Chapter 2

The steady drone of the highway traffic was the only comforting constant in Peter's life at the moment. Being bound and hooded as he was, he could only guess at the destination of the Bentley and the strange crew and cargo that it carried.

Over a half hour had gone by, in his estimation, since he'd been kicked into silence by the pointed toe of the woman, and he'd just about decided that this wasn't by any means a practical joke. He was sure that these women meant it. He was being kidnapped.

Once his mind had adjusted to this probability, he began to go into emergency gear, formulating a possible escape. He couldn't very well make a dash for it when the car stopped, his arms bound behind his back and his sight cut off by the hood. The car windows were rolled up tightly, and he cursed the fact that they had a European model which, unlike the Detroit-produced cars, sealed as tight as a vacuum. Nevertheless, he resolved that he'd wait for a moment when he heard a car next to them, perhaps at an intersection. Then, he decided, he would scream as loudly as he could for help.

It seemed to him that they were going in a northerly direction, judging from the way the traf-fic had thinned so rapidly, but he couldn't really be sure. In his mind, he went over what routes that he knew, and he silently cursed himself for not paying more attention to various ways out of the city whenever he'd been going off on a weekend with one of his friends. Not having a car himself, and having spent relatively little time in New York, he was at a loss.

One thing he did remember that heartened him was the fact that there were may toll roads, bridges and tunnels leading out of the city. It seemed you couldn't get off Manhattan without paying a fee, and he hoped that this would be the case now. But the car didn't seem to come to any such toll road, and he began to resign himself to the fact that if they were going away from the city, and judging from the length of time they'd been traveling they were doing just that, the driver had plotted their course so as to hit the minimum traffic and to avoid tolls.

After what seemed like another half hour or so, the car seemed to be slowing down, as if they'd entered the outskirts of a town. Steeling his nerves, Peter listened intently, keying himself for any opportunity that might be at hand to yell for help. But just as the car rolled to a stop for a light, one of the women threatened: "One attempt at yelling, and you're dead."

It was as if she'd been reading his mind. Realizing that his captors meant business, Peter swallowed any impulses to cry out.

The car rolled on, picking up momentum, and Peter guessed correctly that they had passed through a small town. During the next hour, the car went through several similar reductions and resumptions of speed, but it seemed that there were no opportunities to yell for help even if he'd dare to challenge the tormentors.

With every mile, Peter felt hope slipping away. Finally, after a length of time that seemed longer than any he'd ever experienced, the car began making a series of turns on what seemed to be a quiet country road. After several minutes of driving, the Bentley turned off onto what sounded like a dirt road, and after a couple of minutes of bumping up this road it pulled to a stop.

"All right, Kid," he heard one of the women say, "this will be your new home for awhile. You might as well enjoy it, it may be the last home you'll ever have!"

With that, the women broke out in laughter, but it only sent a sharp chill up his spine. The door was opened, and he was hauled out roughly, his mask still in place. He felt very hesitant about walking in his blinded condition, so the women dragged him along as if he were a mere toy.

He felt the warmth of a room rushing to meet him, and then he fell clumsily to the floor, having been shoved inside by the strong women. He bumped his head sharply on the floor, and his mind reeled for a second as the strong arms pulled him up and dragged him farther inside. He felt completely helpless with his arms bound and his sight blotted out, the bonds beginning to cut at his hands, his head pulsating in pain from the blow.

"How'd it go?" he heard a new voice ask.

It was a deep voice, that of a female who was older than the others. He felt a disconcerting flash of deja vu when he heard the voice... as if he'd heard it somewhere before. Still it was not a voice that he'd heard often, he might be mistaken. And yet...

"Without a hitch." was the answer.

He heard the sounds of the door being shut and locked, of high heels moving across the carpet.

"Well," the new voice went on, "let's take off the hood and see how the International hippy is holding up."

He felt a twinge of pain hearing himself referred to in such a sarcastic manner, but before he could reflect on it for any length of time, he felt rough hands tugging at the hood, and then there was blinding light.

He blinked his eyes defensively at the sudden intrusion of light, and gradually made out his surroundings. He was in a very large house, an older one that had been kept up. From the style of the architecture, he knew it was an old estate that had been kept up well, judging from the furnishings. The furniture was a bit modern for the style of the house, but expensive. It wasn't the furnishings that gathered in the bulk of Peter's attention however-no, it was the woman who belonged to the new voice. He again felt a pang of near-recognition sweep over him, though if he ever had seen the woman before, he couldn't really place it, nor match it up with the voice. Yet it seemed that he'd seen the woman somewhere before, although it might have been just a face-in-the-crowd situation. It bothered him that he found her familiar, though not familiar enough to place. Had the woman been staking him out? The paranoia of such a possibility was running rampant through his strained nerves.

But the possibility of having seen this woman before wasn't the only thing that threw him off balance. For the outfit she wore, that black leather madness that made her so imposing, seemed very surreal, like something out of a bizarre comic book. The woman was tall, at least as tall as him, and this was accented by the fact that she wore severe high-heeled black leather pumps with heels at least four inches high. She wore no blouse, but had on a black leather bra that was cut away at the cups so that it encased her large, firm breasts, the nipples bare to his view.

To add to the unusual costume, she wore a black leather miniskirt that was shiny and menacing, barely covering her shapely hips. If that weren't enough to set his heart into near tachycardia, she wore long black lether gloves that went up past her elbows, accenting her white skin. Her black hose were covered with fine floral patterns, attached to a garterbelt, the tabs that jutted out from beneath her skirt were also of black leather- The woman had a severe look about her that went with her unusual costume. She appeared to be around forty, but was very well preserved and buxom. Her hair was tinted silver, contrasting with the heavy black pencil on her severely-arched eyebrows. Her lips were painted a deep red, reminding Peter of Dietrich, and etched in a cruel, but bemused, sneer.

What did they want... his money, or something more sinister? When he looked around at the costumes that the other girls wore, he realized that they too were dressed bizarrely, although modified for the street. The tall blonde, who wore her flaxen locks in a modified pageboy, was dressed in a dark, patterned miniskirt. She wore dark net hose that disappeared into knee-length black boots that had sharp stiletto heels. The other girl, a redhead, was just as tall, but wore a yellow miniskirt. Her boots were of the same kind as the blonde's, with the pointed toes that had kicked him so painfully inside the car.

Both girls were well endowed, with big boobs that strained the manufacture of the material. Just then he noticed the driver of the car, a black girl with coffee-colored skin. He had to look twice to make sure she was a girl as she was wearing a grey chauffer's uniform complete with a grey cap which sat atop a modified Afro. But the swells underneath the uniform left little doubt as to her gender.

Despite the humiliation of being captured by women, Peter felt great apprehension about his near future as he took them all in. The overall impression upon viewing their costumes, especially that of the older woman who was obviously in charge, struck him as something out of a James Bond movie... no Warhol. It wasn't to be believed! Money had to have something to do with it, he realized, otherwise they wouldn't have picked out such a wealthy target. But something told him that there was more involved than simple currency. Had he been captured by a bunch of perverts?

"We might as well tell you right off that you've been kidnapped, young man," the woman cut into his thoughts, "if you haven't been able to figure that out yourself. It would be wise for you to use some tact and not try to resist us, for I assure you, escape is impossible. The nearest house to us is nearly a mile off, so you're really out in the woods. The shutters are barred, so you might save yourself the trouble of attempting that."

"This is bullshit," he found himself screaming out, giving some vent to his frustration. "You'll never get away with this in a million years. Release me at once!"

The woman stepped forward and with her gloved hand slapped him hard across his cheek, sending him off balance. His hands were still tied, and the sudden sting, which left smarting welts across his face, reminded him that this was no time for arrogance.

"I told you," she said, clenching her teeth for emphasis, "not to try and resist. That rich boy shit doesn't go here. I'm in charge of this operation, and if you give me any more lip, you'll pay the price."

Peter, his face smarting, gulped at the towering woman, unaccustomed to being in this position of weakness. He shuddered to think of what 'the price' might be.

"I have typed up this note," the woman went on, going over to pick a note off an end table, "and all it needs is a short statement from you in your own writing. And don't get any ideas you nflght have picked up from the movies-the typewriter no longer exists, so it can't be traced. As it was stolen property in the first place, they can't pin that one to me. We've already assembled several notes. Hopefully, we won't need anything more than this first one, for the penalty you pay in the next one is dear indeed I assure you. As you can see, everything has been thought of in advance. This is one case where crime will win out."

As she brought the note over towards him, Peter sank into the lowest despair he had yet ex-perienced. He had no reason to doubt that this woman was capable of carrying out such a crime successfully. He wondered just how dear the penalty would be if his family didn't meet the demands. Would he even get out alive?

The redhead, following the instructions of the older woman, untied his wrists, but even with this freedom, Peter realized it would be foolish to try and make a move at this moment. The woman walked over to a table and had him sign the document. He glanced over the contents of the note, addressed to his grandfather as the old man controlled the money. Besides, his mother would never be able to afford the million dollars, in small American bills, they demanded. His being worth a cool million was small consolation to the trembling boy, however, as he took pen in hand and wrote per the woman's instructions: Please do not attempt to put this matter into the hands of the police, F.B.I, or any such agency. This is for real, and if you hope to see me again alive, you will do as you are in-structed. I am fine for the time being.

Peter The rest of the typed message told him that he would be watched by an insider, a thing that was sure to make the old geezer uncomfortable, whether is was true or not. But the whole thing seemed to Peter to have been very planned, as such a caper, that was sure to draw worldwide publicity, must be, the letter being addressed to his grandfather's private address, unknown to most people. There were further warnings to comply with forthcoming instructions, warning the billionaire not to attempt to keep a record of the money's serial numbers and the like. It all seemed so much like a fiction to Peter, but the sad truth was its reality.

"Anita," the woman told the black girl, handing her the note which had been sealed into an envelope. "You know what to do."

"Yes mam," the girl said, then went upstairs to change into a more suitable costume for flying. For the kidnappers were taking no chances-Anita would be taking the plane to Chicago where she would mail the letter containing Peter's library card for further authenticity.

This was the first time he'd heard anyone of the group addressed by name, but his interest in it caught the attention of the older woman.

"We all have adopted different names for this venture," she told him with a cruel smile, having read his mind. "My name is Julia, but you are to address me as Mistress if you don't want any trouble."

"Whatever you say," Peter replied with a shrug, and was rewarded with another sharp smack to his cheek.

"Don't be insolent with me, young man!" she snapped, her cheeks flooding red with anger. "I told you to address me as Mistress."

"Yes... m-m-mistress," he mumbled apologetically, feeling ashamed of his circumstance. Just wait until this was over, he vowed. Will I get even.

"Just to take some of that snot-nosed attitude away from you, I think you can learn a little lesson in discipline,". Julia announced. "Just as a sample so that you'll know what's in store for you if you fuck up again, scumbag."

He'd never been addressed so contemptuously in his entire life. And there was something about the way she said 'fuck' that gave it a more potent ring that when his liberated girlfriends mouthed the word. But the word that bothered him the most was 'discipline'. She'd pronounced the word with real relish, as if she'd get immense pleasure out of performing the task.

The two young women grabbed him by his arms and walked him over to a long couch, where Julia had seated herself. He winced at the strength of the girls' grip, sensing that it would be hard to struggle with them. The woman in charge left little doubt to that.

"This is Laura," she said, gesturing to the blonde who held his left arm, "and Yolanda," to the redhead. "They are both experts at karate, so if you're smart, you'll address Miss Laura, and Miss Yolanda. Now then, I'll bet you're so spoiled you never had a spanking."

Peter gulped, surprising himself at his reaction to the mention of such a juvenile punishment. It flashed through his mind that Julia must be a sadist, people he'd heard about, but never encountered. It was true-Julia planned to get more from this caper than just money.

"Ah . no, can't say that I have... " he responded, then yelped with pain as Laura jerked his arm suddenly, forcing it halfway up his back.

"No, mistress," she reminded him.

"N-n-no, m-m-misstress," he corrected himself.

The woman produced a wooden paddle from beneath the couch, and waved it in front of her as she spoke.

"Then it's about time you found out what it feels like, you insolent pup!"

Before he could put up a real protest, he found himself being thrown down across the woman's expansive lap. In short order, one of the girls had unbuttoned his slacks and yanked them to his knees, followed in short order by his undershorts. He tried to struggle briefly, but Yolanda, standing at the end of the couch, reached out and grabbed his wrists, stretching them out towards her in a viselike grip.

"Don't try to struggle you piece of shit," the woman warned him. "It'll only go all the harder on you. Besides, this is only a simple spanking. If you give me any more lip, you'll taste the whip."

Peter lay as passively as possible, his buttocks clenching and unclenching involuntarily in anticipation of the spanking. Goose bumps broke out as the cool air kissed the nether globes of his hairless ass, but he sensed they wouldn't be cold for long. He found this form of treatment humiliating, and couldn't believe what was happening to him. Still, he vowed to brave his first spanking ever-it couldn't be all that bad.

He lasted one swat. He jumped in pain when the paddle bounced off his right cheek, making the bubble of flesh jiggle and color. The sorority-type paddle was about twelve inches long with a grip for Julia, and maybe three inches wide and a quarter inch thick. To add to the stinging power of this formidable weapon, three holes had been drilled in the business end, sucking a bit of flesh up into them on impact. The result left little white blisters that stung like the devil.

"Ahhhhh!" he exclaimed as the second spank landed. This was no little kid spanking. He abandoned all attempts at Stoicism at this moment and began to yelp with every smack of the thick paddle.

"You don't think you're such a big sophisticate now, do you?" Julia smiled as she rained blows upon his crimsoning buttocks. "I just wish all your hippy pals could see you now, smartass."

The thought made Peter blush nearly as red as his bounding buttocks. Julia made further comments as she punctuated her remarks with the paddle, telling him that he was just a big spoiled baby who needed this all along; that his bottom was more like a girl's than a boy's; that this was just a sample of what he'd get in the future.

Peter tried to escape from the flailing wood, but he was held firmly by Julia, whose left hand was bearing down on the small of his back, and Yolanda who held his arms. With his p&nts bunched about his knees, he was unable to kick, so all he could do was squirm around helplessly, his crotch rubbing against the leather skirt.

Just as the pain seemed intolerable, Peter blubbering like an infant, his buttocks searing with throbbing pain, the strangest sensation in his life overcame him. Despite whatever his mind rebelled against this horrible humiliation, his very life ultimately on the line, he got an erection!

As he felt the pain blending with the warmth of his arousal, Peter felt as never before. This was more exciting than any feeling he'd ever experienced, ironic as it might be. But he didn't have time to analyze the situation to check out all the psychological angles.

His buttocks began to work in a fucking motion, keeping time with the rise and fall of the wicked paddle, his swollen prick rubbing against the leather of Julia's skirt.

Seeing the remarkable change in her victim's attitude, Julia halted her next swat in midswing. She smiled widely as the young man, his red and blistered ass jiggling, continued to move his hips, little sighs and hissing noises escaping from his lips.

"This is remarkable," she winked at the girls. "It seems that we have a masochist on our hands. It only took this meeting up with us to bring it out."

Peter was just as astounded as they were, as the heat from his battered buttocks combined with his sexual arousal, sweeping him to a level of excitation he'd never known. His nuts felt hot and bursting as he rubbed himself off, and he knew he wouldn't be able to hold on for long.

And then he came, his snotlike white jizz shooting out against the lap of the woman, sticking to her leather skirt. He pumped a couple of times and his body shuddered, then relaxed with a soulful moan.

"What's this?" cried the angry woman, her momentary discovery shattered by Peter's untimely come.

She stood up, dumping Peter to the floor with a thud.

"You stupid fucking idiot! You little worm. You don't get to come unless I tell you to, is that understood?" With that she kicked Peter sharply in the ribs, the pain, coupled with the fact that he was coming, only added to his pleasure. Only a few moments before, taken out of this context, the pain would have been terrible. But he had learned a lot of new things this evening.

After the last drip of goo dripped out of his prickhole, he groveled in front of the woman, caught up as he had suddenly become in the unleashing of this unknown facet of his personality. He apologized to Julia, wanting only her approval, whereas moments ago he would have liked to see her hanged.

"Clean it up, slave," the woman commanded him as she sat back down and pointed to the mess of sticky glue on her skirt. "I'm glad to see that you've come around so quickly in this stage of your training, but it's time to get onto the next phase."

Peter was confused as to just what she meant as he crawled up to her, his spent penis deflating. Could it be that this woman, this woman that he knew from somewhere, had,the power to reach deep into his psyche and pull out answers that even he didn't know? He'd never even fantasized over being dominated, but now that he'd experienced it, he doubted that he'd ever again turn from the path of slavery. But this was a high stakes game-the kidnapping was for real. What an odd situation the whole thing was. And what would the next step be?

He was about to find out.

"Lick it off, fuckhead," Julia commanded him, "and do a thorough job."

He found it strange to be licking his own come off the dress of the woman, but he knelt down and did it all the same, actually savoring the nutty taste of the gloppy fluid as his tongue picked it off the leather material and flipped it into his throat, swallowing it down in hungry gulps. Although his recent orgasm made it impossible for him to get a direct physical response from this new form of humiliation, his mind seemed to accept this fact eagerly. It was as if his brain were a computer, and someone had finally written a program for him. There was a strange comfort in having someone else make up your mind for you.

The smell and texture of the leather was pleasing to him, but the best small came from beneath the skirt. As he finished licking up the wads of come, he could smell the unmistakable odor of cunt escaping between Julia's firm thighs. The fishy goodness, smelling like a laundry by the ocean, caused his cock to swell anew.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" the woman demanded after he'd finished off her skirt. Raising the skirt to expose her fleshy cuntlips, she spread her legs out invitingly and commanded him to suck her out.

Peter's pecker throbbed between his legs as he moVed up to dive the muff. The fleecy brown hair indicated Julia's true colors, and he found himself salivating as he bent down to do this pleasant duty.

The fumes from the trench were overwhelming as he stuck a thumb and forefinger into the thicket so that he could slip his tongue down into the slime of the flesh. From the wetness there, he rightly figured that Julia became aroused by whipping boys, but he only paused briefly on this thought, then got down to the business of eating pussy.

He'd eaten a lot of pussy for his young years, but this was the fattest, juiciest cunt he'd ever laid a tongue to. But most of all, it was the fact that he'd gotten his first taste of domination that made this expedition all the more exciting. He longed to stick his entire head up the yawning cavity and suffocate, but as this wasn't possible, he worked his tongue in and out of the hot, moist cunt.

He swallowed in the lather that her cunt produced, wanting to drain her completely, as the two women stripped off their clothes behind him and began to eat each other out. But Peter was hardly aware of all this, other than the cries from the girls that reached his ears. He was too busy, lapping away at the pouch of Julia's.

"Eat, slave," Julia told him, raking his thin washboard sides with her long, painted fingernails.

He was amazed at the size of Julia's clitoris, bigger than any he'd ever seen. He nudged the bobbing finger of flesh with his nose, but continued to probe the hot walls of her pussy with his tongue. He reminded himself not to rub his engorged prick against anything, even though his pleasure was mounting. He didn't want to risk the wrath of this woman he would have gladly defied moments back. But there was a strange sensation in being denied his own pleasure, a compelling fascination in trying to give himself self-control in such a violent state of need, a sort of lingering animated suspension of his feelings.

A thick wad of vaginal spume went down his throat as his curled tongue flicked at the diseased walls of her pussy. The musky scent was overwhelming as it flooded his expanding nostrils, pushing him on enticingly.

His lips worked furtively as he lunched the fuming box of joy, his teeth munching at stray pussy hairs. Her pussy opened and closed spasmodically, hot rushes of air and spray rushing out in noisy sucking splendor.

He pulled back and moved his lips up to the pole of her clit that floated and undulated in a sea of fleshy pink fat. He pursed his lips tightly around it wormlike, and rolled the meat back and forth, biting at it lightly with his teeth, bobbing it with his tongue.

Julia lost herself in this dizzying attack and thumped her feet against his hips in a mad tattoo. Peter kept sucking away until the woman let out a long gasp, then sank her talons into his shoulder painfully, only causing him to become all the more elated, despite his precarious position, coming hard as Peter lapped away at her box.

Peter finally pulled his head away from the woman, imploring Julia with his eyes to be allowed to at least finish off his own lust by hand. But he woman chose to ignore his situation, watching the two girls minister to each other's lusts. As he looked down at the throbbing organ that he dare not touch, Peter wondered if he'd ever come again.