This chapter begins the morning after the long Saturday spent with beautiful Za’ana at the closed motel, which had been the perfect venue for her sadistic urges and shit-obsessed sex games.
I awoke at sunrise, my bladder full. Thin spandex straps surrounded my hips and occupied my ass crack; I remembered I was wearing thong panties. Taking in my surroundings, I was not in the dorm, but a shabby room in a doomed old motel. I had spent the night occasionally sitting on the toilet with the squirts, but mostly sleeping next to my beautiful, twisted girlfriend, after a long day of our messiest scat sex yet, and having my rectum and nuts abused. Despite a thorough scrubbing last night, I could still smell a dull scent of shit on my skin as I brought my hand up to my yawing face. Dim light filled the room. This was not the one in which we had wallowed in excrement for hours; this was a clean room nearby I made up with sheets a blanket last night. I noticed Za’ana was not in bed, and the bathroom was lit but silent. I thought she had gone out for a run, but heard the rumble of an engine idling outside. Her makeup and belongings were still spread all over the dresser, so she wasn’t packed to leave. Hopefully she was going for coffee.
I limped into the bathroom, and pissed into the rust stained, ancient beige toilet, taking the opportunity to temporarily free my sore balls from the tight lacy yellow triangle that had compressed them all night. Suddenly I realized the idling engine was a diesel, and therefore not her truck or mine. Quickly I looked out the window as the fan from the heater blew its stale air across my bare legs.
Sitting askew in a parking space, headlights on, driver’s side and rear doors open, was a white cargo van. It looked like one I had seen before, the horrible morning I was accosted by smug Special Agent Brewster and her large partner.
Panicking, I looked for Za’ana’s holster and gun, but they were missing, as was her taser. I tossed the panties and jumped into my pair of sweats, shoes, grabbed a hoodie and quietly opened the door. The moon was still visible in the sky as I crept down the cracked concrete walk. Looking down the building, the lights were on in the room we had fucked in the previous day, the site of Za’ana’s bucket-of-intestinal-chili-palooza. I had spent over two hours in that room last night wiping dried shit off the nightstand, walls and yes, the ceiling, and dragging the ruined area rug and lampshade to the dumpster across the parking lot. The worn mattresses and box springs, which had hosted hundreds of nights of fat, masturbating truckers or horny teenage fucking, were also taken to their final resting place in the dumpster, soaked after being hosed down by the pool to remove as much of the vomit, urine and fecal stench as possible. Dragging the dripping wet mattresses solo was quite a workout, and I was stiff and sore from that as well as the day’s sadistic sex.
My pulse raced as I stepped quietly up to the room, hoping that Constance and her giant bald partner hadn’t arrested or hurt my girlfriend. I wasn’t sure what help I could be unarmed or even armed, but had to peek inside. The curtains, also splattered with excrement, had been removed, leaving nothing to cover the large, dirty window. The door was halfway open and I walked in, amazed at what was taking place. I felt like I had walked into a low budget crime movie.
In the room, bizarrely lit by the over headlight and the idling van’ headlights, was Constance, arms and legs spread, on the bare, worn linoleum floor, tied face up by multiple loops at the wrists and ankles, to the corners of the vacant, square metal bed frame. Za’ana, wearing a black running outfit and jacket, stood over her, holding the nearly depleted spool of lamp cord and the cutting pliers. Multiple pieces of clipped plastic cable ties were scattered around.
Constance was dressed, well almost, in jeans, a black t-shirt and dark blue windbreaker. For some reason her pants were only as high as her upper thighs and unzipped, , revealing a pair of colorful, flower patterned panties. I figured it was not a good idea to stare, since my girlfriend was in the room, weapons lying on the dresser.
Both of Constance’s sneakers had been removed and the socks stuffed in her mouth. Her bare feet had high arches and her stubby toes were held tightly together due to the cool air. When she saw me she started yelling something undecipherable into the socks. Her face was devoid of makeup and was reddened with anger. Dark crescents lurked under her blue eyes. Even in this compromised position, she still looked pretty good, but seeing her in person again reminded me of how pissed off I was that she knew about my secret, submissive, perverted life. My attention turned to my approaching girlfriend, who smiled and leaned in to kiss me on the cheek.
“Good morning sweetie!” Za’ana, dressed in a black and red running outfit, said cheerfully and loudly over the noise diyarbakır escort of the idling truck. “Did you sleep well? I went for a run and noticed a white van on a side road with New Jer-zee license plates a few digits away from several other cars I’ve seen following me the last few weeks. All owned by the same agency. Did they really think I wouldn’t notice?” The brunette shook her head and looked down at the blonde captive. “So I went back for my gun and waited in the woods a few minutes and out steps this Malibu Barbie,” she said, referring to Constance’s straight platinum blonde hair and suntan, just like the doll. “She squatted to pee, and taser darts to her white derriere dropped her like a sack of potatoes. I threw her in the back of her truck and brought her here for a little chat.” My girlfriend’s expression then changed from a smirk to a serious one. “I’m almost ready to close the deal and this bitch is going to fuck up everything. If she won’t cooperate, we can throw her body into that deep hole at the gas station.” Za’ana gestured toward the derelict white building bordering the motel. “We need to remove her clothes. The fresh air will sharpen her memory and they will have to rely on DNA for identification, if they ever happen to find the corpse.”
Not happy at being referred to as a corpse, the blonde’s blue eyes widened as Za’ana pulled out a small knife and bent down. Constance bucked her hips and flailed her arms wildly, yanking on the white lamp cord restraints and yelling into the socks that filled her palate. The metal bed frame rattled loudly.
Still amazed, I watched as the exotic brunette reached down and began slicing the spastic, wailing blonde’s clothes off, slitting then ripping the length of her jacket sleeves. Both my slight sympathy for Constance and perverse enjoyment of her involuntary stripping were interrupted as my girlfriend spoke to me without looking up. She gestured to her keys on the dresser.
“Be a dear and use the master key. Pull a few shower curtains down for the floor in here to catch the splatters, and nail one to this wall.” Za’ana said and pointed. “This could become messy. And cut that stinking fucking van off!” she said, referring to the diesel exhaust fumes wafting into the cold room from the idling truck.
As I walked over to the van and hopped into the driver’s seat, I knew that normally I would have been totally shocked and scared as hell at what my lover was saying and threatening to do. But, I knew she was bluffing to scare her captive. The previous day at the hoagie shop, still suspecting the appearance of the pretty blonde agent was a set up by Za’ana to test my loyalty, I risked exposure and revealed everything. Paranoid of listening devices in our cars, or someone following us, I barged into the ladies’ restroom with my girlfriend, and grabbed her purse while she stood dumbfounded. I found a lipstick and scribbled a message on the mirror: ‘TREAS DEPT AGENTS AFTER U’. She replied by drawing a heart and kissing me, then wiped the mirror clean. We said nothing more about it until on the drive back to the motel. We pulled up a forested hunting access road and parked, and both jogged into the woods, where I gave the smiling brunette beauty all the details of my meeting with extortionist Agent Brewster and her distracting nipples. Za’ana lovingly stroked the side of my face as she swore me to secrecy and told me what was supposed to transpire. As a reward I received her tongue in my ear and a long, deep kiss with lots of spit, all while allowed to massage her wonderful ass with both hands inside her pants.
I was sure my girl friend had gone out this morning intentionally to see if Constance and her partner were in our proximity and listening in. Luckily he didn’t seem to be around. I wasn’t sure what Za’ana hoped to gain by essentially kidnapping the blonde woman, other than harassing her. So far my girl was pretending she discovered Constance on her own, to protect me.
By the time I returned to the room, dragging four mildew-edged white shower curtains, Za’ana had stripped Constance down to her yellow halter sports bra and panties. The captive blonde hadn’t planned on being seen undressed anytime soon, as her inner thighs and armpits had a little stubble. Shredded clothes were now scattered about. I spread the shower curtains around like painter’s drop cloths on the worn, orange and cream-colored, checkered pattern linoleum tile that reminded me of my grandmother’s kitchen. Za’ana lifted the angry blonde agent’s body long enough for me to slide the vinyl, stained and ripped in places, beneath her.
Once I was done, I dashed over to the maintenance room to find some nails to tack one to the wall. The socks had evidently become absent from Constance’s mouth as she began screaming, which I could hear out the open door two rooms away.
“This is God damn kidnapping! You sick freaks are both going to prison! If I disappear you’ll be the first diyarbakır escort bayan suspects!”
I returned and stood next to Constance’s head as I began hammering a few small nails into the cheap wood paneling to hang the last shower curtain from. The blonde was somewhat short, maybe five and a half feet tall but muscular, with well developed thighs, lats and shoulders like a swimmer or gymnast.
Za’ana squatted next to the blonde agent, toying with the knife. “Tell me what you know about my operations. What are your passwords?” she asked, referring to the laptop on the dresser, taken from the white van. Having a second woman present with a ‘normal’ American accent reminded me how sexy my girlfriend’s Russian-French Canadian accent was.
“Fuck you!” Red-faced Constance snarled and spat on my girlfriend’s pants leg above her ankle.
The calm brunette chuckled, slid her finger over the saliva and slid it into her mouth “Have you forgotten who you’re dealing with? You know all my little secrets. Was that supposed to bother me?”
The two women verbally sparred for the next couple minutes, with insults and wishes for fatal disease flung at Za’ana, who continued to calmly press the stubborn blonde for information, even offering a new car or a cash bribe of fifty thousand dollars to become a partner in the enterprise. My girlfriend arose and whispered in my ear, then pulled a large piece of Constance’s blue wind breaker off the floor and tied it into a full hood over her captive’s face and head, leaving her unable to see.
When the exotic brunette whispered to me, it was to send me to the maintenance room to pick up a few things. I stepped back into the room as Constance, her chilled body now covered in goose bumps, continued to curse at us both, demanding we remove the hood. Her head was covered in dark blue jacket material, and her nipples, erect from being on the cold floor in the unheated, open door room, showed slightly through the sturdy yellow sports bra. Her freckled cleavage undulated as she continued to tug on her bindings.
The legal threats continued from under the hood as Za’ana took one of the circular saws from me, held back the lower blade guard and set it on the blonde agent’s taught, tanned stomach. The unplugged saw’s teeth depressed her skin slightly. Constance’s breath became quick and shallow. The saw moved up and down quickly like a boat on a stormy lake.
“Passwords!” My girlfriend demanded.
“What is that?” the blonde yelled about the power saw on her stomach. “Enough of this bullshit! Let me out of here you sick bitches!” Agent Brewster screamed from under the hood, working in an insult to me as well.
“Okay, have it your way, little whore!” Za’ana said, lifting the saw off the shallow red indentations several teeth of the silver blade made in the skin of the agent’s stomach.
The next sound was the loud wail of the saw and subsequent grinding filled the room as Za’ana quickly plugged it in and began cutting a slice into the top of the nightstand next to the bed frame, only about two feet from the blonde’s head. The smell of burned wood was intense, and sawdust drifted onto Constance’s restrained arm.
“You’re not scaring me! Let me go!” The blonde’s words were defiant but fear
Began to show in her speech. “My partner…he’s supposed to relieve me. He’s due any…” Her voice weakened.”…any minute now!”
“Good. Maybe we can talk some sense into him, If not, I have extra blades,” Za’ana replied coldly. “The gas station has room for two,” she said, referring to the hole next door. “And Robert and I can be out of the country in two hours.”
My girlfriend then called Constance a branch office slut and yanked the center of the blonde’s yellow sports bra upward with the blade of the small knife, exposing the spherical, pale undersides of Constance’s breasts and lifting her back several inches off the floor. After a few seconds of sawing motion the bra was sliced up the middle and the cups snapped to the sides, completely revealing her beautiful, goose bump-peppered tits, which flattened out slightly across her rib cage and shook as the blonde’s back fell to the floor with a thump. Constance’s stiffened, nicely protruding pink nipples each resembled the end of a plump, overcooked macaroni noodle, with deeply set mammary duct openings. About ten or so surrounding bumps, nearly as large, were widely spread and sat atop a wrinkled field of slightly darker areola flesh on each quivering breast. The blonde’s tan lined, taught torso continued to rise and fall rapidly with her breath.
Za’ana then smiled and winked at me as she clutched the bladeless saw and pressed its trigger. At the same time she flung a little loose sawdust she had gathered in her other hand onto her captive’s chest, to create the illusion of it being cast off the spinning blade that had just cut a slice out of the ruined nightstand.
Constance, quickly escort diyarbakır deducing that the exposure of her tits and the nearby whirring saw were related events, began hyperventilating and shouting her password, a combination of a pro football team name, a numerical date, and the nickname of her sorority. It sounded like she was now crying beneath the hood.
I turned to the laptop already tilted open on the dresser, and nodded to Za’ana as the password was accepted and icons appeared, backed by DHS wallpaper.
Even still, my grinning girlfriend lowered the humming saw toward one of Constance’s nipples, a moving target as the blonde literally shivered beneath.
“That was wrong! You lying whore!” Za’ana said, to her captive, and revved the motor on the saw, enjoying the hysteria she was causing.
“It’s right! Try it again!” the blonde wailed. “Please!”
Constance let out an ear-piercing shriek as the sharp-feeling brass key quickly scraped across her pink nipple. Intended to feel, as it had on my cock, like the beginning of a slice from the spinning saw blade, it did no damage and was only momentary. The hooded woman immediately began to sob loudly. “It’s right! I swear! This is just a job! You guys are in-saaane!” After a few more revs of the motor, the whirring saw slowed to a stop.
Saying nothing while the topless Agent Brewster lay crying on the shower curtain-draped floor, Za’ana arose and stepped over to look at the laptop’s contents. She hummed melodically as she scanned through several folders and files, most with official looking logs of dates, times, locations and people’s names. She encountered another folder, with a save date of the previous day. It was also password protected.
“What’s this folder from yesterday?” Za’ana called out to the bound girl on the floor.
“Um , nothing…just…um…backups.” Constance said between sobs. “The investa…investigation is all there…All of it.”
“The password doesn’t work.”
“It’s nothing.. .just…back…backups.”
“You little slut!” Za’ana stepped over, reached down and yanked the blonde’s panties upward and sliced them with the knife blade. The elastic hems of the flower-patterned cotton easily gave way, and sniffling Constance was instantly rendered nude, except for the remnants of the sports bra draped across her armpits and the makeshift hood covering her head. Her light brown bush had grown since the video of her on St. Martin was taken, and her winged heart tattoo was now visible on her hip.
“Souvenir!” Za’ana said, tossing me the shredded panties off the tip of the knife. I caught them, and the cotton panel was quite damp, as if the blonde, or at least her pussy, was enjoying her ordeal, much like my cock responded to the demands of the exotic brunette the day I met her. Unable to resist, I briefly held Agent Brewster’s panties up to my nose and took in the blonde’s sultry fragrance as soon as my girlfriend looked away.
The tied-up agent began trembling and screaming out a similar password as the bed frame rattled and black and yellow circular saw came to life. Za’ana, holding the orange extension cord in one hand, slid the side guard of the saw down the again-hysterical blonde woman’s tanned thigh, with the empty blade housing slowly heading directly toward her exposed genitals.
Despite the distracting view of my girlfriend’s beautiful, squatting ass and Constance’s nice, hairy pussy and wildly flailing tits, I was surprised at the MP4 file I began to run. There was a black and white spycam video of the very room we were in. Based on the angle and date stamp in the corner, the camera was placed up in the smoke detector yesterday while we were away at lunch. I jumped ahead in the video and there was Za’ana, slathered in shit and riding my cock, with her trusty pot of sewage at her side.
After another minute or so, my girlfriend ceased hovering the whirring but bladeless saw close to Constance’s labia and left her naked, chilled and softly sobbing on the floor. As the room fell almost silent, the brunette arose and pivoted the laptop away from me. Za’ana’s expressions changed from anger to quizzical, to a rare raised brow and open jaw of surprise as she scanned through several videos. Mumbling in some language but clearly using the word ‘stalker’, she spun the screen around to show me. On one file, nearly every second of the edited footage was focused on Za’ana’s beautiful face, or body. A horny guy couldn’t have done a better job. While on St. Martin, Constance had videoed us as we ate and sipped wine in cafes, fucked at night in the lit cabin, or sat on the deck or beach. In this montage, I was never on the screen as more than appendage, even when my girlfriend and I strolled hand-in-hand down the shore line. A group of still photos were enlarged but fuzzy images of my girlfriend’s vagina, both covered and bare, captured as she laid on the nude beach or was bent over on the deck of our cabin. It was now clear why the blonde was reluctant to give out the second password. She was obsessed with my exotic lover.
“That explains this,” Za’ana whispered, reaching down to retrieve something out of Constance’s desert camouflage duffel bag, which my girlfriend had apparently already searched.