Stealing Simone

by Reese Gabriel

  A tear dotted his eye. He wanted her to be the last thing on his mind before he went. Should he write a note? He took out a sheet of stationary and laid the pen on top. An inspiration would come, he promised himself, any minute.

  But it didn't.

  Crumpling up the paper, he took the gun and pushed it into his mouth. He was halfway done with his ten count when the phone rang.

  It was Nikolai Karkhov. Mick nearly wet himself. “Nick,” he used the diminutive preferred by the vicious killer. “I was just gonna give you a call."

  "Is that right?” Nick sounded quite calm, almost amused. “See, great minds do think alike."

  Mick laughed uneasily, wondering why he should feel so frightened and intimidated when he'd been about to kill himself, delivering his body under his own steam to the one place this man and his brother would never be able to touch him.

  Could it be his tie to life was a little stronger than he'd given credit for?

  "About tonight,” Mick plunged into the waters, sure to be shark infested. “I wanted to explain."

  "Not necessary, my friend. The bond we have, is one of trust, no? How can I insult that bond by asking such questions? I must believe that certain things occurred as they were meant to be and that you acted in good faith."

  "Absolutely,” he concurred, though he had no idea what the man was actually saying.

  "I have to believe you had my interests in your heart. I have to believe there is hope."

  "Hope, yes, Nick. That is just how I would put it."

  "Mick, I would like you to come, tomorrow night, to the club."

  "To the Silver Angel?” Mick was more than a little surprised. The Angel was their premiere club, a gentleman's establishment where the right price could get you anything in the world by way of drugs or sex. It was also reputed to be a den of sadomasochistic pleasures.

  "You will be the personal guest of my brother and I."

  "I would be honored, Nick. Truly."

  "Ten o'clock, then. I look forward to it."

  Indeed, so did Mick, but for a different reason. It was his hope that Karkhov's men would do to him what he could not do himself, namely that they would finish the job he had left undone in not pulling the trigger.

  Suddenly terrified, he pulled the clip from the pistol and shoved it into the bottom drawer. The gun itself he hid in the filing cabinet on the other side of the room, as though having to walk a few extra feet in the next few hours would keep him from killing himself.

  There was one little bit of incentive to hang on, though, and that was having one more day in which to see Simone. Assuming she even came back to work. He wouldn't, not in her place. Then again, what did he know? He didn't even understand his own place in life anymore, let along hers.

  I'm so tired, thought Mick, lying down on his leather couch. Tired and very, very empty.

  I love you, Simone, he called out silently into the darkness of the city. More than you will ever know.

  Chapter Three

  Friday

  Sim-sim peeked out from between the bars of her digital cage. She was naked and collared. Martin had taken her clothes away and left her here overnight. Sighing at his computer screen, he looked for some sign she was happy. All night he'd been checking on her, dragging his ass in and out of bed. His cock was aching to the point of pain though he was allowing himself no relief. He'd not permitted dara to come near him last night nor would he put his hand on himself this morning. The days of quietly masturbating with Simone in mind were gone. He'd crossed a line, into some other new zone and there was no way back.

  He wondered if things would have been easier right now had his mother not died. She tended to keep things more orderly, both in the house and in his own mind. Mother would have liked Simone. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicion mother had sent the girl into his life, because it was shortly after her death that he first laid eyes on her, thus commencing their eternal attachment.

  It wasn't the first time he'd crossed paths with a beautiful girl. Once in high school, there had been a girl named Krissy. She was blonde and very pretty, a cheerleader. In trigonometry class, she would sit next to him and ask for help. He even let her cheat off him on the tests. Krissy was a flirt, with a very light and gay laugh. She would put her small hand on his arm and bat the lashes of her blue eyes. After one of the tests, she took him behind the gymnasium building and kissed him.

  "You're cute,” said Krissy.

  "You only like me because I help you pass the class,” he'd replied, parroting what his mother had said the day she'd come to the house to study.

  Her dimples flashed teasingly. “Why don't you ask me out and see for yourself."

  She walked away just then, with a swish of her skirt-clad ass.

  Young Martin was so hard he had to go straight to the bathroom to jerk off. He was trembling the rest of the day, totally tongue-tied. After school, knowing he would never be able to live with himself otherwise, he went to find her. As fate would have it, she was at that moment in the clutches of Derek, the varsity quarterback. He had her pinned against a row of lockers in the empty hallway. One hand was on her waist, while the other toyed with the top buttons of her blouse.

  She had one foot propped up on the metal lockers, baring her knee below the hem of the pleated skirt. Her hands were on his upper arms, lightly placed. She offered no resistance as he nuzzled her neck.

  Unseen as yet, Martin intended to beat a hasty retreat, but Derek spied him. “What the fuck do you want?” He demanded.

  Krissy opened her eyes. “Samuel,” she whispered.

  Derek immediately caught the tone of her voice and frowned. “This geek your new boyfriend?"

  "No,” Krissy insisted. “Please don't hurt him."

  Derek looked him up and down. Martin had yet to develop the lean, martial arts physique he had now. In those days, he was little more than a beanpole.

  "He's not worth my time,” Derek snorted. “Are you, geek?"

  Martin stood, stoic.

  "Nothing to say, geek?” Derek pulled Krissy in front of him, like a rag doll, her pert posterior pressed tightly to his crotch. “In that case, why don't you get a good look at what you'll never have."

  "Derek, don't,” she begged as the quarterback yanked up her skirt.

  Martin's crotch swelled at the sight of the sheer, baby blue panties. Her golden thatch was outlined beneath.

  "I'm gonna get me some of this later,” Derek hooked his thumb under the waistband. “Isn't that right, sugar?"

  Krissy's breathing was ragged. She didn't want to hurt Martin, but clearly she had no power or will to fight off the other one. “Derek, let's just go, okay?"

  "No. Say it. Tell me you want me to fuck you. Or I'll expose you right here."

  Her hips began to undulate. He was masturbating her under the panties, working her over good.

  "I ... I want you,” she said huskily.

  "Look at him,” he made her turn her head directly to the front. “Tell him you want me."

  She swallowed hard, looking at the emotionless Martin. “I want Derek ... I want him to fuck me."

  Derek slipped a hand in her blouse to palm her breast, firm and ripe under the pale blue bra. “There you have it, nerd. Now why don't you go home and play Atari while I give Krissy what she needs."

  "Yes ... just go, Martin,” she pleaded, sensing that he would not move otherwise, regardless of the beating he might endure.

  Martin did go, and after that, he vowed never to become involved with a woman again. At least not until he could completely control the situation. And the female.

  Sim-sim blinked her pretty eyes. Did she know what was in store for her real life counterpart? Today was the day. This evening, after work, they would grab her. Right now, Simone Leary was just waking up, turning her pretty head on the pillow. Soon she would be up and showering, preparing herself, choosing her dress or skirt, and underneath the underwear she would expect to see only to see herself-or to share with whoever
she chose of her own free will.

  What she did not know was that virtual strangers would see that underwear and remove it at the end of the day. Nor could she imagine that the next bed she would lay in would not be her own. Her body, her weekend was going to be hijacked. Charlie had promised her full cooperation. But what if she did resist? What if she were not automatically thrilled to be snatched from the parking garage, gagged and gassed? What if she wanted some say in being the sexual vessel for four assailants, or even some sort of veto power?

  Martin would have to monitor this situation very closely. He could and would pull the plug the moment things turned ugly. Excusing himself to the bathroom or wherever, he would be on the phone to the police. That would mean his own arrest, too, but he'd seen how it worked on TV. You turn state's evidence and you go free, or least walk away with a reduced sentence.

  And who would it be that Simone Leary would wait for? Charlie or one of the foreign psychos? No, it would he him. She would come to him, kissing him at the moment of his release from jail, offering herself, for real, forever.

  "I love you,” she would say in his ear. And that would be that.

  Feeling much better, Martin decided to take a shower and get out fresh clothes. It was going to be a special day. Very special.

  * * * *

  Charlie had dara over the kitchen table. It was a quick, spontaneous fuck, the sort of thing that happens naturally and regularly when you catch your slave in the act of naked, servile obedience.

  She'd been making his lunch, painstakingly cutting off the crust with a large, pointed knife. Several pieces of bread sat abandoned on the counter beside her, half trimmed, evidently not done to her satisfaction.

  For foreplay, he grabbed the back of her hair and told her that she had better be wet. If she hadn't been already, the tone of his voice was sure to do it.

  "Yes, master,” she moaned as he twisted her around and pushed her down face first. Automatically, she pressed her ass towards him offering herself.

  Charlie came in three quick, piston-like strokes. He did it fast enough so that she had no chance of climaxing herself. At times like these, he wanted it made clear to the girl that she was a sperm receptacle, a curvaceous toy for his amusement.

  "Back to work,” he smacked her ass, hard enough to leave an imprint.

  Dara gave a little moan, scrambling to finish the sandwiches. She was used to such treatment. It was the lot of a slave, after all. At any moment, anywhere she was, she must be prepared to drop and open, offering any desired orifice. Similarly, she must be prepared for punishment, harsh abuse to any part of her body, her most feminine parts especially.

  "We'll be having company tonight,” he poured himself a cup of coffee.

  "Yes, master."

  "You heard me talking last night, and the night before."

  "No, master."

  "Liar,” he smacked her round posterior again, the plump surface so perfectly designed for the palm of his hand. Not to mention a dozen other devices, from a hairbrush to a riding crop.

  "Ow ... sorry, master,” she squealed. “I ... yes, dara heard a little."

  Charlie chuckled. “I figured as much. The woman is from work. She'll be with us this weekend. You'll be taking care of her, seeing to basic needs and so on."

  "Yes, master."

  He studied her profile as she put the sandwiches into plastic bags. “Go, on, ask me the question you're thinking."

  Dara opted wisely not to hesitate or conceal. “Dara was wondering ... will this woman be a slave?"

  "She isn't now, that's for sure. But it doesn't mean she shouldn't be. I never met one of you gender that was better off free, actually."

  "Yes, master."

  "Someone should own her, to answer your question. But if all goes according to plan, we'll be turning her back over to our boss.” Charlie left out the possible scenarios that might follow. One of which involved him getting the girl for good, buying or trading for her, or flat out stealing her.

  "Dara will do as she is told, and take care of the woman."

  He continued to eye her for signs of jealousy. “The other men will be here, as well."

  "Yes, master.” She put some cookies in a baggie for him. Chocolate chip. “Permission to speak, master?"

  "Granted."

  "The quiet one, master ... the one with the army jacket ... Martin?"

  "Yes, you've met him before-what about him?"

  "Is he ... a homosexual?"

  Charlie laughed. She would think that since he had not used her, either last night or on any of the other occasions offered him. “No, Master Samuel is many thing, but gay is not one of them. He's just a little different that's all."

  "Oh.” Her eyes were lowered.

  He took her by the nipple, swinging her around. “I want you to listen closely, dara."

  "Yes, master.” She winced from the pressure he was applying.

  "Our bringing this woman here is not a small thing. She may at times act like she doesn't like it. It might look like something other than what it is. For that reason, no one can know. She will come at night, and stay downstairs. She will not come up during the day and you will not under any circumstances ever let her free. Not that I suspect we'll ever leave you alone in the house with her, but just the same, you need to know how important this is. If someone should misunderstand this, if she should talk to anyone else too soon, if we should be interrupted in any way before we finish our work, master could end up in trouble. Maybe even prison. Do you understand?"

  She nodded, eyes bright from the pain. “Yes, master, I do."

  "Good,” he released her with a kiss. “Good girl. Go and get me an apple,” he pointed to the brown paper sack.

  She put one in, shiny and red.

  "Wish master luck,” he grinned. “And tonight, you can wait for me standing up."

  "Thank you, master."

  "You are welcome, dara."

  Charlie left with a spring in his step, feeling thirty again. It was going to be a great day; he could feel it. And by this time tomorrow, he would be feeling far, far better, having put in her place one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen in his life. Not to mention the most bitchy.

  If he had any concerns at all, other than Martin acting so gun shy, it was the admittedly intense behavior exhibited by Lucien and the Russian. Perhaps he should have checked into their backgrounds more. They were both ex-military, with lots of counter-insurgency training. This little operation ought to be right up their alley, but were they controllable?

  Once Simone was in their grasp, could they be counted on to follow the game plan or would they go off half cocked? Charlie certainly had no firearms or martial arts experience to match them, but he did know human nature, being a salesman. At the heart of all motivation was greed. That was the key to keeping both men in line. The promise of cash, from Mick Gargone's deep pockets, that was the magic ingredient.

  And of course, he had his secret weapon, the one thing he noticed last night had pacified them both. Dara.

  Calling Martin on the cell phone, he arranged to meet him at the diner. From there he would meet with Lucien and Uchenko, who were responsible for getting the van by this afternoon. Martin would be watching Simone in the mean time so they wouldn't miss her leaving. He himself would keep tabs on the parking garage.

  It was a foolproof plan as far as he could see.

  And if they'd left anything out by now, it was too late.

  * * * *

  Simone was worried sick about Mick. He had not come into the office this morning and he wasn't answering his cell phone either. She had never known him to be out of touch like this. It had something to do with the gangsters he owed money to, she was sure of it.

  On a whim, she decided to leave him one last message, threatening to call the police if he did not communicate with her in the next thirty minutes. Sure enough, he called right back, begging her not to involve the law.

  "People will only get hurt, Sim, innocent
people."

  "You're innocent, too,” she declared. “And I don't want you hurt, either."

  "No,” he rasped, sounding weaker and more despairing than she'd ever heard him. “I'm the one who got myself and everyone I care about into this mess. Please, let me just deal with it my own way and everything will be just fine."

  Siimone had tears in her eyes. “Mick, I just want to be able to help you."

  "You can,” he said. “You are. Just ... pray for me."

  "Tell me where you are, Mick. I'll come to you. We'll think this through together.” She was desperate to keep him talking, before he could hang up and do something terrible.

  Or allow something terrible to happen to him.

  "I'm fine, honey, stop worrying so much."

  "Why won't you tell me where you are then?” She persisted.

  "I'm in the car, driving, just doing some thinking. Tonight I'm gonna relax. Head out to a nice club somewhere."

  She strained to hear something more in his voice. “Promise you'll call me, though? Later on?"

  He laughed, a pale shadow of himself. “Yes, mother, I will."

  "It's not funny, Mick. You're not telling me something. The gangsters-what are you doing about them? You said they would come after you."

  "I worked something out. I have what they want, something more than the money. Trust me, if there's one thing I know how to do, it's make a deal."

  "Mick, I love you.” Simone hadn't intended for that to come out, and now there was no retracting it. “I do."

  She heard him breathing for a moment. “Take care of yourself,” his voice cracked. “You hear me?"

  "Yes, Mick."

  "Promise you won't try and find me."

  "I won't."

  "No,” he said fiercely. “Really promise me. It's an order, got it?"

  "Yes,” she choked, but the phone had already gone dead.

  God damn it, she thought, I'm never going to hear his voice again.

  She was halfway to dialing 911 when it occurred to her that might only make things worse. She could call Randy, though that involved opening a personal can of worms she'd vowed to keep shut. Anyway, what could the cop do? She had proof of nothing, except that Mick himself was involved in illegal gambling.