A Night Like This [DeRe x LizH]

[DeRe]

Monte Carlo, Summer 2001

For a man like Anders Hansen, a problem only existed as long as you allowed it to. In his fifty-odd years on the planet the handsome Dutch fixer had become an expert at simple solutions which dispelled any dilemma. Consequently the successful smuggler and thief had amassed a personal fortune and now lived in a glorious semi-retirement in Monaco. He had taken over a huge Baroque villa nestled in the quieter corners of the wealth-soaked city. Although maintaining a discreet idleness, he still kept his skilled hands in the trade. It was this reluctance to completely leave his criminal connections that brought Hansen two complications into his otherwise serene solitude.

The first were the Harpies, the cabal of men who had been running the Principality for centuries. Nothing happened in Monte Carlo without their consent, and they maintained a fervent opposition to anything that threatened their rarefied world. Hansen was such a threat, and moreover one they feared and hated very sharply. His latest gambit would involve human trafficking right under the noses of Monaco’s observant authorities – something the old men considered far too risky. It was easier for them to harvest the Casino and the Corsicans, but Hansen saw a potential for mindboggling profit, enough even to humble these silk-clad walking corpses.

Their meeting had interrupted by the arrival of his second problem – his new mistress. She was twenty years his junior, a petite sexual athlete in her prime. He was indifferent to her past, although his spies had discovered virtually nothing of note anyway. They were both creatures who very much lived in the present, although she showed a recklessness that could raise even Hansen’s eyebrow on occasion.

She had been ‘yachting’ that summer – making her living as a rich man’s plaything among a literal sea of rich men’s playthings. There was a calculated precision with how she swiftly slept her way into the heart of Monte Carlo’s most important players. Moreover she’d done so with an energy and prowess that stunned even the most jaded rakes. Naturally as soon as Hansen had heard about this golden minx, he arranged a convenient coincidence that saw the two in sudden close proximity. It was the premiere of something or other at the festival; some dreary ordeal about Belgian miners or the like. They never made it into the cinema; she knew at once she’d found the endgame when it came to men in this town, and he claimed her ass in the gilded cinema bathroom.

Swiftly thereafter she was ensconced in his palatial eyrie hidden on the edge of the ancient city. Hansen discovered that in many ways his new mistress was like an idle cat – soft to the touch, desperate for pleasure, and easily bored. Thus began the litany of broken artwork, smashed windows, and provocative attention-seeking. A fondness for displaying herself topless before his flunkies and enemies raised eyebrows, even in a place where such habits were largely indulged.

Hansen discovered a method behind this minx’s madness, however. These small violations of his regulated world were designed to spur him to punish her – in the most creative ways he could imagine. The game delighted him and he was happy to indulge, although his banker had come to despair at the cost of it all.

The harried little gnome had in fact just called his employer, informing him in sobbing voice that madame had just lost a staggering sum on the Casino tables, enough to bankrupt an army of men like him. For Hansen, it elicited little more than a weary eyeroll. He savoured a rich brandy and studied the black velvet horizon, waiting for the smash of glass that would announce her return.

 

[LizH]

Charlene Mitchell had once been described by a Melbourne newspaper as a 'free spirit'. Of course, that was their code for 'spoilt trust fund brat with daddy issues'. She had grown up as the youngest daughter of an Australian mining magnate, who spent most of his time fretting over boreholes and the percentage ore grades of phosphate rock deposits, and she had learned early on that the only way to lift his contemplation from such tedium and pay her any attention whatsoever was to be naughty. Sexual maturity had added an entirely new dimension to that naughtiness, and by the time she was 18 she had been kicked out of three exclusive private schools, had a discreet abortion and pointedly refused to sit the entrance exams to ANU. For a couple of years after that she had been a full time party girl, the darling and saviour of provincial gossip columnists in Melbourne and Sydney who didn't have much else to write about, high on coke and champagne, forever falling out of low slung cars with photographers trying to get a shot up her micro-miniskirts - she obligingly didn't wear knickers just for the pictures she knew would grace the papers the next day - suitably and hypocritically blurred for reasons of taste and decorum of course.

A Stern Parental Talking To later and a threat to withdraw her access to credit had briefly almost straightened her out. She had moved to Los Angeles, changed her name to Selena Noir and for a while had made a passable living as a model and even occasionally a singer, with the usual vague dreams of Hollywood stardom at the back of it. However, she hadn't the self-discipline needed to succeed as either, and rapidly gained a reputation as a nightmare to work with - forever late and hung over, and making unreasonable demands of harrassed studio staff. Being a diva was accepted, even encouraged, once one was famous, but on the way up it merely meant she was branded 'difficult', and the agency calls soon dried up. Selena also found that Americans - even Californians - were far more prudish than they liked to let on, and by her mid-20s it had become clear that she had worn out her welcome in Tinseltown.

Europe, she found, suited her much better. It was far enough away from family (about as far as one could get) and there were plenty of discreet places in London and Paris where an attractive, well-groomed and well spoken young woman could make the right connections. From the nightclubs of Chelsea and the Place Vendome, the newly minted 'Charlie Mahone' had slowly inveigled her way into the fringes of upper crust society. She was the archetypal 'mystery blonde' seen on the arms of minor celebrities and soon to be divorced cabinet ministers at Ascot and movie premieres. But there was a slight edge to her partying these days; she was 29, with the big three-oh breathing down her neck, and a part of her was starting to wonder if there might not be something more than her whirl of non-stop hedonism. To wonder if, in short, she was... happy.

Of course, that hadn't stopped her joining the rest of Paris during the annual August emigration to the Riviera for Les Grandes Vacances. She had washed up in Monaco with her tiniest bikini and amused herself among the yachting set for a fortnight, ruining a couple of marriages in the process. But then she had met Anders. He was her usual type - older, suave, monied - a gentleman, on the surface, and pretty trim for his age. But it had been the hard, predatory look in his eyes that she had fallen for first. He was a man who knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was her. One heart-stopping fuck over a toilet bowl later, her ballgown around her waist, and she had let him draw her into his world.

Part of the attraction was the mystery. He was clearly pretty shady, and involved with some very sketchy people. But equally part was the continual look of amused tolerance with which he greeted her attention seeking, like all of the money and expensive things meant nothing to him. 'Charlie' had started to delight in tormenting him, seeing how far she could push him, even as she knew that she was playing a risky game, that one day he would snap. Skinny dipping in front of one of his business meetings on the patio had been a lot of fun, especially walking naked and dripping past the stuffed euro-shirts, letting their eyes trace every last curve of her tight little body, letting them all fantasise about fucking her senseless, and then realise that only one of them was going to get to do that. Anders. And afterwards... he would always come to her with those eyes, and his 'I'm not angry, just disappointed' look, and he'd punish her. Charlie lived for those moments, the torments that his dark mind would devise, and the passionate way he would make her 'apologise' to him afterwards. Surrendering to him was a pleasure.

Even so, she was worried that tonight she may have gone a little too far. He had kicked her out of the villa for another of his 'meetings' - this one clearly with someone he either didn't want her to see, or didn't want to see her. "Find something to amuse yourself," he had said. Feeling neglected and petulant, she had chosen the casino, of course - there wasn't much else in what was, at its heart, and in spite of the glamourous jet set trappings, a very bourgeois French resort town. She had been operating off Anders' line of credit, curious to see how far it stretched, how far she could go before an unobtrusive man in a bow tie would murmur in her ear: "je suis désolé madamoiselle, mais..." But no end had appeared, and she had simply kept going.

She had been drunk, of course, as well. A few of the sharks and lounge lizards had started gathering; chiseled, male model good looks and expensive suits - the flip side of herself, sniffing the money. A couple had started getting a bit handsy, stroking her pert bottom, and one had started pressing against her so that she could feel his erection through the thin lace of her dress. Subtle. She had led him on, of course, rubbing back against him, letting her eyes smoulder a little at his frank gaze, long fake lashes fluttering. One day she suspected she was going to fuck one of these men, if only to see what Anders' reaction would be. But tonight was not that night - letting him think she was hooked had just made throwing a drink in his face and storming out of the casino, heels clicking on the marble, all the more delicious. But in the taxi on the way back, the amount of her losses this evening had started to sink in.

He was waiting for her in the dark. Silent. Brooding. The theatricality of it made her want to top things off somehow. Very deliberately, she tipped a decorative glass bottle over to smash on the tiles. She'd never liked it anyway. Slowly, watching him, she advanced upon him, her breathing quickening. She knew she was in for it now, and she knew that the crotch of her tiny little knickers was already wet because of that. Had she pushed him beyond his limit? Would she be found tomorrow morning, strangled to death with one of her own stockings? And if it were not... quite... to death. Would that be sexy as hell?

 

[DeRe]

​

Hansen allowed himself a slight wince once he heard the sharp shatter. It wasn’t the destruction of the overpriced ornament that prompted the sting, but rather the inevitability of it. Yet another helpless thing was destroyed for the sake of her indulgence. He imagined a long glittering carpet of shards rolling out behind her, fractured crystal crunching under designer heels. There had been plenty of women who carved a trail of carnage across his path, but only this one made it a career.

He carefully replaced the brandy in the cabinet, listening to Charlie’s measured approach, savouring the moments before he turned around. They were in the main living room, a blue glass box perched above the harbour, illuminated almost solely by the bright blue glow of the pool outside. Hansen finally allowed himself to face her and felt a shiver of utter delight as she met her steady cobalt gaze. She had that look again; an artful balance of schoolgirl and succubus that Hansen had never seen before. A lesser man’s knees would collapse after just a few moments in that utterly seductive gaze. Hansen had the resolve of a bull, but even that felt like it could melt in the heat of her she-tiger intensity. There something in the arch of her eyebrow, or perhaps an almost imperceptible twist in those skilled crimson lips, that brought out the real Anders Hansen.

They met in the middle of the sumptuous room. She was wearing a sapphire Roland Mouret cocktail dress that was little more than a scarf, ending just as her delicious thighs began. A bright band of gold and diamonds was clasped around her neck – her slave collar. In the liquid light Hansen towered some two feet over Charlie, and she had something of a doll-like aspect in his eyes. Appropriately enough he had always gotten in trouble as a child for breaking his toys.

Resting his hands on her slim tanned shoulders he slowly turned her away from him, facing their reflections in the illuminated glass. Hansen undid the flimsy strap at the nape of her neck, letting the dress drop a little, before tearing it in half. Few things excited him more than the sight of a beautiful woman in nothing but jewels, panties and heels – a literal trophy for him to savour. Taking a strip of the shredded dress he wordlessly bound her girlish wrists, pulling it just tight enough to the point of discomfort. Then with a swift athletic throw he bent her roughly over the arm of a massive Italian couch. The bulk of the thing was enough to bend her petite body double – head down, ass up.

“Your little display in front of my visitors was amusing, but futile,” Hansen intoned casually. He took the slim strap of her barely-there panties and pulled then with off with single satisfying tug, the loud snap echoing in the hollow room. “The only time one of those gnomes gets a hard-on is when another zero is added to his account.” Seizing a fistful of her fragrant blond hair, Hansen jerked Charlie’s head back hard. As she gasped he stuffed her sex-scented panties into her small cool mouth, gagging her thoroughly with the black satin bundle.

“But your display at the casino can’t go unpunished,” Hansen continued, speaking as casually as if he was ordering dinner. “It’s not the money of course, those thousand-dollar panties would taste the same even if they were five dollars, wouldn’t they?” He seized one of her perfectly-formed asscheeks in a hard grip, and his tone chilled. “No, I object to you rubbing this on some greasy little banker’s crotch. This belongs to me, only I can decide what you do with it.” He quickly took off his belt, a slim but thick leather number he had custom made. “It seems I’ll have to put my signature on it for a bit, to remind you.” Wrapping the end of the belt around his fist, he drew the long strap out and slapped it over the arm of the couch next to Charlie with a loud crack. “Let’s say, one for every ten thousand or so you lost?” Then he brought it down firmly along the crest of her drum-tight ass.

 

[LizH]

Her heart skipped a beat as he carefully, deliberately put aside his brandy glass and stood up, and she circled around him, like a matador with an angry bull, gazing sideways at him from under her lashes, slipping just the tip of her thumb into her crimson lips; part provocative, part little girl. He moved for her determinedly, and as he approached Charlie as always became aware of Anders' sheer physical presence. Her four inch heels did little to make up the difference in stature between them. Standing just five feet high, the petite beauty loved to be around tall, powerful men, men who made her feel tiny, vulnerable, and the Dutch giant did that in spades.

He spun her away, to face the glass patio doors, the night beyond turning them almost into a black mirror, lit from beyond by the blue glow of the pool lights. Charlie never tired of her own image, and briefly enjoyed how the dress' scoop neck revealed and concealed at the same time, how the short hem seemed to lengthen her long tanned legs, before he tore it from her. The violence of the act drew a little gasp from her, and her breathing quickened, but she knew that half the reason Anders bought her these expensive dresses was to enjoy ripping them from her body. She almost suspected he got the designer to put in little hidden seams that would surrender pleasingly to his huge hands. As he tied her wrists behind her with its remains, no doubt the most expensive bonds she had ever worn, she looked back coquettishly over her shoulder. His face was stone, and her eyes closed and she sighed at the anticipation of what that look meant.

Her heels skittered across the tiles as he dumped her on the expensive leather of the couch, the smell filling her nostrils, and she knew what was coming next. She moaned at the physical expression of his control over her as he grasped the back of her Guia la Bruna panties, the satin digging briefly into her crotch, pleasurable as well as painful, until the material surrendered and was ripped from her. Now her naked bottom faced him invitingly, the blue lights picking up glittering highlights at the apex of her supple legs as her arousal oozed from her. She gasped again as he pulled her head back, but as the damp panties were thrust under her nose she simply opened her mouth obediently for him to feed them to her, moaning around them as she tasted her own excitement. A little string of material dangled provocatively from her lips as she looked back at him once more, pouting slightly as though aggrieved, but purely, they both knew, for show.

Her sapphire blue eyes widened slightly as he reminded her of her indiscretions at the Casino. So he had people watching her, reporting to him about her? She actually smiled back up at him at that, feline, her eyes glittering. It meant that he cared about her. That he could actually be made jealous. Oh Anders, you poor fool, she thought. She tried briefly to calculate how many times 10,000 euros she had lost tonight. 675,000 meant... sixty seven lashes of the belt? A long, low groan came from her as she made the calculation. That was going to sting. She half-dreaded it, imagining what her poor bottom was going to look like at the end of it, but fuck, she needed it too! When he cracked the leather next to her, instead of flinching she squirmed invitingly on the leather and moved her feet under her to push her taut, round ass up even higher, hungry for punishment, as if to say: 'do your worst.'

There were few things that Charlie liked more than being spanked, and she had become quite a conoisseur. The belt was harder than a hand, but covered less area, so oddly sometimes stung slightly less, but once it got going it could be murder, and so it was a slow build as the stripes began to mount. As hard as Anders' struck her - and he certainly didn't stint - she made no sound through the first ten strokes, though her nostrils flared and her breathing became noisier and faster as each stinging explosion of pain detonated on her smooth, pale, defenceless skin. The room echoed to the gunshots of leather landing on soft flesh. By the second ten she was grunting and starting to writhe, as welts began to cross each other and her previously pristine cheeks became first red, then in places slightly purple. By thirty she was letting out a pained "nnnh!" and Uhhhh!" at each blow, and her feet were starting to kick. The tears began, and little black streaks of mascara began to run down her cheeks. She was whimpering and writhing as he delivered the next ten, her face now red, a mask of pain until finally she broke and began openly sobbing, her body starting to heave as she wept into the leather cushions, now starting to slide and move to avoid the blows, forcing him to place a steadying hand on the small of her back. By the time he reached sixty her legs were thrashing and she was bawling, starting to beg through the panty gag for the torment to end. The last few were delivered to her as she was maddened, frantic, almost hysterical, fists clenched, almost screaming.

Finally it stopped, and Charlie sagged onto the leather, exhausted, her ass on fire, still sobbing quietly, but gradually the pain started to fade as no new blows landed, and she was able to settle into the wonderful, fiery, tingling aftermath of a really hard thrashing. Her bottom was a mottled red and purple from the small of her back to the top of her thighs. She groaned and shifted on the couch, looking back up at him again. This time there was no challenge in her eyes. This time it was pure sorrow, repentance, submission ... and need.

 

[DeRe]

A good lashing was all in the wrist, and as a practiced flogger Anders was thoroughly adept at this. A less talented man could easily do harm - or worse, prove embarrassingly ineffectual. But for him, running a belt across a woman's arse was much akin to a violinist tracing a bow over their instrument. It required just the right amount of effort to produce the right kind of noise, and he was really in it for that sweet music. As Charlie thrust her spectacular derriere tauntingly towards him, it wasn't unlike a conductor raising their baton to begin the symphony. All her little gasps and moans were the opening chords, and his authoritative control of her petite frame was tuning her to release the sounds he wanted to hear.

The first thirty-odd strokes fell easy enough, and would have been more than a less athletic woman could have handle. But the sweat-soaked minx wriggling before him was barely getting started. He lay the initial series across the meat of her buttocks, the quivering suppleness rippling beneath each blow. That would absorb the initial agonies, allowing him to administer the rest in increasingly less protected and more painful places. A keen sense of uneven timing heightened the anticipation and eased both of them firmly into the mood. Her provocative glances certainly produced the desired result, as the already-angered Anders was pushed in just the right place. Even when bound, gagged, and whipped, this woman could still control him in her own way - which in turn increased the severity of her punishment even more. He was aware of this, yet struggled to acknowledge it - if anything, the irony of this powerplay amused Anders far more than he would admit.

As the thirtieth blow fell he was beginning to get the desired result. Her cries of pain were sincere, and profoundly arousing. This was the point where the streaks of mascara would race across her pretty face as it winced and contorted. No more arrogant side-glances now; just her glittering eyelids shut tight as she focused on the lash. She began wriggling and writhing on the smooth leather, her dancer's body glowing with sparkling diamonds of sweat. Anders moved the belt lower now, tracing a few stinging welts across the top of her thighs. With only toned muscle to cushion the blows, the level of pain began to accelerate. The sharp edges of the strap were barely a few centimetres from her labia, close enough for the crack of air to fall sharply upon her stimulated sex. Just after forty the little whore finally broke, her pouty girlish stubbornness now lost to incoherent agony. He savoured the choked and muffled shrieks Charlie made into the rag that had been her designer panties. She began to buck like the frantic animal she had become, and Anders rested a controlling hand between the dimples of her lower back. His arm was on fire at the exertion, and it was with some relief that he landed the final blow schoolhouse style, across the middle of her strong thighs.

Discarding the strap Anders mopped his brow, grabbed a quick draught from his nearby glass, and gazed down at the semi-lucid Charlie gurgling on the couch. She had that look in her kinky eyes, blinking up between the dark blonde hair matted to her soaked and smeared face. This was the point when she expected something of an absolution; a merciless fucking that would affirm their relationship and reassert the balance. But Anders was beyond that tonight, and the ferocity of their encounter had spurred him all the more to make her suffer. There would be no satiation for Charlie at his hands on a night like this; that would be her real punishment. Instead, he took another shred of her dress and bound one of her ankles to a foot of the couch, tying her firmly in place. Then he produced a prodigious silver vibrator from his trouser pocket, and slowly inserted it into Charlie's saturated sex. "I'm going to attend to some business; when I can hear you screaming from the other side of the house, I might come and turn it off." He turned the electric sex toy on to its maximum, and strolled out of the room. "Please try to make your mess on the marble floor instead of the couch, darling," he intoned as he left.

 

[LizH]

Charlie looked up at Anders through mascara-streaked eyes, fogged with pain and endorphins, trying to process what was happening. Normally this was the moment that the peak of lust that his exercise of power over her lithe body had engendered would lead him to lose control and fall upon her, and they would have the most amazing make-up sex. This was the moment that she lived for. But this time he seemed to be trying to signal that she had overstepped a mark, and he was changing the rules. She shifted her weight, awkward with her hands still bound behind her back, and slithered around onto her back, sliding forward from the arm of the couch to land on its cushions with an agonised moan as her punished ass slapped onto the leather, leaving her legs dangling over the arm of the couch, looking up at him questioningly, her blue eyes confused and hurt. She spat the tiny, torn panties out of her mouth onto the floor next to the couch and looked for some kind of clue in his expression.

"Anders?" she said in a little girl voice as he grasped one of her ankles and tied it to the foot of the couch. In response she spread her legs to show her glistening lips, eyes begging. "Please, baby, I need you... I need you so badly... please fuck me, daddy..." she licked her lips, but there was an implacable look on his face this time as he took the big silver vibe and slowly pushed it into the gaping hole she was showing off for him. She let out a long "Ohhhhhh!" at the sensation, but as she felt the buzzing start within her, she could see he was going to leave her like this.

"I'm going to attend to some business; when I can hear you screaming from the other side of the house, I might come and turn it off. Please try to make your mess on the marble floor instead of the couch, darling."

Charlie's face screwed up briefly with frustration, and she let out a little whine to show her displeasure, but after a second or so of considering, she wondered if this might not be pretty hot after all - for him to tease her like she teased him, and her mouth very soon became a cheeky, sexy smile as he turned away. Oh you'll hear me, alright, she thought.

As she heard his footsteps slowly walk away across the marble floor, she flopped back onto the couch and sighed, moving her legs together and surrendering to the sensations of the vibrator. Her bottom still tingled with fire, but the insistent buzzing of the sex toy sent little waves of sensation through her overheated cunt and she began to writhe on the couch, her breathing picking up again. She had no intention of sparing his precious couch, of course - that kind of talk was simply a red rag to a bull and he must know it by now. It amused her - and presumably no doubt him - to think of him letting his business guests sit on his girlfriend's cum stains - why have a white couch otherwise?

He wanted a performance - he was probably watching her on a hidden CCTV camera somewhere - so she gave him one. She bit her lip and started to move her head from side to side, blonde curls flying. The sheen of perspiration she had developed when being thrashed returned, and Charlie started to moan, giving voice to the pleasure that was rising witihn her. She overdid it a bit, of course, making sure that her moans carried at least a couple of rooms, but after a while the moans became ones of genuine frustration. The angle and the depth of the toy were only enough to stimulate, but not to drive her to orgasm. She had to change position.

Fighting against the sensations, feeling dazed, ridiculously horny, pleasure oozing from her, she managed to use her arms behind her to push back against the cushions and help her sit up, grimacing at the pain as her bruised ass took her weight. If she could just... get back onto the arm of the couch... it was a surprisingly tricky manouever, as one stockinged foot (her heels had flown off long ago from her kicking while being strapped) was on the floor and barely mobile, as her ankle was tied to the couch there, and she couldn't afford to spread her legs too wide at any point in case the vibrator slipped out, which would be a disaster. However, with a wriggle and a shove and an "augh!" of pain as her ass landed on the arm of the couch, she relaxed again as she squirmed into position. She had made it! Now she could spread her legs, one either side of the arm of the couch, and let that firm surface between them hold the base of the vibrator in place, riding the arm of the couch like a horse. She had a flashback to a bar in LA; it seemed many years ago now, western themed, which had had one of those mechanical bulls. She had been drunk and mischievous, of course, so she had slipped off her dress and ridden it in her underwear - a line she had been modelling at the time, stockings and suspenders and a tiny lacy black bra and panties. That had gotten her and her friends thrown out of the bar, of course, but caused a very satisfactory splash in the gossip columns...

Now she remembered that moment, as she started humping the arm of the couch for all she was worth. Now, supporting herself behind her back with her hands, each buck of her hips drove the vibrator deep into her, and she was able to grind her clit against the wooden arm of the couch, under its protective film of soft white leather. Her panting and gasping rose over the muffled buzzing, the squeaks of the protesting couch at each thrust and the wet, sucking sounds that her pussy was making. Soon there was nothing feigned about the yelps and shrieks as she started to feel herself rising towards a shattering climax, giving full throat to her cries, frozen in that moment of ecstasy for many long, wonderful seconds, before finally sagging forward onto the arm of the couch, disheveled and sweating, the arm beneath her now slippery with her own juices.

 

[DeRe]

When Charlie had returned to the mansion the Harpies had been dismissed as if they were cringing courtiers. It was a measured display of contempt on Anders' part, all the more so because he had scorned them for a woman. Back in their limousine the sinister trio glared at each other in meaningful silence, the surety of unspoken plots hanging in the air. At last one of them took his phone and tapped a vague, brief message: Effect plan immediately, secure package and deposit in safebox. The digital order dashed off into the Mediterranean night, before one of the Harpies broke the silence by rapping on the barrier with the driver. The silver Citroën slipped away liked a gilded shark as the three covert manipulators sat with their thoughts. Until now their dealings with Hansen had been something of a casual fumble; the result had been humiliation, an umbrage they could never accept. So according to carefully laid plans they were escalating the conflict to a new level, with unfortunate consequences for Charlie.

A short distance away from the mansion, a shadowy figure in a laundry van watched the limousine disappear into velvet gloom. His phone glowed on the dashboard, with the Harpy's order blinking in pale white illumination. A sudden shiver of excitement ran through his lithe frame. No matter how many times the Corsican had plied his trade, he could never suppress that initial surge of adrenaline which shook him like a violent jolt when the order came. But once he recovered he regained his legendary focus, and got to work. With nearly a week to plan he had prepared his entry and exit from the Hansen mansion in careful detail, and now had to execute it within five minutes.

He was over the fence and through the garden like a lustful tomcat chasing the reek of musk. From a discreet point he surveilled the mansion with powerful IR goggles, their enhanced sight falling upon two red blobs melding and writing like some vivid amoeba. Clearly his target was enacting the little drama he had been briefed about, and the vigorous carnal exercise would distract them long enough for him to make his entry. He found the poolside door with the defective electronic lock, and slipped through it softly into the echoing glass halls of the house. Even from some distance away he could hear the passionate lovers, and took a few moments to check and secure his line of retreat. The Corsican was a master of extraction and never missed details, but in this case he was extra cautious - even uncharacteristically anxious. This operation was exceptionally discreet and the Harpies would reward failure with something much worse than death. He had heard enough stories to take incentive from that thought.

Silence fell suddenly, and his feline body tensed. Was it time to move? He strained to hear the voices, and crept as close as possible as he could to the tomb-like lounge. Hiding behind a huge leather slab of armchair, he listened as Anders left Charlie bound and squirming. Even the jaded kidnapper found something wryly perverse in this little performance. Certainly, these rich people were such crazy hedonists! He wondered if the hideous plans his employers had could have any effect on minds so significantly warped. As Charlie rode herself to a very vocal orgasm to tried to remain as professional as possible, even as the sweat coursed across his olive face. The situation was not unlike one of those tiresome farces his father had always dragged to him as child; he was like some hapless butler hidden behind the settee as the lady of the house debauched herself. But that kind of reverie discomforted him, and instead he focused on seizing his moment.

He waited until the cries of pleasure collapsed into satisfied moans, and Charlie slumped into the senseless bliss of a sexual coma. If Anders returned within the next thirty seconds, then a week of planning and a lifetime's career would evaporate. He made a frantic scan of the surrounds through the IR googles but saw no trace of the man - something that was either very good or very bad. Seizing on his instinct, he sprung up from his hiding place and moved over to Charlie like a flickering shadow. In his hand he held a stun gun, clicking off the safety with his thumb. Before the woman had time to react he pressed the steel tongs against the base of her neck and fired, unleashing a million-volt current through her tight little body. The three seconds of crackling sparks seemed to last forever, but to the Corsican's relief she then slumped onto the floor in a pacified heap.

The rest was pure experience and practiced drill. He quickly covered her lipstick-smeared mouth with black tape, then removed the erotic bonds around her wrists and ankles to replace then with crueler and more functional bands. The woman was even smaller than he anticipated, and he had little trouble hefting her over his shoulder. A spicy, pungent reek of expensive perfume and liquid sex stung his nose and he balanced Charlie's weight, carefully checking once more that no-one was approaching. The devil protects his own once again, he thought with wry humour. Knowing that he had barely ten seconds before his prey would regain her senses and potentially start fighting back, he moved off with urgency, retracing his steps out of the house and back down the hill.

Hardly believing the speed and success of his mission, the Corsican threw Charlie into the back of the laundry truck, atop a pile of linen. Clambering over her he grabbed a steel choke-collar, similar to the kind used for dangerous dogs, and looped it over Charlie's neck. The other end was affixed to a steel bar behind the driver's seat. "That's in case you had any thoughts about escape, mon petite putain", he rasped in a near-incomprehensible dialect. If she struggled the chain would bite into her neck, leaving her with little option but to remain still or be violently garrotted. "Better hope we have no sharp corners to turn, yes?" He chortled a laugh like a sulfuric mud pool. "Or maybe you hang yourself now, and spare yourself the tortures the old men have planned for you?" He grinned wickedly at her, then left the back of the van to return to the front. Sitting in the driver's seat he revved up the diesel engine, and quickly sent a message back on his cracked and outdated phone: Package secure. Deliver in 30 minutes.

 

[LizH]

Charlie was still sagging on the arm of the sofa, coming down from her climax, the vibrator still buzzing inside her when she caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye; a dark shape silhouetted against the bright blue of the swimming pool outside, moving quickly towards her, its face strangely bulbous; with a projection, like a horn, jutting out in front. Her lust-fogged brain was barely aware of what was happening when the figure reached for her neck, and suddenly every muscle in her body seemed to spasm painfully, a hellish counterpart to the heavenly orgasm she had just endured, the scream unable to force its way out of her frozen throat, shooting stars in her vision, then nothing.

She came to facing downwards, blonde curls around her face, staring at the ground, over the shoulder of someone who walking briskly in darkness. The sound of cicadas chirping was all around her. Her body was still damp with perspiration, feeling clammy in the cool of the night air. The vibrator was gone, but her arms were still bound behind her back and her face felt tight, constrained. When she tried to protest, she realised that a strong patch of tape covered her mouth. Her muscles ached, and wouldn't move as she wanted, and something stung in her neck. As her nostrils filled with air, she smelt unfamiliar smells - pungent French tobacco, and an unwashed male body. This wasn't Anders carrying her, she realised - too short, too squat, too muscular, and she started to squirm in protest. Was this part of her punishment? She pulled at her hands, behind her back, but realised that it was no longer the expensive dress that bound her but a pair of handcuffs, and as she tried to kick her feet she felt that they too were now shackled together. Gravel crunched beneath the man's boots, and he came to a halt, his weight shifting as he reached up and threw her. Charlie managed a "MMmmfff!" of surprise before she fell heavily into a big pile of cloth in the back of a van, her bruised bottom sending shooting darts of pain as she landed firmly on it. There was a strong smell of detergent, like a hotel laundry. The man was outside, staring in at her. Again she could only see a silhouette, but realised this time that the thing on his face was some kind of night vision equipment. It slowly dawned on Charlie that she was being kidnapped, and the spasm of fear led her to frantically try to get her knees under her, to kneel upright in the back of the van, to afford herself even the slightest control over her situation, but the steel at her wrists and ankles made movement difficult and ungainly, and before she had completed the manouevre the man had reached in and looped a steel chain around her neck, fastening it somewhere behind her.

"That's in case you had any thoughts about escape, mon petite putain".

His French was almost incomprehensible, but she just about managed to catch 'idées' and... 'évasion'? And of course 'putain'. Charlie had spent enough time on the Riviera to recognise the accent as Corsican, and knew their reputation as local mobsters. Hope that we don't have any... no, she didn't get that either. And then... something about... tortures and... old ones? Oh Christ, what was happening? If Anders was behind this then this was not funny, and her ass was going to be out of his fucking life this time. But as the door slammed, she started to think about the kind of people Anders maybe did business with, and deeper fear started to settle into her stomach as the van pulled away. Had he... sold her to someone? Because she had cost him so much money? Fuck. She knew that Anders was dangerous - that was part of his attraction. Oh fuck. Please no. Tears started to appear in Charlie's eyes, and she whimpered into the tape. She was naked apart from a pair of laddered stockings, hand and ankled cuffed and tape gagged, and on her way to... what? Torture? He had definitely said 'torture'. The tears started to fall faster as the pile of sheets in the van slid around under her when the van cornered, but her self-pitying reverie ended abruptly when the chain around her neck reached its limit and suddenly started to tighten. She realised that the Corsican must have been trying to tell her something about that, and frantically scrambled against the centrifugal force, pushing against the side of the van with her stockinged feet and dragging her smarting bottom back across the coarse linen to keep herself close to the attachment point. For the rest of the journey she was too preoccupied with this constant battle to keep the chain from strangling her to think much about anything else, until she felt the van come to a final halt, and she broke into heaving sobs as she awaited the doors opening. Anders, please, she thought, don't do this to me! I'm sorry! I'll make it up to you! Her face was tear-streaked and pleading when the doors opened again.

 

[DeRe]

The road from Ander’s mansion down to the coast was short but exceedingly sharp. It cut down the side of the cliff face like a jagged scar, a series of stomach-churning hairpins requiring experience to navigate. The Corsican knew the route intimately, operating almost on ancestral instinct. His kin had been bringing illicit cargo to the beach below for centuries; only the mode of transport had changed. As the van eased along the La Turbie road, he saw the corner with the twin silver olive trees glistening in the headlights, and reflected on the fact this was where they had run Princess Grace off the road some twenty years ago now. With a wry half-smile, the Corscian reflected on the fact that once again he was helping to dispatch some foreign blonde nympho who had crossed la Brise de Mer.

Eventually the anonymous van arrived on the shorefront, joining the autoroute and following the rocky coast for a few more miles. It was nearly 4 a.m. but a steady flow of traffic continued both ways – this tract of asphalt never slept. A seedy truck stop appeared in the gloom, like an oasis of sick orange light in the black desert of the night. The Corsican rolled the van through the unblinking glare and drove into an old disused garage that was decaying behind its larger, more modern successor. It was a cold cube of pale green ceramics and concrete, with almost all the metal burned dark orange by years of rust. Some of the vestiges of its former life still remained – a chipped basin, a tableful of tools, and the bleak strobe throbbing overhead. The breathless musty space reeked of tar and salt, the filthy backwash of the crystal Rivera.

Languidly the Corsican slid out of the van, lighting up another Gitane while appraising the situation. He dispatched a blank text to his employers, the signal for mission accomplished. This gave him an awkward few minutes to wait for their arrival. Shuffling around to the back of the van, he threw the doors open and studied his cargo. “Good to see you have plenty of fight!” he intoned with mock cheerfulness in his thick and rubbery accent. “You will need it.” He climbed into the back and sat astride Charlie’s stomach, gazing down on her with a jaded sigh, then spoke to her in English. It pained him to do so – the words felt like woodchips catching at his throat – but he wanted her to understand him clearly. “You are very sexy when you cry, putain,” he drawled. “I heard you before, you fuck like animal. Soon the old frogs will come, and make you sing. But we must warm you up first.”

He flicked out his vendetta knife, holding the thin sharp blade against Charlie’s mascara-streaked cheek. It was utterly against his code of honour to interfere with a package, but he could afford himself a little amusement at her expense. With the experience of a veteran pimp he traced the slender blade across her face, down her throat, then around the perfect curves of her breasts. The point pressed into the skin enough to feel like a sting, but there was no cut. “You see the magic of the vendetta corse, petit chienne? How it hurts without cutting?”

Then he led the point down between her thighs, watching her stormcloud-coloured eyes as he seemed to threaten to slide it right into her sex. But instead he kept the blade going down her toned dancer’s legs, before cutting off the tape binding her ankles. Moving with the resigned steadiness of a workman, he then pulled Charlie out of the back of the van, landing her on the concrete with a dull thud. With a breathless series of grunts he dragged her into the center of the garage floor. Walking over to a series of wheels fitted to the wall he began twisting one with great effort. A steel bar then came down from the ceiling, clattering loudly through a rusted pulley. He swore softly and excessively, before finally bringing it a foot off the ground.

It was a spreader bar, fitted with leather cuffs at either end. The Corsican strapped Charlie’s ankles into the device, tightening the straps as hard as possible. Then with a irritated grumble he began reversing the wheel, lifting her up with her body fixed in a Y-shape position. After a minute of squeaking steel and Corscian obscenities Charlie was now suspended upside-down two feet off the ground, and with a satisfied exhale he stopped to admire the sight.

Wiping a blanket of sweat from his leathery brow, he picked up a long, bright red candle from a nearby table. It had not been intended for illumination but had been made from sealing wax, designed to melt hot and fast. The gangster crouched down, and waved it in front of Charlie’s upside-down face. “Now you learn, what we do to dirty whores back on my island.” He stood up and smoothly slid two of the candle’s ten inches into the soft slit between Charlie’s thighs. It sat firmly in place, and he lit the wick with a brass-coated zippo. “A cunt candleholder, when we needed to make the bad girls do what they’re told, yes?” He lit yet another Gitane with the lighter then stood back solemnly, like an artisan appreciating his handiwork.

“You have ten minutes, yes? Ten minutes before candle gone. Try not to move – the more you move the more it hurt, the more it hurt you more you move!” He gave a detached cackle which rattled in his throat, then sat down on a battered stool in front of Charlie. Checking his phone, he said “The frogs take maybe six, seven minutes to get ‘ere, yes? They will stop candle. Pray they do not get lost or something, eh? Eh?” His cackle grew to a sharp harsh laugh as the first streaks of hot, runny wax were beginning to dribble down Charlie’s body.

 

[LizH]

As the van doors swung open, the sight of the man without his night vision goggles, pungent cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, was almost so stereotypically French as to be comical, but Charlie wasn't in the mood for laughing, and tensed up as he leaned in, silhoutetted by the flickering fluorescent light behind him. "Beaucoup de l'ésprit", he said. She didn't feel like it right now.

His switch to English came as a surprise, but Charlie only had eyes for the folding knife that he produced and clicked menacingly into place.
“I heard you before, you fuck like animal. Soon the old frogs will come, and make you sing. But we must warm you up first.”

She shook her head briefly in protest, but froze as the knife approached her, careful not to move and accidentally cut herself on it, and settled instead for looking pleadingly at him and whimpering into the gag as the cold point ran down her face and neck, and across her breasts. Her body shook with fear nevertheless, and her panicked breathing snorted through her nose. She wanted to beg, to ask why this was happening to her, what she had done, but the tape made all of that impossible, and she knew that she was at the man's mercy. More panicked, whimpered protests came as the knife's point traced across her sex, and the relief as he moved down and cut the bonds on her legs washed over her, making her sag as he fussed with the choke chain, removing it from the bar behind her so that he could drag her out of the van. She tried to get her legs under her but slipped and landed on her side, moaning with pain as she dropped onto the concrete. Then his hand was under one armpit, dragging her across the dirty floor. She could see at last that this was an old garage. It looked deliberately, almost stagily menacing, the chipped bathtub and table and pulleys like something from a slasher movie, and she found herself looking for dark brown bloodstains on the concrete.

Once he deposited her in the centre of the floor and went over to some kind of winding gear, she finally had a few moments to herself to take stock. Her legs were free, but she was nearly naked and her arms were still cuffed behind her back. The door was shut, but she hadn't heard him move across to lock it. Could she get it open before he saw her and stopped her? And if she did get out, where would she go? Where even was she? Still in Monaco? France? Could you drive for 30 minutes and still be in Monaco? Probably not. In point of fact, as scared as she was to stay where she was, she was even more scared of what the man might do if she tried to get away. Having decided not to run, the rational part of her mind tried to worry away at what the fuck was going on here. If Anders had sold her, why would they torture her? Who were these 'frogs' who were coming? Something about the word he kept using; vieillards - old ones - was nagging at her. She remembered the old men she had stripped in front of at the pool this morning - maybe yesterday morning by now - it felt like a million years ago. What did Anders call them - the 'harpies'? Was this some power play as part of negotiations? Charlie felt physically sick at the possibility.

The metal bar slowly and jerkily descending from the ceiling reminded her of the swing in Moulin Rouge, but somehow she doubted they wanted her to impersonate Nicole Kidman in a burlesque outfit, and once she noticed the cuffs at the ends of it, its purpose became clear. What she had not expected however was that the cuffs would be for her ankles, not her wrists. The Corsican worked methodically, fastening one ankle, then dragging the other into position, so that her legs were spread widely apart, just on the edge of pain. Although she was naked and cuffed, this position felt even more exposed, her pussy lips in full view, open to whatever abuse he wished to deal to them. As he went back to the wheel and started winding the other way, and her legs were hoisted into the air, the one crumb of consolation that Charlie could take was that it didn't look as though they intended to rape her, at least, not yet...

As her legs rose, and her body weight started to be borne by her strapped ankles, she was dragged jerkily across the concrete, then continued rising, until only her head rested awkwardly there, then she was dangling free, each squeak of the rusty mechanism sending her swinging like a pendulum, dizzy, head down, until finally he stopped and came over and stopped her oscillations with a steadying hand on her hip. Her arms, wrists still cuffed, fell awkwardly behind her, straining her shoulders in an inverse strappado, and already starting to ache.

Her eyes tracked him as he moved away behind her, out of sight, returning with two red candles, which she frowned at, puzzled. Englightenment came as he reached up and jammed one into her exposed pussy, forcing it downwards into her none too gently, and she let out another "Mmmfff!" of surprise and protest, though fortunately she was still just about wet enough from her exertions an hour earlier that it was less painful than it might have been. The fact that it was joined soon after by the second, next to it, did make her expressive eyes widen, however, and elicited a second moan of protest. The sound of the click of a cigarette lighter made it abundantly clear what was to happen now, though villain-like, he clearly couldn't resist mansplaining it to her anyway.

"You have ten minutes, yes? Ten minutes before candle gone. Try not to move – the more you move the more it hurt, the more it hurt you more you move! The frogs take maybe six, seven minutes to get ‘ere, yes? They will stop candle. Pray they do not get lost or something, eh? Eh?”

Charlie couldn't quite resist rolling her eyes at him. This was simultaneously more elaborate and less scary than the scenarios her terrified mind had been conjuring, which had involved being beaten and kicked until she was a bloody, broken-boned, unrecognisable mess. If a bit of waxplay was the worst that happened to her tonight, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all. Maybe - her mind still clung to a slender thread of hope - it was Anders' doing after all? She exhaled through her nose, and tried to calm her breathing, to keep still. Six minutes. How hard could that be?

The first drips of wax were her answer. The candles jutted from her at a slight angle, so the drips were falling forward, to land on her - ironically - freshly waxed lower abdomen. She jumped slightly at the first one, which dislodged a few more to spatter on her skin, stinging initially but cooling rapidly. The jerk of movement, as the Corsican had cautioned, set her swaying, and the next drips started to fall in a circular pattern around her lower thighs and across her parted labia, and that did elicit an "Nnnng!" as they landed. Soon she was swinging more violently, and the drips began to liberally coat the region, but worse were the dribbles of wax that ran down the sides of the candles, directly onto her lips. There was more wax in these than just a single drop, and as they re-melted wax already there, took longer to cool, until it started to feel as though her pussy lips were on fire, and the first fresh tears started to squeeze from her eyes, as her muffled complaints grew. The rivulets of wax seemed to go everywhere, finding every painful little nook and cranny, running along the crack of her ass cheeks and across her sensitive anus, dribbling down her abdomen, some falling onto the undersides of her pert breasts, even her chin. Meanwhile the candles burned lower, and the heat from the small flames started to warm her inner thighs, growing steadily and inescapably hotter and hotter and more painful as they began to near her skin. By the time the six minutes were up, Charlie was twisting and moaning wildly, tears running down her forehead into her hair, able to concentrate on nothing but the stinging heat between her legs, which had become a mass of melted red wax.

NSFW

 

[DeRe]

In his own sullen way the Corsican had to admire the whore’s sang-froid, at least at the start. He had seen her experiencing the utmost pleasure, now he was witnessing her enduring the worst agony. How little difference there was in the way she handled both – the writhing and moaning were pretty much identical, as was the look of intense concentration on her sweat-smeared face. Perhaps her age and experience gave her something of an edge, he thought idly. Back home, the majority of women subjected to this treatment were far younger – village girls sold to Ajaccio brothels by their brothers, usually. Some embraced their new life with ease but there were always the modest devout ones, and the latter would quickly get a taste of the candleholder punishment. That was more than enough to convert even the most demure maid into an obedient whore.

But this vixen fought harder than most, even if her body did inevitably betray her the same as the others. He watched her petite but perfect little figure thrash about in primal spasms of pain. As her muffled moans rose to stifled shrieks he laughed harder, savouring the moment when panic first began to consume her. “You do anything now to make me get you down, eh?” he jeered, flicking the stub of his cigarette into her face. “You suck my dick, you lick my asshole, you fuck my dog even, eh?”

Chortling to himself the Corsican then dispassionately lit another cigarette and eased back on the stool, his battered boots a few feet from the hanging Charli’s head. He studied her attractive face, now a mess of sweat, tears and mascara, as it screwed up in utter agony. The candle’s flame was now barely a centimeter above her smooth slit, inevitably sinking down the wax stem and edging ever closer to her tender lips. Within another minute it would begin to burn with intimate agony. The Corsician was bracing himself for the final act to begin, when the throaty grumble of an old car rumbled outside.

“Voila!” said the Corsican, standing up languidly. “Your pussy, it lives to fuck another day, eh?” He stubbed out the candle, then vigorously rubbed off the coat of searing wax that had caked between her thighs. “Looks like it still work good,” he said, landing a few hard open-hand slaps on her scorched scarlet labia. “Lungs work good too,” the gangster continued, chortling at his own joke.

Two grey figures now entered the garage, distinguished only by their anonymity. Both were grey-suited Harpies who had been at Anders’ mansion earlier that day, and spent the rest of it conspiring. The Corsican knew them by the fabulistic codenames the group liked to use – Chat-botté and Renart. The former was a short, round figure carrying a bulky silver suitcase, giving every impression of a child’s favorite uncle. In contrast his counterpart was tall and skeletal, with a thick mop of red hair tangled above a hollow face.

Chat-botté laid the suitcase on a workbench and opened it, revealing a hefty satellite phone which had somehow left the DGSE office it legally belonged in. Equipped with a powerful scrambler it was perfect for completely discreet conversations. The Corsican took a place leaning against a corner of the room, while Renart sat down on the stool before Charlie.

“Well, madame,” he said, in a guttural voice, “how much difference a day makes in Monte Carlo.” He spoke clipped English with a thick accent, each word seeming to slide out of his thin colourless lips. “The world is now turned upside down, yes? What you once flaunted you must now desperately want to hide. I enjoy the poetry of this.”

A dialtone sung out from the phone’s loudspeaker, the electric chirp sounding five times before the click of a connection. “Hansen here,” said Anders from the other end, his gravelly voice rendered even harsher by the scrape of the loudspeaker.

“This is Chat-botté,” gurgled the Harpy at the table. “We-“

“At last!” drawled Anders in mock delight. “Such tardiness, gentlemen. I’ve been expecting you for hours.”

The insulting flippancy irritated the choleric little banker. “We have your whore, Hansen! No more silly games. You leave the Principality in 24 hours, or we kill her. Simple as that!” Spit leapt from his mouth as he hissed in rage, his stubby fingers turning red as he gripped the receiver.

“Simple as that,” echoed Anders. “If only you had the cynicism of your namesake, you pompous little man.” His voice was as dry and dispassionate as ever, but the definite tint of contempt was seeping through. “As I have said, a hundred times, these antiquated Gallic notions you and your colleagues cling to have no place in our new century. Compelling a man to stand by his honour is pointless in a world where honour longer exists.”

The two Harpies looked at each other and frowned. “What are you saying, Hansen? Enough of your stupid drama!” spat Chat-botté.

“I call your bluff, gentlemen,” drawled Anders in an utterly bored voice. “I am not leaving Monaco, certainly not for the sake of some cunt. I don’t know what Ruritanian fantasy you live in but kidnapping damsels is no way to get things done. Do as you will, it only compromises you further, and I will take advantage of this blunder.”

The Corsican grinned. He knew little about this Hansen, but that man’s casual cruelty won his immediate respect. Perhaps he would make a better employer than the two silken, simpering wretches fuming in their impotence.

“We will kill her!” Chat-botté tried to sound harsh and threatening, but it came out more like a petulant rant. “I will cut off her pussy myself and sent it back to you in a fucking box!”

Anders grinned to himself, smiling at his reflection on the mansion’s glass wall. In one hand he was idly playing with Charli’s abandoned panties, still wet and reeking. “Make sure you pay first class then, I’d hate to lose such an appealing trophy. Charlie, mon cher, I assume you can hear me because they would have wanted you to hear all this. Adieu, you were a quality fuck, but you always knew there would never be a happy ending for you.”

A soft click signaled the end of the conversation. Simmering in a beetroot-red fury, Chat-botté stood there glowering at the phone. Renault turned impassively to the Corscian, and curtly said “Kill her. Cut her throat!"

The Corsican pulled forth his vendetta knife with glee. “I think I will have some fun first, yes? Seeing as there will be no ransom now, and no money for me to feed my unlucky children.” His eyes smouldered like small dark coals. “So I will do it slowly, cut her up good, yes? Bit by bit.”

“Wait!” rasped Chat-botté. He swallowed hard, as if a cannonball had slid down his throat, and reclaimed his composure. “No, no, that’s too easy. As much as I would like to see it, that is too quick and easy. She should suffer beyond tonight, and better yet we can profit from it.”

Renalt nodded. “She’s a bit older than our usual product, so we can’t expect too much, but her experience and notoriety adds a certain value.” He looked over at his colleague and continued flatly: “Let’s take her down to La Voisin now, and alert our customers of an unscheduled auction. We can still have our money within the day, all going well.” Turning to look at the Corsican, he noted the black disappointment written across the cruel swarthy face. “Don’t fret, you ruthless thug. You’ll get your payment, and maybe have a little fun with her after all. But for now, she’s a prize cut of meat we need to prepare for some hungry customers. Get her down and load her into the limo, I want to be off the roads before sunrise.”

 

[LizH]

Charlie was too panicked to hear the car outside; she was still thrashing around when the Corsican gnome abruptly pinched off the wick with his fingers and the heat and pain finally stopped. She sighed with relief and her frenzied movements came to a stop, leaving her twisting there, panting heavily and occasionally groaning fantly. At least, that was, until he started to pull the caked wax away from her skin. It was nothing she hadn't endured many times in the name of beauty, and the wax had not had time to harden too much and came away fairly easily, but its passing still dragged a few strangled "MMMffs"! of pain from her as the pink, flushed skin was revealed, especially when he pulled the wax from the lips of her labia, at which point the anguished movements of her mouth, coupled with the sweat and saliva seeping under the tape finally caused it to lose its adhesion. Though it still hung from one corner of her mouth, Charlie spat the rest of the tape from her and made a sound almost like the cawing of a crow. The flesh of her pussy lips was still smarting and sensitive from the wax, and his follow-up slaps, though not delivered with much force, made her croak some more for his amusement.

The scream of tortured door hinges announced the arrival of two new men. Charlie lifted her head slightly from where it hung upside down, and stared towards the entrance as two suited figures with a briefcase arrived. She recognised them immediately - she had walked past them, naked and dripping, wearing only a smile of amusement, earlier in the day. They were two of Anders' 'harpies'. Business partners, presumably. She blinked some sweat and a few lingering tears from her eyes to look at them more closely as the approached. She had assumed the case contained money, but when it clicked open, she saw an old-fashioned telephone receiver on a cord appear from it.

The tall, doleful-looking redheaded suit sat in front of her on a stool, and gave her the benefit of his sense of humour. She watched him gloat, her lips pursed. She was too scared to scowl too much at him, or reveal just how much contempt she currently held him in, so her eyes simply stared, warily. Her attention was soon seized by the clicking of the satellite phone, and especially Anders' voice at the end of it.

"We have your whore."

As simple as that. They were using her as leverage against him, then. Charlie closed her eyes. She could feel more self-pitying tears prickling at their corners. She knew Anders was involved in some shady dealings. That had been the fun of being with him. But she didn't deserve this!

"Anders!" she shouted - more to let him know that she was there than anything, but it was also a cri de coeur, a cry for help. Because Anders was the only man that could help her now.

"... not for the sake of some cunt..."

The words were like daggers in her heart. He had to pretend to be strong in front of them, of course, she reasoned - he couldn't show them that they had got to him. But... surely she was more to him than that? All of the money he had spent on her - lost through her - he wouldn't have done that with just some passing fancy, surely?

“I will cut off her pussy myself and sent it back to you in a fucking box!”

Charlie was starting to sob now, in fear, in despair, the tears running down her forehead into her already sweat-dampened hair. But then Anders twisted the knife.

"Charlie, mon cher... Adieu, you were a quality fuck, but you always knew there would never be a happy ending for you.”

"Nooooo," she wept. "Anders!" This time it was a moan of pain. "Please!"

But he was no longer listening.

Charlie sobbed, dangling naked from the bar, wailing as the men started discussing how they would kill her. As bad as Anders' casual dismissal of her was, her mind was unable to process anything now except thoughts of sharp knives sinking into soft, vulnerable flesh. She tried to convince herself that Anders would still be coming for her, but she couldn't. He had been too convincing in his dismissal. And he was right - she had known, in her heart of hearts, what kind of man he was all along. Which left... death. Charlie was not brave. She feared death and pain, and the prospect of it scared her almost witless. Her sobbing rapidly became hysterical pleading.

"No!" she screamed, "please! Don't hurt me! Please! I'll do what you want! I'll do anything you want!"

As cliched as her begging was, she meant every heartfelt syllable of it. But their discussions continued as if she were not there. Even so, slowly it began to dawn on her that they were not killing her, that the knives were not out - they seemed to have come to some kind of conclusion, and the Corsican thug had returned to the wheel, and was starting lower her to the ground again. Charlie stopped shrieking and gradually controlled her hyperventilating as well, panting as her head, and then her shoulders, arms and back returned to the cold concrete below her, now mottled with wax and puddles of her own perspiration. Had the threats just been for Anders' benefit? Surely she was worthless to them now. Yet she also clearly knew too much - these men would want to silence her. Unless... she looked up at them, eyes flcking from one to the other, trying to divine what they had in mind for her. It seemed likely that it was going to be rape, she guessed, but right now that seemed better than any alternative on offer. Only one other idea occurred to her. It was a pretty desperate gamble, but it was her last card.

"My... my father has money," she tried to stammer. "He'll pay a ransom for my safe return. And I could... "

Her voice trailed off at that point. Could what? Could try to involve important men - ministers - that she had slept with? They would disown her faster than Anders. Even her father was a bit of a stretch, given how she had embarrassed him, and that they hadn't spoken in years, but maybe, just maybe...

 

[DeRe]

Charlie’s desperate entreaties were ignored as the Corscian hauled her unsteadily to her feet. Renart stood before her, glowering down with an arrogant contempt, before placing another strip of black tape across Charlie’s glistening mouth. “Nothing you could offer interests us, slut,” spat the phlegmatic Frenchman in his slurred English. “We will sell you for more money than you would have ever seen in your whore’s life, understand? You will be – how do you say – ‘sex-trafficked’, yes?” He was still fuming at his humiliation, unfamiliar with the frustration of failure. “I feel pity for your father to have had such a creature for his daughter. At least you will no longer be able to bring shame to him.”

He pulled a slim black leather pouch from his pocket, and flipped it open to reveal a row of brightly coloured syringes. “For the sake of convenience you will be sedated for the next few hours.” The Corsican gripped her slender forearms tight as Renart took one of the needles out and studied it for a few moments, holding it between two spindly fingers. Then he unceremoniously jabbed it into the side of her thigh, driving the plunger down as the powerful drug poured in into her petite frame. He watched her wild blue eyes at the fear and bewilderment clouded over into sleep. “Take her down to La Baie des Maures, they will be waiting for you.”

The Corsican felt Charlie slump in his grip, and watched sullenly as the Harpies left the shed. As usual, he reflected, it was up to him to do the dirty work. With an irritated growl he hefted Charlie one more time into the back of the laundry van, and started out along the westwards along the coast. Behind him, out across the ocean, the first vivid flashes of the dawn were appearing. He slipped through the border into France without any of the bored guards deigning to even look at him – just another laundry truck heading to work. Finally, as the grumble of his breakfast-deprived stomach first began, he turned off the Autoroute Poincare and followed a winding gravel track down to the sea.

A tangle of olive trees and crumbling rocks brought the track to an abrupt end. The Corsican rolled the van to a halt with a sigh, dismounting slowly and taking time for a quick cigarette. He was tired, and somewhat uneasy about the botched way the night had gone. But a profit had been promised, and whatever their faults, the Harpies always paid up.

He opened the van doors to find Charlie still lost in her sedated sleep. As much as it pained him to do so, he spoke to her in English from on now. “Eh! Sleeping Beauty, is time to wake!” He climbed into the van and slapped her roughly several times. “No more dreams for you! Nothing but a nightmare now.” Hefting her over his shoulder he carried the now-awakening woman down an ancient stone staircase towards the beach. By now the sunrise was blazing, and a sleek superyacht was silhouetted in the early light offshore.

“This place, they call it Baie des Maures,” the Corsican drawled, speaking more to himself than anything. “Centuries ago, this is where the Moors landed when they took slaves. The Corsairs, yes? They took nuns from their convents and princesses from their palaces, and sold them to the harems. That is why she comes here, capisce? She think it funny.” White sand crunched beneath his boots as he walked towards the waterline. “I wonder who buy you, eh? Maybe the Japanese one, who eats blonde girls? Or the Russian, Zaroff, who hunts people?” He chortled to himself. “Or maybe even a Moor.”

A small rubber dingy rested on the shoreline. It was flanked by two small, slim Asian women dressed in stylized matelot costumes. “Bon voyage, my little putain,” said the Corscian flatly as he landed Charlie on her feet. Presenting her to the two girls, one handed Charlie a thick satin dressing gown, while the other gently took her elbow and beckoned here to the dingy. “You go with them now, out to the boat.” He watched distantly as the three climbed into the small Zodiac and zoomed into the dawn, before turning back to the van and whatever job he would be assigned next.

The sea was like a sparkling glass sheet as the dingy rode across it, the ride relatively swift and smooth. Neither of the attendants said a word or even acknowledged Charlie. The yacht loomed larger as they approached towards the stern, where another pair of the cartoonishly uniformed girls waited, both of them virtual doubles of the other. As they tied up the dingy to its moorings the two who were escorting Charlie brought her to her feet and onboard the yacht, each gently but firmly holding one of her arms as led her up a few steps to the rear deck of the vessel.

A small shaded deck, ringed around by a white leather couch, covered the entrance to the yacht’s salon. Reclining on the palatial cushions was a lithe, bikini-clad woman who arched a well-groomed eyebrow at Charlie’s arrival. “Voila, my mystery package arrives!” Her clipped English had a curious accent, a melding of her Serbian father and Parisian mother. “I am Lavoisin, you will call me madame.” She stood up slowly, her tanned athletic figure moving with a feline languor. “You, Charlie, have the most important moment of your life coming up in a few hours. It is my job to ensure you are perfectly prepared for it.”

Lavoisin’s smile was impeccably sweet, but the cold flatness in her dark eyes revealed how fake it was. Although barely 21, she already a veteran of the flesh trade, and heiress to her father’s operations. At an age when most girls were chasing their first boyfriend, she had already killed three of them. The callous iron edge that defined her character was cloaked within a silken glove.

She took off Charlie’s gag and binds, tut-tutting at her abused physical state. “What a terrible way to treat such a delicious body. You are in exceptional shape, mon cheri. That ass is worth a million dollars by itself.” Resting an elegantly manicured hand at Charlie’s back, she led her into the luxurious salon. It looked like an Hollywood dressing room where a bomb had gone off, spreading a panolpy of designer garments everywhere.

“Now, instructions,” said Lavoisin curtly. The ensuite is over there, have a shower and treat any obvious injuries as best you can. Then put that lovely little backside down on the makeup table over there, it’s stocked with anything a woman like you could want. Get pretty then pick an outfit, there are some things here that cost more than the boat. You want to be looking your best, mon cheri. You have an hour, but I know you can do it easily. Then we’ll do lunch, then it’s showtime.”

 

[LizH]

New tape silenced her again, but it quickly became clear that there was nothing more for her to say - her appeal had been heard and rejected. She blinked through tears at the Corsican as he laid it down. Sold. Sex trafficked. The barb about her father caused a twinge of anger and pain, but mainly she was looking downwards, inwards. Given what her prospects had been just minutes ago, her new destinate felt like a reprieve. There was almost a ray of hope - she might be able to get away, though she had heard about the conditions trafficked women were held in, and there was a low dread in her stomach at that. But trafficked where? The intimation that she was worth serious money suggested that it wouldn't be some dingy backstreet brothel in Marseilles, but what did that mean? Russian mobsters? Arab princes? Her mind was still whirling as she felt the injection, looking in panic at the Corsican, who held her still until darkness claimed her.

---

He was still there when she came around, slapping her face now. She struggled momentarily, then relaxed again when the blows stopped. She was back in the van, but through the open doors she could see a pale blue sky and smell the tang of salt. She was still naked, and felt sticky and dirty, as well as groggy and not rested. It didn't feel as though she had been molested in her sleep - small mercies, she thought. Though her feet were free, her wrists were still tied, though in front of her now and no longer cuffed, but movement seemed an effort, so she made no protest as he dragged her out of the van and lifted her over his shoulder for a second time, and settled for peering curiously at the green spray of trees and the sunlight sparkling on the azure sea. She didn't recognise the place. Somewhere around Cap d'Antibes, maybe? As he stepped carefully down some stone steps towards a beach she could see two woman waiting by a boat. Grand yachts sat at anchor in the bay. She wasn't especially interested in the gnome's history lesson, but as they crossed the seaweed-strewn sand she caught the word 'she'. Who was that? Had Charlie already been bought? It didn't sound like it from the Corsican's jabbering. An agent, perhaps? An associate of the Harpies?

On closer inspection the women by the rubber dingy were southeast Asian, maybe Thai, and dressed as though they had esaped from a bad Bond movie. Still, when one wrapped a satin dressing gown around her to cover her nakedness Charlie accepted it with a grateful nod; it was the first considerate gesture she had had since last night. Her kidnapper had the gall to wish her a happy trip; at least that meant that this was presumably where they would part company. She gave him a cold stare in return, tempted to flip him the finger or rip the tape off her mouth and tell him where he could go, but she suspected that would not go down too well. Indeed, he hovered, menacingly, to make sure that she got into the boat. In spite of a dozen escape scenarios running through her head, from running down the beach to jumping over the side, none seemed very plausible, so Charlie let the gnome help the women push the boat into the sea and start the motor. Only once they were floating free, engine running, did she finally pull the tape from her mouth and throw it overboard. She didn't look back at him, letting him recede mentally as well as physically as they approached the yacht. Instead she tried to look forward, not back, giving the boat a quick appraisal as they approached - Charlie was no stranger to the toys of the super rich, but this was definitely on the more impressive side. Human trafficking clearly paid well. She wondered how many of the men she had been dallying with on similar yachts over the past fortnight had their hands in similarly dirty business. Anders certainly, maybe some others? It had been easy to overlook, dazzled by the huge plasma TV screens and chilled champagne on tap, but now she was confronted with it in a very personal way.

"I'm Charlie," she tried to the women in the boat, but there was no reply. They simply stared at her watchfully, as if waiting for her to make a move. Charlie sighed and let them steer the boat towards whatever awaited her on the yacht. Being away from the menace of the Harpies and their goon and back in the bosom of the wealthy had settled her nerves slightly, but she was still concerned as to who she would find at the end of her journey. Still, for the sake of form she trailed her hands in the warm water and then wiped her face with the brine, rubbing away the remaining smudges of makeup and tears, trying to look more presentable. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to get it back into some semblance of a style, tangled and matted though it may be.

More of the doll women waited on the ship, and then, finally, 'she'. Charlie looked the woman over intently, trying to get the measure of her. The Corsican had said that effectively this woman would sell her to the highest bidder, as if at some modern slave auction, yet so far she was being treated courteously, albeit watchfully. At first glance, Lavoisin seemed much younger than Charlie had expected; barely out of her teens, and with a self-conscious perfect model-like beauty, but her eyes were those of a shark, and Charlie could only speculate what experiences might have shaped a woman like this.

"You will call me madame. You, Charlie, have the most important moment of your life coming up in a few hours. It is my job to ensure you are perfectly prepared for it.”

Charlie simply stared at her. Calling this girl ten years her junior 'madame' felt a bit weird, though if she were married it would be a conventional enough term in this part of the world. At least she hadn't suggested 'Maitresse'. Even so, Charlie could guess what kind of 'madame' Lavoisin actually was. There was a hint of Eastern European, or even Russian to her accent and that was itself suggestive. Still, the woman kept up the fake bonhomie as she removed the dressing gown and untied Charlie's hands. Charlie rubbed at her wrists as Lavoisin made a tour of her naked body. It was the first time since the Corsican had rushed her in Anders' living room last night that she had had full use of her hands, and she was grateful for at least that much freedom.

"Thank you... madame," she added belatedly, watching Lavoisin as the circled her, like a cat.

'Madame's' assessment of her was flattering, and there was a degree of solicitousness in her tone, but only, Charlie suspected, that of an auctioneer who doesn't want to see their priceless vase chipped before being sold. Still, after last night's terrors, Charlie was willing to take comfort where she could. She gawped in amazement as Lavoisin led her into the salon. It looked like the dressing room for a high end modelling assignment - the kind she had once had back in LA, before she had burned her bridges there. In a way, perhaps it was.

She nodded to the instructions. An hour wasn't long but, yes, it was doable. She sighed as Lavoisin left her to her own company, and tried to gather her thoughts. She didn't have long to mope about, so she started with the shower immediately, groaning in relief as the hot water hit her, and letting last night wash away from her. That had been a close call! And that was that - her two week fling with Anders was over. She still felt a pang over that, but he had cut her loose with no compunction, and damn near got her killed. Charlie shivered, remembering the knife, the threats... she wondered now how serious they had been. It had certainly felt serious at the time, although all that she had to show for her ordeal now were a few adhering patches of red wax that yielded easily to the warm water cascading over her. The bruises on her bottom had come from Anders, and aside from that it was just a few chafed rings of skin on wrists and ankles from the cuffs. She'd had plenty of nights that had left her more damaged than that. What had she lost today, really? Her passport, her cards, her phone - Anders would destroy them, but they were all easily replaceable. A few dresses and pairs of shoes - most of the clothes had been bought by Anders anyway. So far she had got out of things relatively unscathed. Now it was just a question of what Lavoisin's clients would want from her.

When she stepped from the shower, her eyes showed some dark rings in the mirror from her disturbed night, but a bit of foundation would cover that easily enough. She dried her hair as quickly as she could, then sat naked at the mirror, examining the high end cosmetics spread about. She went at the makeup briskly, efficiently, smiling occasionally at the unfamiliar luxury of using La Prairie instead of a bog standard Chanel. Of course, she knew that like a calf, she was being fattened up for the slaughter, but really, would things be so different today? She was going to end up in the company of some rich bastard who wanted her to fuck him and make him feel young and desirable again. No change there, she thought. The degree of control and coercion would be higher, but how genuinely different things were going to be from what she had spent the past few years doing remained to be seen. 'Putain', the Corsican had insisted on calling her. Whore. At the time she had bristled at it, but really, was he so wrong? What she had been doing was different only by degree. She even had whored, occasionally, when times got tough. Professional Escort Service, everyone had been careful to call it, which meant more flattery and ego massaging to go with the cock sucking, but at the end of the day, it was what it was. She thought about her life again, and where it had led her. The flat in Paris was paid to the end of the month, and there might be another few weeks after that before the bills and final demands became debt collectors who would confiscate her stuff, and then that would be that - she would simply have disappeared for a third time. And no-one would miss her. That thought sent a wave of sadness shuddering through her, and she had to fight not to cry and smudge her freshly applied mascara.

About fifteen minutes of her hour were left when she finished with the mirror and turned her attention to the dressing up box. Well, 'Madame' clearly had expectations of her, and Charlie had a feeling it wouldn't do to disappoint. She ran her hand through the fabrics; sequins, some of which looked like real gold, lace, satin and silk, leather, even rubber. What should she look like? Sexy? Sophisticated? Raunchy? Virginal white? She was a little too old for that now. Black was too funereal. Red was eye-catching, but a bit obvious. She found herself drawn to a silver-grey Calvin Klein dress that fell just above her knees. It looked expensive without being brazen about it. She picked a matching pair of strappy silver Jimmy Choos, and quickly found a dark nail polish that would go with the dress, and applied it hurriedly, blowing to dry it. By the time she had slid into the dress the hour was up. Charlie took a deep breath, then emerged back into the brilliant Cote d'Azur sunlight again, hoping that 'Madame' approved of her look.