Starting to find a rhythm on this story finally! Enjoy.
Chapter 5
Deborah Collins sat on the cast-off blue and gray striped couch in the safe house on Chicago’s South Side, sipping her Zero Sugar Coke from a red and white striped plastic straw. She was giving Carter Lloyd a very exasperated sigh.
“Oh, come on, Agent Lloyd, not again! I’ve told this story a dozen times already to at least eight different police officers.”
“I’m aware of the duplication of effort, Ms. Collins, and I know how difficult it is to keep going over the same ground with so many different cops, but we all have our specialties and some of us may be able to pick out important information that can lead to the whereabouts of this island you were held.”
“How long are you going to hold me here? I have a life, you know! One I’d like to get back to. I’ve been away from it for almost a year now.” The pretty face morphed into that of a petulant child as the young woman loudly sucked on her straw, emptying the cup and churning out a noisy slurping sound that sounded suspiciously like a pointed rejection of the profiler’s patience.
“I realize this is an inconvenience,” Carter Lloyd presses on, ignoring the prolonged dry slurping sound that the grumpy beauty continued to produce from the empty cup, “but until we’re certain that these desperate men don’t want to recapture you, we feel it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one bored to tears day after day.”
“So, you say the temperature was moderate the entire time you were there? No hot spells or cold snaps?”
“Not that I recall,” Deborah answers bluntly.
“Uh huh. And what were you wearing most of the time, when you weren’t servicing the guests? Shorts? Skirts? Loungewear?”
“Why the fuck does that matter? You trying to picture me in flimsy lingerie, Carter? You here to get your jollies?”
“There are now about 20 women your age captured by sex traffickers and forced to perform every possible sort of perverted sex act imaginable, according to your own sworn statement. One might think you didn’t care about your lost sisters on that island. That can’t be, can it, Debbie?”
“I don’t like being called Debbie. I told you this.”
“I apologize. Again, however, the clothing helps narrow down the climate so we can zero in on likely latitudes and possibly the longitudes for this island.”
“I told you I was asleep the entire flight so I don’t know how long we were in the air. As I said, the day was too bright and sunny when they lifted off the lid of that transport crate. My eyes adjusted to the darkness. I was encased in foam for Christ sake! They had to slap me awake just to get me moving.”
“So, you were walked across the tarmac and into a building? All the girls or just you?”
“All four of us girls at the same time. We were lined up and chained together and then marched into some kind of really elegant but tiny terminal.”
“Let’s back up a bit. When they unpacked you, did you notice any writing or markings of any kind on the shipping container?”
“No, not really. Unless you think ‘This End Up” is important?”
“So, no destination indicated on the crates. Just those three words. In black, red, white? Were all the boxes the same?”
“Who knows? Who remembers? Can I have another can of this, Donny?” Deborah asks the long-haired, pretty Detective Vasco with a three-day stubble. She pointedly shakes the empty can at the officer.
Resigned to baby-sitting duty, Vasco rises off the dining room chair he’s been sitting on at a card table with a solitaire hand spread out on the pale, yellow tablecloth. He walks to the table-top mini-fridge and pulls out another can of Coke Zero, snaps open the pull tab, then walks the can over to Deborah, handing it to her with an exaggerated bow.
“Your refreshment, princess.”
“You’re a doll, Donny. Thanks!”
“Any sign or name of any kind on the terminal?”
“Nothing on the way in. We were all bundled into a van, seat belted in as well as chained at the waist with our wrists shackled. Dark privacy tinting on all the windows. I was nauseous and not top of my form. I remember that. Hell, I was trying my damndest not to puke.
“Fact is, the only sign I noticed was on the way out of the airport. There was a blue sign with white arrows going around in a circle. That’s the last thing I recall before I just fell asleep in the second row leaning against Jackie, I think it was?”
“Hmm. That’s interesting.”
“What is? The sign or that I fell asleep against Jackie?”
“Both actually. Thanks for your time, Deborah. I’ll be back in touch if I have more questions.’
“Yeah, sure thing, Agent Lloyd. Looking forward to that like root canal.”
“Me too,” answered the profiler. Over at the card table, there’s a noticeable snort from Detective Vasco who was busy putting a king into an open space on the table before him.
Back in the auditorium in the main lodge at Harmony Island, the world-renowned Maid of Steel lies sprawled out between Bruno Mathers’ legs on the stage in front of two rows of women she’s come there to rescue. She is breathing heavily, her body quivering every so half-minute or so as her body tries to calm itself after a very recognizable orgasm.
She’s having trouble regaining her composure with the outline of Bruno’s hand moving up and down inside her cum-drenched bright red panties, his huge thumb caressing her slit and occasionally brushing against her clit. The dildo which had been buried deeper into SG’s vag with all the rubbing and attention there doesn’t even show as a bump in her panties. But it’s size and kryptonite core create the weakness that devastates the young heroine. Add to that, the anal dildo with its own k-core poking against the panties from below, and the powerful champion has been reduced to a bewildered incompetent joke.
Her fluttering eyelids and slack-jawed expression registers as a familiar sight to the women looking at the stage in head-shaking understanding of the stunted mental capability of the softly-moaning heroine. They’d all been there before. Bruno’s training regimen was as formulaic as it was effective. Constant stimulation combined with highly-compromised brain function equaled hip-jerking spurts of cum in countless pairs of tightly clinging panties, followed by a drained acceptance of their fate.
To a woman, they all succumbed to Bruno. They’d all relented their will and now performed unspeakable sex acts with the resorts many prestigious clients without hesitation. Supergirl would do no less, clearly. The blonde on the stage was a pathetic drippy mess. It was a demoralizing revelation to every woman present. This savior was little more than a pathetic loser! Even Supergirl could be incapacitated, abused and forced to comply with the many noxious rules of life on this island.
That sad fact was driven home to the audience of woman when Bruno shoved the listless blonde off his legs in an ungainly roll away that left the famous heroine face down on the stage, moaning softly as her vagina drained out a thin, shimmering puddle of cum onto the stage through a gap between her panties and her right thigh.
When Bruno spoke, it was to call on Russ Hughes, the son of the island resort’s owner, to come out of the wings.
“Russ, I know you want a piece of this gorgeous tail. Come on out and tell us what’s next up for the mighty Maid of Steel lying here like some moldy sandwich tossed out of a car window on the side of a highway.”
Russ, like Bruno, was well known to all the women present. He was part of their training. Russ loved having his cock sucked by beautiful females. Almost any age would do for him, but here on the island that meant legal age meat. Who needed the legal hassle of underage girls? The sex trafficking violations were bad enough. No need to add to any possible prison time with some inexperienced talentless girl scouts when college girls were just fine with cock-gobbling when properly motivated.
And now they had the queen of all college-age coeds, Supergirl herself. Russ was already ‘board certified’ as he liked to describe his hard-ons just looking at the helpless beauty dripping cum before him. He knew how to motivate her and he had the means to do it.
“Greetings, Supergirl. I’m thrilled that you could join us here at Harmony Island’s Pleasure Palace. You’re our first actual superheroine, so that’s an honor for us and you, right?”
“…leh…me…go….”
“Comedy? Right off the bat. What a trouper, eh? Yeah, no, that’s not happening, bitch. But I’ll tell you what IS happening. You’re going to tell us where you’ve hidden the communicator you planned to use to contact the authorities once you rescued all these lovely ladies here.”
“…don’t…have…one…” murmurs the blonde, trying to raise herself up by her arms but collapsing down in a grunt of failure.
“More comedy. Look, my dad’s got contacts in Chicago. We’re all aware there’s a task force behind you, ready to swarm here on a moment’s notice. We’re smarter than you figured, champ. So, just tell us where that communicator is and we may go easy on you.”
“…no…device… plan was … load everyone onto a bus or truck or plane and fly them home myself….”
“Lying cunt! I don’t believe you. Where is the communicator? Is it in this oversized purse of yours?” Russ walks off into the left stage wing and returns with a brown sequined purse the size of a small beach bag. He drops the bag on the floor by Supergirl’s face. The loud smack jolts the teen but her body remains in place. Only her wrist flails impotently at the bag beside her head.
“…not in….there….doesn’t exist….” Murmurs Supergirl.
“I see. Doesn’t exist. Well, that’s unfortunate for you. I don’t cotton to lying cunts and I make them pay for their deceit. Big time!”
From the second row in the audience, a wan brunette with huge brown eyes, a close-cropped helmet of straight hair and an expression of pure fear yells out, “Tell him, Supergirl! Tell him what he wants to know. The pain, the degradation: it’s not worth it!!”
“Listen to Josette, blondie. She knows the score. She’s been here for four months. Tell me, where’s the communicator?”
“…isn’t one…” answers Supergirl faintly. Yet again she pushes off the floor with her elbows and now is able to stay there on her hands and knees, facing away from the audience and looking at Russ through the bedraggled bangs hanging over her eyes, fixes him with an angry stare. The kryptonite dildos in her panties have surged outward a bit with the heroine’s move to her hands and knees. The devastating tools catch the eyes of the audience. They know the devices buried in her body make it hopeless for this stupid girl. She actually thought she was smarter and better than her captives. Facts were proving otherwise. Other women from the audience begin to chant out in unison now.
“Tell him. Tell him. Tell him!!”
“Now, now, ladies. Calm yourselves. Clearly the Maid of Steel feels she has a point to make. Well, so do I. Let’s see who wins this debate, eh?”
Russ Hughes walks off stage but quickly returns with a very large black and gray glove in hand. It has black rounded knobs on every knuckle on every finger. Moreover, when Russ slides a switch on the wrist piece, the glove gives off a bluish glow. Sliding on the glove and then holding it up so the audience can see it, Russ then kneels down before the wavering beauty and waves the fisted glove before her eyes. He declares loudly, “This little fashion accessory of mine is called “The Convincer, blondie. It’s never failed to live up to its name. Shall we get started?”