Transporting Taylor (Dere and skittish_butterfly)

[DeRe]

Martin ran his hand through his hair, gingerly fingering the cut on his head. Everything was completely still. Even his breathing seemed to have stopped. The small room seemed utterly surreal in his dazed trauma. The sight of Taylor swinging in agony from the roof was both an exhilaration and utter horror. As the cordite of the gunshots stung his flaming eyes, he gazed sudden at the dead Naidu and Sajur. The sight of their half-naked, bloody corpses brought him out of his fugue with a sudden jolt. Despite his delirium he knew he was now in the worst trouble of his life.

Quickly he cut Taylor's limp and unconscious body down from her bonds. She bore the marks of some rough treatment but to his intense relief she was not seriously hurt. For all the brutality of the bastinado, it did not leave visible marks or permanent damage. He kept her wrists bound and threw her slender, sweated-soaked body over his shoulder like a sack. Cupping her firm ass on one hand he climbed quickly out of the chamber, back into the station. With a shivering, adrenalin-crazed urgency he grabbed his bag and made for the old truck which still remained out front.

In the rear of the truck were a number of anonymous wooden boxes, including the one Taylor had already arrived in. Martin deposited her roughly in that with a small bottle of water and several squeezable packs of baby food. Despite her bonds she would be able to drink and eat. He wanted her revitalized somewhat when she woke up, to bring her back to some kind of normality.

He boxed her back up again and covered it with a large hessian sack, then shutting and bolting the truck's rear door down tight He returned to the cabin to fire up the truck. The entire city was silent, and Martin had never felt more paranoid in his life. No-one was around, and he prayed fervently that Naidu and Sajur would remain hidden in the chamber for a few hours yet. Ruefully he reflected that his attempt to make the mission easier had just increased the difficulty by a massive amount. He took the police hat, shirt and sunglasses stashed in the truck and put them on, hopefully that just the passing glance of the uniform would prevent anyone interfering with him.

After a few agonizing minutes he finally brought the truck to life. It belched and smoke like an angry, awakened dragon. A thick back cloud quickly swallowed the narrow alley. Slowly, with excessive caution, Martin drove back out onto the chaotic streets. It's police markings and sheer bulk allowed him to find a place in the flow after fighting through the traffic. As he found himself once more mingling with the seething morass of the city, the enclosed solitude of the cabin allowed him to focus his thoughts for the first time in a while.

He was royally fucked; he knew that much. The trail of carnage was bloody and not to hard to follow. Worst was that the mission was now compromised. God knows who had seen her during that ten or so minutes she had been out in the streets. That combined with the now-deceased policeman would set off the whole city in an uproar.

On top of this, the girl had been through a worst ordeal than even her torturer had intended. She would have to be cleaned up on the boat, and hopefully would be healed up before Dubai. At least it would make her reprogramming easier, he thought ruefully. After her nightmare here, she had even opportunity to be grateful to her 'liberator'.

The long day was beginning to die at last, bright red and violent like Naidu and Sajur. Struggling against blinding headaches and fatigue, Martin dragged the truck across the edge of the city. Once he finally arrived in the cargo lane, things became much easier, In a steady column of other trucks he followed the waterfront directly to the docks. The requisite papers had been prepared long beforehand, and the bored harbor police barely looked at him as he was waved through. A sense of relief surged through him like electricity as he saw the Sakoba moored right where she should be. Easing the truck alongside, he saw Ghedi climb up from the boat and head over. The lanky Somali skipper flashed a blank smile, a gold tooth blinking in the sunset.

Martin got out of the truck, his legs tight and aching. He met the cold, steady gaze of the scarred pirate standing before him. Ghedi and Martin has worked together numerous times and developed as much of a trust as two sadistic mercenaries could enjoy. Both put their mutual interests above anything else, and neither even needed to speak as Ghedi gestured to two of his crew to unload the truck.

The sea air and bracing relief brought Martin back around to a sort of wired clarity. He watched closely as the box with Taylor inside was carefully lowered into the open hold of the small boat. That steel, room-sized box - usually full with a load of fish - was to be her home for the next few weeks. He wondered if she was awake now, and conscious of the waterside and where she was going. Still racked with some pain he climbed carefully down into the boat. The truck had already been passed over into the hands of a dockside gang and had disappeared for good. Going below and stashing his bag and weapons in an crude temporary cabin, he took a moment to close his eyes and thank what satanic gods had helped him get this far.

The flicked open again as a jolt raced through him. Martin realized he must have fallen asleep, and checking his watch he found thirty minutes had suddenly flickered by. The steady throb of the boat's engine hummed through him and he knew they were now out at sea. Clambering unsteadily to his feet, he staggered out into the bleary light of the hallway. He hissed in pain as he whacked his head against the low door in a groggy haze. The fishing hold was dark and hot, compounding the beat in his head. Taking up a nearby bar, he prised open the box containing Taylor.

 

[skittish_butterfly]

Taylor woke up, if that's how you describe opening your eyes in hell for the first time.

She was dead. She was in hell. With all the shooting and the beatings, the men abusing her over and over. Taylor had to be dead.

And contrary to every expectation she'd had in her short life, Taylor just knew she was in hell, because if she were in heaven she couldn't possibly hurt this bad. It was hot, too. Hell was hot, just like this, everyone knew that. It was so hot she felt the sweat dripping from her nose, numerous little rivulets trickling down the curves of her naked body. Apparently there were no clothes in hell either.

This wasn't how she'd pictured it. Where were the pitchforks and sulfur, all the other sinners moaning in eternal misery beside her. It was just dark and hot and cramped and lonely, with nothing but the smell of sex and fear and the humiliating memory of all her sins to keep her company. But maybe this was exactly the hell she deserved after what she'd done, sucking an animal, orgasming as she was raped. Taylor made a small moan, her first official moan in Hell, thinking maybe she deserved this.

She wriggled around a little in the tiny space Satan had allotted her, trying to figure out as much as she could exactly what hell was like, the details of the eternity in front of her. It was so small she couldn't straighten her legs or her back, her body folded up tight enough she knew an eternity of cramps awaited her. The walls of hell were hard, almost wood if the feeling of splinters against her bare back were to be believed, and that surprised her because she imagined wood to be a bad choice for building in the middle of a lake of hellfire.

Slowly, Taylor's sense of reason returned. As more sensations and sounds accumulated in her fuzzy mind, she started to make sense of it, a new picture emerging that might make as much sense as being in Hell. The bouncing feeling, the faint smell of truck exhaust, that wasn't Hell was it? Taylor moaned as she realized where she really was, not sure whether being back in the little wooden box, probably being driven to some new horror, was better or worse than Hell itself, but not liking either choice really. Those were the only kind of choices open to her in her predicament, though, between worse and worser.

In her wriggling, Taylor's bare shoulder bumped against a plastic container and she managed to worm her still-bound hands in front of her enough to grasp it. It sloshed -- a water bottle. It was warm, probably not a brand she liked and there was no ice within a thousand miles -- none for her at least -- but that didn't matter. Thirst overwhelmed her, even more than the smells and the aches and the horrible memories she could barely keep at bay. She was reduced to thirst, as if she wasn't capable of more than one need at a time anymore.

The cap twisted off easily, clattering somewhere on the wood and settling against where her pelvis lay uncomfortably on the wood floor. She tried to drink, too fast, but lying on her side the first few swigs mostly run down the side of her mouth and down her neck, until she figured out to put the whole mouth of the bottle in her lips so all the water got in her mouth, sucking almost like a baby bottle. For a few brief moments, such a simple need being satisfied without being hurt or raped, she felt like she might be in heaven despite the awful pain in her feet and the disgusting wetness trickling between her legs reminding her of her rape. She just drank, taking the only satisfaction available to her and ignoring everything else. It felt like the only sane thing to do. Compartmentalize, control what she could and forget the rest as much as possible.

It was hard to forget the rest though, she was so hot and uncomfortable. She focused on trying to do something productive. Of course the meaning of the word productive had changed a lot for her. Being productive no longer meant taking a few minutes to jot down a hit song that everyone in the world would be singing along to a few weeks later, or signing autographs or closing marketing deals. For Taylor now being product just mean a little more wriggling, trying to discover anything she could touch, anything to tell her a little more about the tiny world she was confined to.

Her fingers found some packets. She ripped open the corner of one right away, and tried sucking out whatever was inside, hoping for fruit juice, but all she got was some sort of disgusting pasty food-like substance. Taylor was famished, her belly rumbling, but the paste was too gross for words and she put the packet down, an unseen grimace on her face alone in the dark.

The bumping and rocking stopped. Her nose detected a hint of something new, a fishy smell like an open-air market or an aquarium, and she heard some sort of bell in the distance. Too many small sounds to identify each, but in her mind it added up to a picture of the sea, probably near boats, like a dock or harbor kind of place. There was a sound of motors and powerful engines and loud, men cursing in a foreign language all around. A sound so consistent she'd barely noticed it finally cut off, the engine of the truck she was in going silent, the vibrations stopping.

Her mind raced as the sense of change around her brought on panic that some new horror was growing closer. What was going on? She closed her eyes, as if it made any difference alone in the dark, and reached for anything clues she could remember.

Saudi Arabia.

The man who kidnapped her had said that. Was she back in his hands again? Taylor thought surely he was dead, but this felt just like his box, the one he'd stuffed her into after raping her and then washing her off. She didn't feel clean anymore, but did that even matter?

Saudi Arabia. She was in India, or at least thought she was still, but who knew how much time she'd been unconscious, what could have happened? Taylor wished she'd paid enough attention to the region's geography to know how to get to Saudi Arabia from India. It made sense he couldn't take her on an airplane, unless maybe he had a charter plane and bribed all the officials -- maybe not beyond him.

But she'd heard the shooting, and maybe even people knew she was alive now, maybe the Indian internet boy, what was his name, had sent her email! This had to be a desperate move on his part, if he was really going to take her on a boat, a long slow sea route. She just wished she had some idea how long it would take, how long her dad would have to try to find her before they arrived and she probably disappeared into some harem or brothel or unmarked desert grave where he'd never even find her body to grieve.

A little light trickled in from the holes in the side of her box, too bright for her to face. Taylor squinted but couldn't see anything from the holes up above where her head lay on the wood floor. Then her dark tiny universe rocked again, and her sense of vertigo made clear she was airborne. Swinging. She was swinging, side to side. Up and then down. She screamed, too hoarse to make a difference she was afraid, but screamed and screamed for help. If she was being lifted, someone had to be lifting her. If there were boats and workers, someone had to hear her. But there was no sound of commotion outside, no heroic men coming to rescue her, not like it should be in the movie script of what was going on.

After a minute like that, her voice starting to hurt and fail her, her senses on edge like she might fall at any second from a height she could only guess at, the box she was trapped in set down, a little sideways on one edge at first making her body tumble against that wall, and then settling down fully. She heard voices, metallic clanks and then the noise receded leaving her alone in silence.

She waited, the heat in her box intensifying with every breath. The light through the three holes was bearable to look at directly again, either the light dimmer or her eyes finally used to it, she couldn't tell anymore. Taylor made the effort to lift her head, to sneak a peek at what was outside. Just dirty metallic walls in a dim light from above. Nothing really. Just the sharp smell of rotting fish the closer her nose was to the holes. She slumped back down to the wood, settling her cheek on a spot where she didn't feel any splinters.

Taylor waited, silently now. It got hotter and the smell permeated the whole box, until she felt like a rotting fish herself. She must be in some hold where fish were kept, or at least usually kept when it wasn't being used to transport kidnapped superstars. It was a boat, she knew that from the way it swayed. Taylor saved her strength and lay still, waiting for what would come, afraid of the sound of her lid being pried open and her kidnapper's leering face staring down at her, but the alternative was to spend eternity locked in this tiny box, like it was her true Hell. She didn't know what to hope for, didn't hope for anything anymore.

Time passed, with the dim light and intense heat slowly slowly fading. At some point the sounds and motion of the boat changed and she realized with a hard swallow they were at sea. She wasn't in India anymore. If her father scoured the entire god-forsaken country, looking under every last rock and boulder, he wouldn't find her. She was on her way somewhere else, completely alone, with no idea what would become of her, except she was kidnapped by a man who insisted her name was slave and who treated her like it. Taylor found herself hoping for the Hell option, to just be left alone with her misery forever in the tiny box, rather than have to face him again, or anymore of his "friends."

The only thing to save her from her own thoughts was the growing pain of hunger. The food in the packets was vile beyond measure, but she had to eat. It wasn't like not eating was some sort of suicidal exit strategy, because it would take a long, long, miserable time to starve to death. She managed to get the packet in her bound hands again, found the opened corner and brought it to her lips. Taylor wanted to puke, but she was too hungry, and found herself gagging it down anyway. She finished the first packet completely, feeling the pasty gruel kind of stuff sitting like an unsatisfying lump in her belly, still famished, and she opened a second. She was still sucking the disgusting paste out when she heard the lid pried off and the light flooded in, making her blink and drop the packet, the food dribbling over her open lips and down her chin as she screamed a long, loud, hopeless, useless,

 

[DeRe]

A cruel smile split Martin's face like a scar as he looked down at Taylor. There was something perversely funny at the sight of her blinking and twitching, baby paste running down her chin. Despite all her ordeals she was still stunningly pretty, her blue eyes burning in agony through the strands of her matted blond hair. As he grabbed her arms and stood her up, her hopeless moan of suffering and despair rose louder and echoed around the steel room. Pulling out his knife he cut her seared wrists free, each bearing a bright red band from hours of chafing. Then with a casual shove he threw her down onto the floor. She landed awkwardly, almost curled up on her elbows and knees, shaking uncontrollably. With her frantic looks and wild hair she seemed like a terrified trapped animal.

The sight of her firm ass - blistered red and raw - pointing up at him fired yet another surge through Martin's cock. Taylor glowed with sweat in the sickly light of the hold, swaying slightly in a dazed fugue as she rolled with the ship. Her soles were blackened with bruises and dirt but to Martin's relief showed no serious injury. She would still be able to dance as the client intended.

He took up a chain dogcollar he'd kept hanging on a nearby hook and carefully looped it around Taylor's neck, brushing her hair aside. "Now, slave," he said in a controlled voice that belied his exhaustion, "start walking". Placing his boot against her ass he gave Taylor a small shove, pushing her forwards across the steel floor. Just ahead was the door and a narrow passage running down the middle of the boat. The whole place reeked of rot and rust, a hundred voyages without ever being cleaned.

Martin kept behind Taylor as she crawled forward, delivering a few more shoves as she painfully tried to haul herself across the floor. He kept the chain loose enough that it wouldn't bite into the soft flesh of the skin, but gave the occasional tug when she collapsed from the effort. The hallway's carpet was little better than sandpaper. Despite the goading Taylor could only move slowly, and it took a long time before they covered the few dozen feet of its length. At the end was a steep set of steel stairs, leading up to the foredeck. Fresh sea air blew down from the top hatch and cleared the turgid air below.

It took everything Taylor had to climb those steps, inch by painful inch on her hands and knees. Martin slapped her ass hard several times, half-lifting her with the chokechain. As she instinctively reached up to loosen the noose he whacked her hand away, forcing her forward again. She gripped the top of the hatch tightly and pulled herself through, greeted by the burning morning sun and the sqwark of seagulls. Martin came up behind her, putting on his sunglasses as the glare of the deck shone white and bright.

They stood just forward of the bridge, the seemingly boundless Indian Ocean glittering all around them. Nothing but a still breeze disturbed the boat's passage and it only rolled slightly as it plowed on. Martin grabbed Taylor's arm and forced her to her feet, pushing her back against the burning steel of the boat's hull. It stung Taylor cruelly whenever her tender skin touched it. Beneath the howling pain of her feet there was a steel grill. He hooked the end of the chokechain around a hoop on the wall, then stepped back a little way as if to admire his handiwork.

Just behind him was the ship's hose, curled on the deck like a sleeping snake. Martin picked it up and, with some effort, managed to turn the rusted and grease-encrusted valve to open it up. After a guttural burp the pipe suddenly poured forth a torrent of seawater. It was brought up direct through the pumps, then washed away through the grill below and back through the pump into the sea. The pressure was powerful and he had to steady himself as he directed the torrent at Taylor.

The force of the water felt like a beating to Taylor. She reflexively raised her hands up to deflect it but was utterly useless to protect herself. As she writhed and struggled she slipped off her feet and felt the chain suddenly bite hard around her neck. Fighting with an almost animal spirit she stood up against the force of the water, giving small frantic gulps as she loosened the chain just enough to breathe.

Martin worked the torrent like a whip, lashing it across Taylor's lithe body. It was almost as if she was a marionette on the end of this watery string, manipulated and moved at its command. Even above the noise of the boat and the hose, he could hear her gargled desperate cries. Then all strength seemed to leave her and she slumped half kneeling, the chain pulled tight around her neck, and made no effort to get to her feet again. Martin threw the pipe aside and it thrashed away to the edge of the deck. He hesitated for a moment, allowing Taylor a few seconds to think herself dead. Then stepping forward urgently he unhooked the chain, catching her slippery wet body as she fell forward.

He pushed her back against the wall again, cupping and kneading one of her breasts as he undid his fly. Taylor was semi-conscious, lolling her head as she weakly brought up her hands in a futile attempt to push him back. Martin pulled out his ready and erect cock, sliding it easily between Taylor's slippery thighs into her pussy. She made a weird sobbing noise, which was choked off her Martin kissed her deeply. He pushed his tongue into her as deep as his dick, tasting the gooey paste she had just eaten. Grabbing one of her legs he pulled it around him, reveling in the feeling of her wet body held tight against his. They moved together in sync as he rhythmically pounded her.

Lost in a fug of carnal delight Martin felt himself almost passing out. He felt relatively safe now, even though he was on board a pirate boat with a dozen profoundly ruthless thugs. They stood to gain far more from helping him than causing trouble. He had been aching to rape Taylor again for ages, and the slight of her glistening helpless body had really been too much. Her battered little snatch still felt supple enough, and in her current state she rode along to her thrusts almost as if she were fucking him willingly. Martin felt deep and low moans rising in her throat as he continued to kiss her deeply.

It didn't take him long to cum, as he stared into her dazed sapphire eyes. Martin felt the shiver of orgasm run through him and collapsed on Taylor with an exultant sigh. Gathering his composure together as much as he could, he slid out of her slowly and stepped back. Taylor lay back against the steel hull, lips slightly parted and chest heaving as she breathed shallow and fast. As he did his pants back up, Martin was startled momentarily by Ghedi's gravelly voice purring behind him.

"So friend, now it's my turn, yes?" As he spoke he turned the valve off, the rope-like muscles of his arms bulging with the effort.

The sinister-looking, charcoal-toned captain glowered at Martin with a death's head smile. Pursing his mouth tight, Martin nodded curtly and stepped aside. Allowing the pirate a chance to fuck Taylor was the price of this voyage. It was either that, or have the entire crew take their turn on her. Originally Martin had cringed at the thought of having his prize ravaged by this particularly sadistic thug, but after her ordeal in the police station it seemed benign by comparison.

Ghedi dropped his shorts, exposing the biggest cock Taylor had ever seen. Through half-open eyes she gazed in disbelief as it approached her. Ghedi grabbed her knees, sliding in sudden and deep. He hit a place that none of the men who had penetrated her had ever reached. A whole new spectrum of pain spread between her legs as he stabbed her with his rock-hard rod. He grunted and chuckled as he fucked her, sucking on her pert, bouncy breasts as eagerly as a lollipop Grinding his powerful ass into her crotch, he continually seemed to find new places and ways to break her. All the while Martin stood back, casually smoking a battered cigarette, watching her ordeal with a strange air of detachment.

As Taylor's screams grew to meet the shrieks of the gulls, Ghedi finally came with a loud braying laugh. "You are a real singer alright, you whore!" he bellowed. "Such a fine pair of lungs! You sing for my boys, now!" He thrust one final time to punctuate his mockery, then pulled out slowly and took a few steps aside. Taylor slowly sank to the ground, a trail of drool running from the corner of her bright pink mouth.

Turning to Martin, Ghedi snorted "I'll expect another one before we get to port, alright?"

"Alright," snarled the mercenary. "Just keep your men back."

"Oh, they won't cross me," said Ghedi with an airy smile. He looked over Taylor, savoring the warm glowing post-coital satisfaction. "I better get back to the bridge. See you at dinner, yes?"

Martin nodded sharply. He waited until Ghedi headed down along the deck to the wheelhouse, then threw Taylor's limp form over his shoulder. Her wet hair soaked his shirt, but her skin had already dried in the muggy heat. Carrying her with a marked caution, he returned downstairs into the bowels of the boat. They took a sharp turn off the main passage, into a particular rancid and dark corner of the reeking old vessel.

Behind a narrow door was a old cabin, barely six feet on all sides. Although a narrow grill in the century dribbled in cool but foul air, it prickled with a dry, stifling heat. A ancient mattress, stained gray from thousands of unspeakable deposits, took up most of the floor. Beside it was a battered red bucket, a large bottle of stale water, and several overripe mangoes - from the market in Mumbai.

Dropping Taylor to her feet in front of him, Martin awkwardly opened the door and pushed her through. She fell to her knees on the mattress, making small soft yelps as her legs hummed with pain. With a long, low exhale, he looked her over for a few moments before speaking.

"You should be very grateful, slave," he said flatly. "If it wasn't for me you would have stayed in that dungeon in Mumbai forever. They would have tortured you for weeks; you'd have gone insane before they finally killed you. But I saved you. And right now, you've got a dozen AIDS-ridden psychos who want to give you the same treatment as their boss. But I won't let them. So you better think about how you're going to thank me."

He shut the door quietly, clicking the padlocked bolt in place. "I'll be back in a day. I want you to rest up now, you've got a show coming up. You better be ready when I come back."

Silently he stepped away from the door and returned to his cabin. At last there would be the chance for a few hours' proper sleep; enough at least to get his sanity back. There would be about seven long days before they reached Dubai, and he needed Taylor ready to go before then. As the thumping vibration of the engine beat out a distant bassline, the heavy fold of sleep finally overtook him.