures her breasts between the coils and forces them pink with blood up into the air. He stands back, hand to chin, admiring his work.
"Nice. You're as pretty as a picture."
"Fucker!" Becky cries but moves not.
"Don't be mad. In fact, I'm going to turn that frown upside-down... ticklish?" he runs another finger down her arm and lingers at the pit, tickling. Becky screws up her face, squinting hard with a hateful grimace but then relents, and bursts into girlish laughter. He continues tickling, "Oh, my. You're too easy. Tsk. Tsk. A grown woman, and here you are giggling uncontrollably like a little girl. Tickle tickle tickle!"
Becky erupts into hatred and curses vitriol at him, spit flying.. But then, she has no choice but to submit to his madding fingers, and she bursts again into agonized laughter. He smiles, his fingers dancing and pulling mirth from her core, "Oh no. There's no intimidation. There's no stopping me. You have no choice but to suffer as I see fit. He tweaks and pokes at her ribs and flesh and she howls with pained squeals. He pauses.
"We have time for all that fun and more. But let's not rush. There's so much to do and we have the time to do it. Let's find out if Rebbecca has more sensitivities, shall we?"
"Let's explore her flesh."
* * *
Becky coughs back her incited laughter and tears and strains through wet, blurry eyes to see what her captor is retrieving from the bed. Before she can adjust, he is on her again like doting predator. He stands erect and jeering, just beyond the spread of her legs, taking practice swings with a long leather flogger. Their pointed ends snap in the air.
"It's time to warm you up. That neat and trim pussy of yours is much too introverted. I say we let it bloom a little... maybe a lot. Let us encourage it to come out and play."
A small, "...no..." Tensing. Straining against the inevitable.
"I'm going to whip you until you beg to confess. I'm going to whip your sweet pussy until you scream. I'm going to whip you until you rise to meet the pain." And without ceremony, he brings the great thongs down high from over head, a sweeping path of audible wind sheer that ends with a great slap. Becky, more shocked than pained, yelps. Before she can digest the sensation the whip finds purse again. She cries out this time. Again. Her deft outer lips pink up. She feels the sting and the pressure. Again and again, a methodical metronome of torment. The dread of the wait between strokes rivals the contact. There is no where to squirm.
And then she shames herself, as her lips redden and blossom. The pain stings but the pressure seduces. The rhythmic flow or torment plays behind her tightly shut eyes, and her mind caresses and flirts with the very counter-nature of submission. The entanglement of the preservation of self and the unrelenting agony of physical and sexual abandonment. The strikes become more seductive, and Becky fears she feels an ache inside... deep. A need growing without her consent. The rape of fortitude.
Another well placed stroke and her maidenhead is engorged and evident.
The need is growing on its own.
Prophetically, she unconsciously bucks her hips to meet the timed strikes. But it suddenly ends.
"You little fucking *****," He chuckles, "You cheap fucking ****. you're loving it, aren't you?"
"Shut up! SHUT UP!" Becky protests new tears and turns her head away as best she's able.
"Fine then." He stretches high and the arc of pain rains down faster, the tips targeting her engorgement. Becky screams in anguish and cries out. Over and over, the rhythm pushing her to a perversion her self-esteem dare not confront. But the ache begins inside once more and body holds sway over id. Her clitoris, suffering in sweet agony, pulls hard on her need to release with every pulse of the beating, until at long last, Becky bears down on the last few strokes and moils in an unholy orgasm that strains rope and leather alike. She scrapes for breath and releases a torrent of evidence that her provocateur was victorious. The wood of the table groans under her convulsive push. And she withers.
He stands above her to gloat and stare. A voyeur to her succulent shame.
"Wait," he moves to the bag on the bed, "I need a shot of this. Tsk. Tsk What a mess."
As the camera flashes, Becky dies a little of disgrace.
"Lets move on. shall we? A little cheering up then?" He moves to her side and wipes the black streaks from her eyes, "Let's have you smile some more. Learn to laugh a little."
"no... NO! Don't! Don't tickle me! Not anymore! Please! Don't... Ah ha ha ha ha!" Becky bucks hard then melts with laughter as he plucks and pinches and pokes her belly and breasts. His fingers search mercilessly for productive targets as her stomach hardens and softens with each hitching breath. Her tits wriggle from laughter but have no where to escape his probing digits. Nipples stand erect and defiant but only encourage more attack. Post-orgasmic, Becky's sensitivity is off the scale. His rough hands dance and explore her pubic area and the rise of soft belly flesh above, pushing her to deafening heights of forced laughter. He mocks her.
"You want me to stop? Is it too much? Will you talk now, or do I have to tickle you until Monday?" he is relentless, and turns up the amperage of his enthusiasm, "Ticklish here? How about here? Just say so, and I'll stop. What? I can't hear you?"
Becky, sealed to the apparatus with fresh sweat, heavy straps, and rope, can not move an inch to prevent the assailment, "p-Pleease! Oh God, please! Stop! STOP! I can't take this any..." And she buckles into a fresh gale of crying laughter as he exploits the tender flesh of her underarms, her position making them inviting nests for spidery fingers. She screams, "YOU SAID YOU'D STOP!"
"Yes I did. But... it's not my fault that your body is so ticklish. Why don't you stop laughing? You can't, and I know that. It's candy for me to watch you endure it. Tickle tickle tickle!" Her suffering is prolonged far past his admittance that he lied.
At long last, choking and rasping, Becky gets a reprieve to contemplate the agony to be served next. He is diligent and takes no break for himself, the pause is merely a byproduct of his need to employ new tactics. When she next opens her eyes he is standing between her again. Without much care, he is squeezing clear lubricant haphazardly onto a wired plastic egg.
"Unless you are a puritan, and we know you are not," he glances at her puffy, glistening lips,"You know exactly what this is," he suddenly pauses, "Oh, my... 'eggs-actly'... I should be shot for that one, eh?"
Becky stares in distress, the humor is irrelevant. There is only the fear or what's next.
"We're going to play a little game now, kiddo. I'm going to push this remote vibe into your little puckered hole. And believe me, you're going to want to feel like pushing it back out. Herein lies the game... if you push it out again I'm going to tickle torture you far longer than I just did. And we both know how unbearable that is, don't we?"
Becky comes alive with pleads, "No! NO! Don't tickle me anymore! It's TORTURE!"
"Yes it is. So keep this devilish thing in your ass and you're fine... but here's the rub, if you also cum while it's in, you loose again, and you're toast. More tickle torture." he grins, "So your probably wondering why I don't demand you talk? Frankly right now, I'm having too much fun. Besides. Whatever happens, I know you'll talk. You are too prone to torture. Too ticklish for your own good."
He holds the device up like a prize, "Ready?"
* * *
"Don't clench. It's going in and you can't stop it."
He kneels to better enjoy Becky's humiliation, eyes on both her face and the slow, penetration of the vibrator egg. She groans and whimpers as she is reluctantly widened to accept the foreign thing; feverish perspiration dots her head during her violation.
"Oh my god! OH MY GOD! Stop! STOP!" she cries and feels the fullness. The need to expel it is overwhelming but she fears more torture if she does. He grins, eyeballing her for a weakness, but Becky strains to hold it in, battling her own reflexive muscles.
He tucks the controller against her thigh and turns the knob. Becky lets go a surprised and anguished look as the egg pulses and vibrates inside her, the waves traveling through the common wall to her vagina. She squirms and pants stuttered breaths to keep up.
"Remember... if you pop it out or cum, it's more slow tickle torture. And I have until Monday to play with you." the man says, striding over to the bed. He comes back with a plastic bag, inside are white clothes pins, "Now, I don't really think you can overcome this little task, and to tell you the truth, I have been saving your feet for last. They're so pretty."
"No! NOOOO!" Becky pleads.
"Don't worry. I'll be fair. You haven't fucked up yet. But..." he begins to pick the clothes pins out of the bag and lay them, one by one, on her belly, "But, I am going to hedge my bet. I am going to pin your pussy lips back and out of the way. I want your little sore clit unobstructed because I'm going to torture it," he says, a little amused, and a little distracted by one broken pin, "Slow."
Becky moans with anal angst and grits her teeth. He licks a finger and tugs and pinches her nipples in turn, adding one, then two then three clothes pins deftly; relishing her torment. She grunts and yowls, trying so hard to deal with the multiple stimuli. Then, with the same deliberate attention, begins to pin her labia back with rows of clothes pins, her pink, most intimate flesh exposed and glistening. The excitement is not lost on her inner reflexes and she begins to exude her own creamy lubricant.
"You are one horny bitch," he notes, "Let's try a nice stiff feather on that little clit; see how long you can keep from coming like a two-dollar *****. Not long I'm betting. And when you do, you know what your punishment will be."
Becky tries to be silent, bearing down to keep the egg in her asshole is all she can muster. But now she feels the maddening dance of the tip of the feather, stiff but wet from her own sexual betrayal. It glides and teases all up and down her inner sex. At first it seems bearable, nary an annoyance, but minutes in, the throb in her clit is undeniable; it needs touched. Shortly after it aches for touch. Friction. Anything but the cruel slide of the feather tip, moving slowly about like a sadistic creature circling prey.
Then, without warning, the feather tip pounces directly on her most sensitive pulsing tissue. Becky cries out and begins to gnash her teeth at the tactile onslaught. Her clitoris, raw and brooding from the whip, aches but is unable to escape. Conversely, it rises and bulges with her hot blood, greedily yearning for more friction. But the feather is light, teasing, and her torture mounts. Becky moans and bewails her frustration. Inside she feels the climax building, ratcheting, and she makes great leaps towards her dangerous end when she mistakenly dwells on how 'relentless' her torture is. She cannot help but find the thought of her own desperation sexually intoxicating and it jerks her forward, closer to orgasm; she can't keep the thoughts and sensations out of her mind.
The egg thrums through her pelvis. Her tormentor deftly fields his hellish quill. Relentless. Relentless. Relentless. Rebbecca tenses hard. He feels it. Involuntary muscle contractions. Spittle flies from between her clenched teeth as she resists but is overwhelmed by the roaring train of release. With a low cry of sexual agony and bliss, her bonds once again groan and strain. Her vagina, exposed and freely open, expels her pent up fluid in forceful ecstasy. She rolls and convulses for several minutes.
The egg emerges with her third wave.
Becky lie there, shaking, weeping. Exhausted.
She knows he is pleased and will torture her more. She almost resigns to die.
Catching her breath, tear swollen eyes make a last attempt to find his, to beg his very soul for mercy. She babbles and implores... but he will have none of it.
"No. A deal is a deal." he says flatly and begins to walk his fingers down her entrapped leg.
"Oh god no! Please don't do this. Not my feet, I'll die! You don't have to do this!" Becky clamors, her body weakened, tries a vane attempt to pull away.
He pauses at her ankle, "The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
Becky falls silent, momentarily, then erupts in a sorrowful shrill, "I DON'T FUCKING KNOW WHAT YOUR FUCKING TALKING ABOUT! FUCK! LET ME GO! LET ME FUCKING GO! YOU HAVE THE WRONG PERSON! I'M JUST..." she wails, "I'M NOBODY! NOBODY!"
He stares. Possibly bewildered by her display. Then he simply shrugs and begins to tickle her tied foot with purposeful fingers.
Rebbecca explodes into helpless laughter and cries of agony. His nails are blunt but long enough to scratch. Her arches are silky and moist with a fresh, heady sudor. There is no pulling away and his hands are free to explore her soft sensitivities. She begs and jerks, as his attention rounds her delicate arch and tickles the tops; her toes spreading and flexing in spasms, desperate to flee. He exploits the tender flesh between each painted toe, wrenching new peals of laughing agony form her bellowing lungs. He torments her as he goes, "Tickle tickle tickle. Little spy, I'm talking to you.... can you stop laughing? No? You have no control. No escape. I'm just going to tickle your helpless little feet for hours. Laugh if you like that idea. OH! You do! Tickle tickle tickle!"
Becky lie there like a paralyzed marionette. Forced to laugh against her will, and seeping again with false sexual backlash. The agony is a thousand fold being unable to move. Her feet become more sensitive it seems the longer she is tortured. He bides his time and is methodical, never giving a chance for reprieve. The soles of her feet pink-up with the irritation, yet, must suffer under the relentless accosting.
He drinks in her desperation and suffering like a parched desert dweller. Her anguish is the music he bows from her delicate extremities. He muses how fast the electricity of touch must travel; past toes and arch and tender heel, past ankle knee and thigh, past clitoris belly and breasts, onward to discharge and detonate in the brain. A brain aware of its own helplessness; yet fights onward to resist, but ultimately cannot. Reflexive laughter. False joy. Sweet, unrelenting torture. The man's cock snakes his leg with filling arousal.
"Are you gong to talk? Are you going to fucking talk now? It looks like you are helplessly ticklish and that really does mean I can do this all night and you won't be able to turn it off. Talk you stupid bitch! FUCKING TALK!" he demands, loosing his composure a notch. Becky cannot answer, she is lost in the whirling torment of a thousand nerve endings panicked. Her feet have long since given up struggle and hang limp as he tickle tortures her for submission.
To his right a red flash on the wall, followed by blue. He stops. Freezes. Then to the window.
"...fuck," he squints, "FUCK."
A police car. Its brash lights silently invading the dead serenity of the motel parking lot, pulls up to the far end of the building. The office. The night manager.
Becky, barely able to comprehend, watches, breathing hard as the man abandons her and his possessions, snatching only his pistol and his coat over it as he briskly exits the room. Not long after, she hears the crushing gravel under tire as he drives away. Rebbecca does not remember passing out.
* * * *
Rebbecca wakes to a loud cry. Spanish. Daylight is pouring through the open motel room door and a squat woman is in silhouette, crossing herself over and over again. She bolts from the doorway, run waddling, "Madre de Dios. Oh mi dulce Dios. Una ni–a, una ni–a! Ven pronto, ella es crucificado!"
Becky begins to shout as best she can for help, but resigns. Hoarse.
Later, enshrouded by a shock blanket, Becky finishes her statement to an encirclement of sour faced police officers. A plain-clothes detective offers her coffee and she refuses it, asking for some bottled water instead. "He wouldn't stop... not until the cops came last night. He didn't know they weren't here for me. I guess it was just dumb luck."
"Not dumb, Miss. Very fortunate. The night manager got drunk on beer and he dialed 911 by accident, when he didn't answer the operator, a squad car was sent out. You are one very lucky young lady. But its over now. We need to take you to the hospital; rape protocol. Its procedure," the detective says.
"Yes, I understand... but I want to go home," tears well up again, "Can I call my Mom, please? Can I just call her on my cell? I want my mom."
"Yes. Of course. Take as much time as you need."
Becky stands and huddles her blanket close, then meanders into the open parking lot for privacy. The phone dials and she hears the familiar ring. After the fourth, the receiver picks up.
"Monahan." Flatly.
"It's Rebbecca. I was abducted and tortured last night. But I lucked out and told him nothing. The cops came. I'm fine, but I want a fucking relocation. The Grays Document is intact and the actionables are still safe. All three of them. I want a goddamn new assignment... Do it."
End.
(Fiction. M/f, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
Becky steps from the chain bookstore and into the cool air of deep night. Coffee still in hand, she pauses to note that the parking lot is now mostly empty but the lights are still buzzing with a bright impersonal glare. Her heels clack purposefully as she makes her way around the building, having been forced to park out back when the store was packed with silent weekend literary bugs, acne scarred gamers, and lonesome shelf stalkers trolling for some miracle eye contact and subsequent (if just as unlikely) romance over double espressos.
But now there was only moths and mercury vapor, and the thin haze of dew sweat on her black car; half in the shadows near the dumpster with its reek of grinds and cardboard. Her girlfriend canceled their dinner hours earlier and she was left dressed up with nowhere to go. The bookstore was always a last ditch at salvaging a Saturday night, so why not; people watching is interesting... even the creeps. But now, later than she was used to staying, she had to admit defeat and crawl home to bed. Another bland weekend.
In her car, the door shuts and keys jingle. Suddenly a rush of breath and a panic. A firm hand. The acrid smell of gun muzzle. And then there was the first of a voice that would rule her nightmares.
"...that's it. Nice and calm. I will talk."
Pounding heartbeats thrum in her ears. Nausea.
"Now. Turn on the car and drive. I'll tell you where to go."
Twenty minutes later, shaking hands steer out of town and down snaky back roads. The next county, and then the next, and then the unfamiliar. Ahead, a dim, rusty sign. The pink neon should read 'Snow Hope Motel' but the letters not burned out make it read, "no Hope Motel" Becky feels a cold sweat wash over her anew.
"Turn here. Park at the end of the building away from the office. That's right, that last room. The end space," The lot is silent, no lights in the room windows and just a car or two. The office is dim with nicotine stained windows which casts sickly and weak evidence that someone inside is in attendance. The muzzle at her temple, "Open the door when I do, walk in front of me. To the last door there."
Becky's thoughts are everywhere and nowhere. The man has a gun. She does not want to die tonight. Humor him, then maybe...
He shuts the door motel room door behind him. The room is dark but for a sad glow from the bathroom. The air conditioner rattles loudly and smells of mildew. "Face down, on the bed. Now!" There is no time for easiness, no sooner is she knee up on the bed then he is pushing her down. A wrist is grabbed and pulled behind, cuffed, and then to the other. "Slide to the floor and sit forward." She is pulled, then pushed. A second set of cuffs ratchet closed on the first, and then to the mattress frame. He stands, puts his pistol on the far dresser and takes off his coat. Then crosses his arms. Leaning. Staring.
Becky dares to glance up and meet his eyes. In the light of the room they look black and full. He is trim and tall, but there is nothing gangster or smarmy about him. Nothing criminal like one imagines. He looks as if he might have just stepped from an insurance office or bank. He smirks and rolls up the sleeves on his white shirt, one by one, methodically. His tie is plain and might be deep red or purple. His slacks are off the rack, more utility than suit. And the same goes for his shoes, dressy, but with tread sport soles for comfort... or physical work.
"That's right," he says, "Make a note for the Home Office. It doesn't matter to me. If I really cared about you listing the landmarks on the way here do you really think I would have let you drive?"
Becky blinks. Not understanding or too frightened to comment, or both. Her eyeliner has begun to smudge with teary eyes, "Please... Mister..."
"Save it," he throws up a palm dismissively, "Let's not pretend. If we get down to business we can both get out of here before Monday. Yes. Monday. That's all the time I have to deal with you. After Monday, I go home. You do not. Clear?"
"Mister, please! I don't..." she begins to cry.
"Okay. We'll play it your way. Listen up," he stares, "Listening?"
"Please! What do you..." He moves quickly, unexpectedly. His palm leaves her face red and smarting.
"Listening?" he cups her jaw.
"...yes."
"The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
"What?"
He exhales, and repeats, "The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
"Mister I don't know what you're talking about this is some kind of mistake why am I here why are you doing this I want to leave..." Becky trails into a run-on sob and her face contorts flushed and wet.
The man stands erect and stares, more disgust than confusion, "Okey dokey, then. Not 'my way' or 'your way,' but he 'hard way.'"
Becky bounces a little in frustration and cries out, "Let me go! LET ME GO!" then she screams as loud as she can.
He turns to the dresser, shaking his head. Amused. "That's good. That's real good. Do you think anyone can hear you? These old places are really thick walled. Cinder block. Then you got the noisy AC in every fucking room. I paid for the next three adjoining rooms. And I paid the night manager... in crap Budweiser, if you can believe it. And, of course there's old State Road 4 out there which died when they put in new Route 31. Ghosts and three year old roadkill jerky, is all you'll find out there at this time of the early morning," he chuckles, "So how about we shit can the damsel in distress routine?" Then he mocks her lightly with hands fluttering, "Help me! Oh help!"
Becky coughs and sputters on tears, "What are you going to do with me?"
He leans on the dresser again.
"Not 'with you,' ...'to you.' I'm going to ask you again and if you don't answer, I'm going to do things 'to you.'"
"I don't understand! Who are you? Why me? I don't know you at..."
"Me? You might say I'm a freelancer. The folks who want that information hired me. I've been tailing you for three weeks. You even smiled at me passingly in the supermarket. But this is neither here nor there," he glances at his watch, perturbed, "The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
Becky shakes her head from side to side and begins to wail uncontrollably. The man hangs his head and starts for the door. Becky calls disparately, "Wait! Don't leave me here!"
The man turns, bemused.
"I'm not going to leave you here. I'm gonna get my things. And when I come back, I'm going to start torturing you."
* * *
Becky pulls at her handcuffs until her wrists are raw. Her perspiration gave her hope that they might slip off, but her efforts only made her hands swell, defeating the attempt. Outside, she can hear her captor whistling casually at what must have been his own parked car. There was no way to see, so no way to tell the cops. If she lived to see the cops at all, she morbidly corrects herself.
She startles a little as he enters the motel room, banging the large case on the doorjamb, "Whoops!" he chides himself, "Don't want to tear the leather." She sees now that it is a folding table of some sort, heavy and padded. He puts it down and leaves again, returning with a large black satchel. He winks at her, "The 'Bag O' Tricks!'"
He hums and whistles pleasantly as he sets up. The table unfolds, legs clacking solidly in place. He grunts as he moves the other bed over some to make more room. The unit is high and resembles a massage table, but with articulated arms and legs; a bizarre and horrid gingerbread man of ill intent. It's heavy straps loll over the sides like lazy snakes in wait.
Becky cranes to see what he begins to pull from his bag and lay out on the other bed. Items that are not all identifiable. But some evoke her stomach and throat to tighten; whips, clamps, a bamboo cane. Some of the things have electrical cords. There are also things meant to be inserted, or worse. Becky begins to whimper anew.
"Music to my ears, girl. Keep it up." he mocks.
"Please, PLEASE!!! Mister, don't do this! Please, just let me go! I won't tell anyone."
"Careful what you wish for," he states low and under his breath.
"I want to go home! I WANT TO GO HOME!" Becky cries and rattles her handcuffs.
The man continues the layout and, satisfied, gives the table some test pushes while making adjustments, "There. Alright then, this will be a lot easier on you if you just jump up on here when I key you loose. Just pop your ass up here and lay back on your cuffs," he moves to the dresser and re-cocks his pistol to put a point on his request, "Understood?"
Becky nods. Her hair ragged with sweat and ordeal.
"Good," he bends to release her, waving the gun before her eyes "I have no qualms about breaking your nose, so do as you are told."
Weakly, Becky hefts herself up backwards onto the table and trembles as she lies back. He waists no time buckling each of her legs to the armatures; ankles, knees, and thighs. A large belt is pulled over her ribcage and pulled snug under her breasts; the leather is thick and it bites. She in very conscious of the odor of tanning and sour metal clasps and fasteners. She also smells a hint of old perspiration, the table had been used recently. Everything abruptly becomes very real, and Becky starts to thrash. He is on her immediately, rough hands pushing her down by the collarbone.
"Ah! Now, now. You were doing so well. Settle down," his voice is stern but amused, "Relax..."
"Fah... fuck you! FUCK YOU! F..." full on panic.
Becky sees bright flashing lights, momentarily like little colored sparkles, then smells another odd odor. It is the smell of a nose in shock. Then her face warms where she was slapped. She finds herself quite still on her back, waiting for the stars to fade.
"...relax," He says low, and begins to buckle her arms outstretched on the arms of the torture table.
He leaves her to consider her position, and she hears him behind her as he happily washes his hands and face in the low, cigarette burned, bathroom sink. She tests and pulls at her bonds with no satisfaction. She is as stoic as the table now, bonded together as one. Movement is no longer a luxury.
He comes back and stares into her makeup stained eyes, "You see? It's all quite real now, isn't it?" he half smiles, "So, I'll ask again... The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
A long pause. Only the rattle of the ancient air conditioning between them.
"No? Okay." He grabs at her blouse with both hands and begins to tug and pull violently, the thin material does not resist and Becky sobs as it tears and shreds, her resistance abandons her with the fabric. Her bra is manipulated and pulled away from under, her young breasts feel the naked cool of the room. Her favorite skirt, the one she 'borrowed permanently' from her sister comes away in three loud rips. Her panties fare even less fortunate, forcefully torn away in his meaty grip. Becky cries to an uncaring room. She strains to look at herself, half unbelieving that her most intimate self is exposed to this nightmarish stranger.
"Oh, don't act so surprised. This is par for the course. When I start to torture you we can't have your threads in the way can we?" he smiles, "Nice skin. Sensitive?" he runs a finger the length of her and Becky squirms, "Whoops! No shoes either, I'm afraid," And he pops off each of her heels in turn, pausing to inhale deeply as he cups one over his nose.
"...mmmmm. The smell of sexy perspiration. Such dainty feet," and caresses one, "Nice and damp and soft."
"You SICK FUCK! You're a sick fuck!" Becky spits, "Let me fucking go!"
"No," he returns with lengths of nylon rope, "That's not going to happen. Quite the opposite actually. I really don't like the make of these bondage tables. You would think that people who take so much pride in their fetishes would fashion better restraints. They work well until things get hot and heavy, but a strong young gal, like yourself, could really pop some rivets. That's why I like to add some insurance. You can never have enough bondage, and some good tight rope is torture in itself after awhile."
He begins to tie her lower legs more securely to the armatures, winding and knotting taught like a seaman of old. He does the same for her arms and upper thighs. He captures her breasts between the coils and forces them pink with blood up into the air. He stands back, hand to chin, admiring his work.
"Nice. You're as pretty as a picture."
"Fucker!" Becky cries but moves not.
"Don't be mad. In fact, I'm going to turn that frown upside-down... ticklish?" he runs another finger down her arm and lingers at the pit, tickling. Becky screws up her face, squinting hard with a hateful grimace but then relents, and bursts into girlish laughter. He continues tickling, "Oh, my. You're too easy. Tsk. Tsk. A grown woman, and here you are giggling uncontrollably like a little girl. Tickle tickle tickle!"
Becky erupts into hatred and curses vitriol at him, spit flying.. But then, she has no choice but to submit to his madding fingers, and she bursts again into agonized laughter. He smiles, his fingers dancing and pulling mirth from her core, "Oh no. There's no intimidation. There's no stopping me. You have no choice but to suffer as I see fit. He tweaks and pokes at her ribs and flesh and she howls with pained squeals. He pauses.
"We have time for all that fun and more. But let's not rush. There's so much to do and we have the time to do it. Let's find out if Rebbecca has more sensitivities, shall we?"
"Let's explore her flesh."
* * *
Becky coughs back her incited laughter and tears and strains through wet, blurry eyes to see what her captor is retrieving from the bed. Before she can adjust, he is on her again like doting predator. He stands erect and jeering, just beyond the spread of her legs, taking practice swings with a long leather flogger. Their pointed ends snap in the air.
"It's time to warm you up. That neat and trim pussy of yours is much too introverted. I say we let it bloom a little... maybe a lot. Let us encourage it to come out and play."
A small, "...no..." Tensing. Straining against the inevitable.
"I'm going to whip you until you beg to confess. I'm going to whip your sweet pussy until you scream. I'm going to whip you until you rise to meet the pain." And without ceremony, he brings the great thongs down high from over head, a sweeping path of audible wind sheer that ends with a great slap. Becky, more shocked than pained, yelps. Before she can digest the sensation the whip finds purse again. She cries out this time. Again. Her deft outer lips pink up. She feels the sting and the pressure. Again and again, a methodical metronome of torment. The dread of the wait between strokes rivals the contact. There is no where to squirm.
And then she shames herself, as her lips redden and blossom. The pain stings but the pressure seduces. The rhythmic flow or torment plays behind her tightly shut eyes, and her mind caresses and flirts with the very counter-nature of submission. The entanglement of the preservation of self and the unrelenting agony of physical and sexual abandonment. The strikes become more seductive, and Becky fears she feels an ache inside... deep. A need growing without her consent. The rape of fortitude.
Another well placed stroke and her maidenhead is engorged and evident.
The need is growing on its own.
Prophetically, she unconsciously bucks her hips to meet the timed strikes. But it suddenly ends.
"You little fucking *****," He chuckles, "You cheap fucking ****. you're loving it, aren't you?"
"Shut up! SHUT UP!" Becky protests new tears and turns her head away as best she's able.
"Fine then." He stretches high and the arc of pain rains down faster, the tips targeting her engorgement. Becky screams in anguish and cries out. Over and over, the rhythm pushing her to a perversion her self-esteem dare not confront. But the ache begins inside once more and body holds sway over id. Her clitoris, suffering in sweet agony, pulls hard on her need to release with every pulse of the beating, until at long last, Becky bears down on the last few strokes and moils in an unholy orgasm that strains rope and leather alike. She scrapes for breath and releases a torrent of evidence that her provocateur was victorious. The wood of the table groans under her convulsive push. And she withers.
He stands above her to gloat and stare. A voyeur to her succulent shame.
"Wait," he moves to the bag on the bed, "I need a shot of this. Tsk. Tsk What a mess."
As the camera flashes, Becky dies a little of disgrace.
"Lets move on. shall we? A little cheering up then?" He moves to her side and wipes the black streaks from her eyes, "Let's have you smile some more. Learn to laugh a little."
"no... NO! Don't! Don't tickle me! Not anymore! Please! Don't... Ah ha ha ha ha!" Becky bucks hard then melts with laughter as he plucks and pinches and pokes her belly and breasts. His fingers search mercilessly for productive targets as her stomach hardens and softens with each hitching breath. Her tits wriggle from laughter but have no where to escape his probing digits. Nipples stand erect and defiant but only encourage more attack. Post-orgasmic, Becky's sensitivity is off the scale. His rough hands dance and explore her pubic area and the rise of soft belly flesh above, pushing her to deafening heights of forced laughter. He mocks her.
"You want me to stop? Is it too much? Will you talk now, or do I have to tickle you until Monday?" he is relentless, and turns up the amperage of his enthusiasm, "Ticklish here? How about here? Just say so, and I'll stop. What? I can't hear you?"
Becky, sealed to the apparatus with fresh sweat, heavy straps, and rope, can not move an inch to prevent the assailment, "p-Pleease! Oh God, please! Stop! STOP! I can't take this any..." And she buckles into a fresh gale of crying laughter as he exploits the tender flesh of her underarms, her position making them inviting nests for spidery fingers. She screams, "YOU SAID YOU'D STOP!"
"Yes I did. But... it's not my fault that your body is so ticklish. Why don't you stop laughing? You can't, and I know that. It's candy for me to watch you endure it. Tickle tickle tickle!" Her suffering is prolonged far past his admittance that he lied.
At long last, choking and rasping, Becky gets a reprieve to contemplate the agony to be served next. He is diligent and takes no break for himself, the pause is merely a byproduct of his need to employ new tactics. When she next opens her eyes he is standing between her again. Without much care, he is squeezing clear lubricant haphazardly onto a wired plastic egg.
"Unless you are a puritan, and we know you are not," he glances at her puffy, glistening lips,"You know exactly what this is," he suddenly pauses, "Oh, my... 'eggs-actly'... I should be shot for that one, eh?"
Becky stares in distress, the humor is irrelevant. There is only the fear or what's next.
"We're going to play a little game now, kiddo. I'm going to push this remote vibe into your little puckered hole. And believe me, you're going to want to feel like pushing it back out. Herein lies the game... if you push it out again I'm going to tickle torture you far longer than I just did. And we both know how unbearable that is, don't we?"
Becky comes alive with pleads, "No! NO! Don't tickle me anymore! It's TORTURE!"
"Yes it is. So keep this devilish thing in your ass and you're fine... but here's the rub, if you also cum while it's in, you loose again, and you're toast. More tickle torture." he grins, "So your probably wondering why I don't demand you talk? Frankly right now, I'm having too much fun. Besides. Whatever happens, I know you'll talk. You are too prone to torture. Too ticklish for your own good."
He holds the device up like a prize, "Ready?"
* * *
"Don't clench. It's going in and you can't stop it."
He kneels to better enjoy Becky's humiliation, eyes on both her face and the slow, penetration of the vibrator egg. She groans and whimpers as she is reluctantly widened to accept the foreign thing; feverish perspiration dots her head during her violation.
"Oh my god! OH MY GOD! Stop! STOP!" she cries and feels the fullness. The need to expel it is overwhelming but she fears more torture if she does. He grins, eyeballing her for a weakness, but Becky strains to hold it in, battling her own reflexive muscles.
He tucks the controller against her thigh and turns the knob. Becky lets go a surprised and anguished look as the egg pulses and vibrates inside her, the waves traveling through the common wall to her vagina. She squirms and pants stuttered breaths to keep up.
"Remember... if you pop it out or cum, it's more slow tickle torture. And I have until Monday to play with you." the man says, striding over to the bed. He comes back with a plastic bag, inside are white clothes pins, "Now, I don't really think you can overcome this little task, and to tell you the truth, I have been saving your feet for last. They're so pretty."
"No! NOOOO!" Becky pleads.
"Don't worry. I'll be fair. You haven't fucked up yet. But..." he begins to pick the clothes pins out of the bag and lay them, one by one, on her belly, "But, I am going to hedge my bet. I am going to pin your pussy lips back and out of the way. I want your little sore clit unobstructed because I'm going to torture it," he says, a little amused, and a little distracted by one broken pin, "Slow."
Becky moans with anal angst and grits her teeth. He licks a finger and tugs and pinches her nipples in turn, adding one, then two then three clothes pins deftly; relishing her torment. She grunts and yowls, trying so hard to deal with the multiple stimuli. Then, with the same deliberate attention, begins to pin her labia back with rows of clothes pins, her pink, most intimate flesh exposed and glistening. The excitement is not lost on her inner reflexes and she begins to exude her own creamy lubricant.
"You are one horny bitch," he notes, "Let's try a nice stiff feather on that little clit; see how long you can keep from coming like a two-dollar *****. Not long I'm betting. And when you do, you know what your punishment will be."
Becky tries to be silent, bearing down to keep the egg in her asshole is all she can muster. But now she feels the maddening dance of the tip of the feather, stiff but wet from her own sexual betrayal. It glides and teases all up and down her inner sex. At first it seems bearable, nary an annoyance, but minutes in, the throb in her clit is undeniable; it needs touched. Shortly after it aches for touch. Friction. Anything but the cruel slide of the feather tip, moving slowly about like a sadistic creature circling prey.
Then, without warning, the feather tip pounces directly on her most sensitive pulsing tissue. Becky cries out and begins to gnash her teeth at the tactile onslaught. Her clitoris, raw and brooding from the whip, aches but is unable to escape. Conversely, it rises and bulges with her hot blood, greedily yearning for more friction. But the feather is light, teasing, and her torture mounts. Becky moans and bewails her frustration. Inside she feels the climax building, ratcheting, and she makes great leaps towards her dangerous end when she mistakenly dwells on how 'relentless' her torture is. She cannot help but find the thought of her own desperation sexually intoxicating and it jerks her forward, closer to orgasm; she can't keep the thoughts and sensations out of her mind.
The egg thrums through her pelvis. Her tormentor deftly fields his hellish quill. Relentless. Relentless. Relentless. Rebbecca tenses hard. He feels it. Involuntary muscle contractions. Spittle flies from between her clenched teeth as she resists but is overwhelmed by the roaring train of release. With a low cry of sexual agony and bliss, her bonds once again groan and strain. Her vagina, exposed and freely open, expels her pent up fluid in forceful ecstasy. She rolls and convulses for several minutes.
The egg emerges with her third wave.
Becky lie there, shaking, weeping. Exhausted.
She knows he is pleased and will torture her more. She almost resigns to die.
Catching her breath, tear swollen eyes make a last attempt to find his, to beg his very soul for mercy. She babbles and implores... but he will have none of it.
"No. A deal is a deal." he says flatly and begins to walk his fingers down her entrapped leg.
"Oh god no! Please don't do this. Not my feet, I'll die! You don't have to do this!" Becky clamors, her body weakened, tries a vane attempt to pull away.
He pauses at her ankle, "The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
Becky falls silent, momentarily, then erupts in a sorrowful shrill, "I DON'T FUCKING KNOW WHAT YOUR FUCKING TALKING ABOUT! FUCK! LET ME GO! LET ME FUCKING GO! YOU HAVE THE WRONG PERSON! I'M JUST..." she wails, "I'M NOBODY! NOBODY!"
He stares. Possibly bewildered by her display. Then he simply shrugs and begins to tickle her tied foot with purposeful fingers.
Rebbecca explodes into helpless laughter and cries of agony. His nails are blunt but long enough to scratch. Her arches are silky and moist with a fresh, heady sudor. There is no pulling away and his hands are free to explore her soft sensitivities. She begs and jerks, as his attention rounds her delicate arch and tickles the tops; her toes spreading and flexing in spasms, desperate to flee. He exploits the tender flesh between each painted toe, wrenching new peals of laughing agony form her bellowing lungs. He torments her as he goes, "Tickle tickle tickle. Little spy, I'm talking to you.... can you stop laughing? No? You have no control. No escape. I'm just going to tickle your helpless little feet for hours. Laugh if you like that idea. OH! You do! Tickle tickle tickle!"
Becky lie there like a paralyzed marionette. Forced to laugh against her will, and seeping again with false sexual backlash. The agony is a thousand fold being unable to move. Her feet become more sensitive it seems the longer she is tortured. He bides his time and is methodical, never giving a chance for reprieve. The soles of her feet pink-up with the irritation, yet, must suffer under the relentless accosting.
He drinks in her desperation and suffering like a parched desert dweller. Her anguish is the music he bows from her delicate extremities. He muses how fast the electricity of touch must travel; past toes and arch and tender heel, past ankle knee and thigh, past clitoris belly and breasts, onward to discharge and detonate in the brain. A brain aware of its own helplessness; yet fights onward to resist, but ultimately cannot. Reflexive laughter. False joy. Sweet, unrelenting torture. The man's cock snakes his leg with filling arousal.
"Are you gong to talk? Are you going to fucking talk now? It looks like you are helplessly ticklish and that really does mean I can do this all night and you won't be able to turn it off. Talk you stupid bitch! FUCKING TALK!" he demands, loosing his composure a notch. Becky cannot answer, she is lost in the whirling torment of a thousand nerve endings panicked. Her feet have long since given up struggle and hang limp as he tickle tortures her for submission.
To his right a red flash on the wall, followed by blue. He stops. Freezes. Then to the window.
"...fuck," he squints, "FUCK."
A police car. Its brash lights silently invading the dead serenity of the motel parking lot, pulls up to the far end of the building. The office. The night manager.
Becky, barely able to comprehend, watches, breathing hard as the man abandons her and his possessions, snatching only his pistol and his coat over it as he briskly exits the room. Not long after, she hears the crushing gravel under tire as he drives away. Rebbecca does not remember passing out.
* * * *
Rebbecca wakes to a loud cry. Spanish. Daylight is pouring through the open motel room door and a squat woman is in silhouette, crossing herself over and over again. She bolts from the doorway, run waddling, "Madre de Dios. Oh mi dulce Dios. Una ni–a, una ni–a! Ven pronto, ella es crucificado!"
Becky begins to shout as best she can for help, but resigns. Hoarse.
Later, enshrouded by a shock blanket, Becky finishes her statement to an encirclement of sour faced police officers. A plain-clothes detective offers her coffee and she refuses it, asking for some bottled water instead. "He wouldn't stop... not until the cops came last night. He didn't know they weren't here for me. I guess it was just dumb luck."
"Not dumb, Miss. Very fortunate. The night manager got drunk on beer and he dialed 911 by accident, when he didn't answer the operator, a squad car was sent out. You are one very lucky young lady. But its over now. We need to take you to the hospital; rape protocol. Its procedure," the detective says.
"Yes, I understand... but I want to go home," tears well up again, "Can I call my Mom, please? Can I just call her on my cell? I want my mom."
"Yes. Of course. Take as much time as you need."
Becky stands and huddles her blanket close, then meanders into the open parking lot for privacy. The phone dials and she hears the familiar ring. After the fourth, the receiver picks up.
"Monahan." Flatly.
"It's Rebbecca. I was abducted and tortured last night. But I lucked out and told him nothing. The cops came. I'm fine, but I want a fucking relocation. The Grays Document is intact and the actionables are still safe. All three of them. I want a goddamn new assignment... Do it."
End.
