Island Getaway Ch. 01

"Someone was going to have a more--" Abigail hesitated, not wanting to be overly judgemental of a person she didn't know. "A more active vacation than I was planning."

She was about to give up when she found a hidden pocket in the purse. Opening it she found an envelope filled with official-looking documents. Glancing through them quickly, she realized she wasn't sure what they were exactly, but they definitely weren't the contact information for the owner, so she left them on the table and went back to searching the suitcase.

A few minutes later, realizing that she probably wasn't going to find anything useful, Abigail sighed and reached for the phone on the bedside table.

"When was the last time I used a landline?" she wondered, as she called down to the front desk of the hotel, planning to tell them about the missing suitcase and hoping that they might be able to find her some clothes.

"Uh, yeah, um, hotel desk," a gruff male voice on the other side answered awkwardly.

"Hi there, this is really embarrassing, but I grabbed the wrong bag at the airport," Abigail explained, her voice tinged with urgency. "Could you help me find out who owns it and where my suitcase might be?"

"Oh, yes! Uh," the person on the other end of the line seemed strangely excited. "Could you describe the suitcase?"

"It's just a dark blue suitcase. With wheels."

"And you're...Abigail Thompson?"

"Yes." How had he known her name? She must have said it at the start of the phone call.

"And what room are you staying in?"

Abigail paused. What room was she in? She looked at the keycard for the door, but it was unhelpful. "I'm not sure. On the 13th floor."

Abigail had hoped for an offer of help, or at least a quick response. Instead, she got neither. On the other end of the line, she heard muffled voices as the receptionist talked to someone else. She strained to hear their conversation but was only able to catch one side of it.

"I think we got it!" said a voice Abigail was pretty sure was the person she'd been talking to on the phone. "No, I'm not sure, but some woman saying she's Abigail Thompson just called to say she has the wrong bag."

A few seconds went by as someone Abigail couldn't hear replied and then the first voice continued. "Thirteenth floor. Says she doesn't know what room. Just grab another guy and check them all. And yes, I know the elevator's broken, take the stairs. Once you have the files make sure she can't tell anyone about them."

More muffled voices and then "I don't care how you do it, but the boss said to make it look like an accident."

Suddenly the voice came back on the line. "Someone will be right up to help you!"

"That's," Abigail swallowed. "Great. Thank you."

She hung up the phone, her heart pounding in her chest, what was going on? Her eyes looked across her room and settled on the documents she'd found in the purse. Based on the "TOP SECRET" stamps across the top of each page that up until now she hadn't noticed she realized that, whatever they were, they weren't something she should have seen and they were something people would kill for to get back.

But no, that couldn't be the case. This was just some sort of mistake. Right?

She looked across the room to the muted TV and saw it was showing a local news broadcast with a picture of a woman and "international terrorist" emblazoned along the bottom of the screen. To her horror, Abigail realized that the woman in question was herself, though she wasn't sure whether she should be thankful that they were using the truly terrible photo of her from customs.

"No," she thought to herself. "This can't be happening. Not to me. I'm just a teacher."

She walked to the hotel window and peeked through the curtains, hoping that there would be nothing unusual there. Instead, Abigail saw numerous black SUVs with tinted windows, what looked like heavy-duty military and police vehicles haphazardly parked, and numerous armed men rushing around in front of the hotel.

As she stared down at the street Abigail's mind whirred through the possibilities. Even if she was completely innocent of what they said she'd done (whatever that was) she didn't think she'd be able to convince whoever was coming to her door. Especially if they had instructions to make it look like an 'accident.'

Abigail glanced around, looking for somewhere to hide, but realized that they'd find her if she stayed in the small hotel room. "I have to get out of here," she thought.

She looked down at herself, clad only in a towel, before her gaze drifted back to the pile of skimpy clothing on her bed. "Not like I have any other options," she muttered to herself as she dropped the towel to the floor and started pulling clothes from the pile, hoping she'd find something less revealing or, at least, something that would fit.

With a mixture of discomfort and determination, Abigail stepped into a tiny red g-string. "This barely even qualifies as underwear," she grumbled as she pulled it up and over her thick thighs. Her pubic hair peeked out from the sides and top in a way that, to her surprise, made her feel even more embarrassed than wearing the g-string in the first place.

"Don't worry about it," she said to herself. "Just do it fast." She didn't know how much time she had, but it couldn't be long.

She squeezed and wriggled into a black leather miniskirt that clung tightly to her hips like a second skin and barely covered her round ass. She fumbled with the belt for a second before leaving it dangling and undone ('No time, no time."), then grabbed what turned out to be a red super-push-up bra that accentuated her already large breasts to an extreme degree once she'd managed to hook the clasp on the back closed.

She debated trying to find a different bra that didn't enhance her cleavage quite so much but, with time of the essence, instead slipped her arms into a sleeveless leopard-print blouse. Without even bothering to button the blouse she quickly swept her phone, passport, the documents, and everything else on the table into the sequined purse, grabbed some shoes from the pile of clothes still on her bed and, checking quickly to make sure nobody was in the hallway, left the room.

"Can't believe I'm going around barefoot again," she thought to herself as she ran down the hall, her bare feet slapping on the tile floor. "Don't want to make this a habit."

Her breasts bounced around as she ran, threatening to escape the bra, leaving Abigail to wish she had a third hand to hold the unbuttoned blouse closed. However, she realized she'd rather walk for hours barefoot and topless if it meant she would survive the night.

"Please," she thought desperately. "Please, let me make it."

She got to the elevators and, remembering that they were out, cursed her luck. Instead, she opened the doors to the stairwell and heard boots on the stairs below her and male voices swearing loudly. Realizing that these men having to go up 12 flights of stairs was probably the only reason she wasn't dead yet, she decided she wasn't that upset about the elevators.

Thinking quickly, she headed up the stairs to the 14th floor stairwell, where she stood frozen in fear, clutching the shoes and purse to her still shaking chest, hoping the men below wouldn't hear her. To her enormous relief, they headed through the door she'd just exited and down the corridor toward her room.

Letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, Abigail finally fastened the skirt's silver belt buckle, did her best to button up the blouse (though this did nothing to cover up her now prestigious cleavage), and put on the shoes she'd grabbed on her way out of her room which, of course, turned out to be strappy black ones with stiletto heels.

"Okay, but they're better than barefoot at least, right?" she thought to herself, wondering when the last time she'd worn anything other than flats was. "Well, as long as I don't trip and break my neck."

One flight of stairs and three near falls later, Abigail decided that maybe barefoot actually was better and removed the shoes before making her way quietly (and carefully) down the rest of the stairs to the hotel's main floor.

Strapping the ridiculous heels back onto her feet, Abigail peeked out of the stairwell and noticed armed men standing around the lobby, guarding entrances, and towering over scared-looking employees who were doing their best to placate the concerns of a growing group of guests. TVs on the walls showed the same newscast Abigail had seen in her room, with her picture being flashed on screen every minute or so.

Abigail retreated back into the stairwell where she heard boots thumping down the stairs above her. "Oh shit, oh shit," Abigail muttered to herself. She opened the door and tottered out into the lobby, doing her best not to look directly at anyone (or fall over) and quickly made her way to a disabled-use restroom which, thankfully, was nearby. Ducking through the door, Abigail locked the door behind her and realized the adrenaline pumping through her veins was making her shake. Turning on the tap she splashed some water onto her face and took a minute to catch her breath and try to calm her nerves.

She stared at herself in the mirror, seeing a panicked face staring back at her. "I can't go out there again, they'll know who I am." Tears of fear pricking at the corners of her eyes, Abigail looked down at the counter and saw that someone had forgotten an eyeliner pencil.

"Maybe," she hesitated. "Maybe I can change what I look like enough that they won't recognize me." She thought back to the photo of her she'd seen on the TV and how little she thought it looked like her. "Okay, you can do this. Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that."

She dumped the contents of the purse on the counter and took stock of the stranger's makeup she had available. There was a veritable makeup store worth of stuff compared to what she normally carried around. Eyeshadow palettes, eyeliner pencils, lipstick tubes, highlighters, blushes, and who knows what else created a rainbow kaleidoscope of colors while there were so many different brushes, sponges, and curlers that Abigail wasn't sure what all of them were supposed to be used for.

Abigail tried to pull out some things that looked familiar but before she could begin her regular makeup routine, she realized that the normal, light style she preferred would do nothing to hide her identity.

Taking a deep breath Abigail picked up some foundation and began sponging it onto her face and neck. It was multiple shades darker than what she'd normally use on her pale skin, but that was a good thing, right? She blended concealer under her eyes and over some freckles that were still visible then liberally applied setting powder to everything.

"Okay," Abigail thought to herself. "That's the easy part done." She quietly wished that she'd paid more attention to those contouring videos on YouTube that sometimes showed up in her feed before applying pink blush to her cheeks. She used an eyebrow pencil to fill in and thicken her thin eyebrows, attempting to give them fuller definition and an arch that her real ones lacked due to unfortunate plucking incidents in her youth.

Abigail stared at the plethora of eyeshadow colors available before deciding on a deep blue color she brushed onto her eyelids in thick layers. Next came heavy black eyeliner ringing her eyes and multiple rounds of mascara before applying long false eyelashes using eyelash glue.

"I hope I'm doing this right," she mumbled, her hand shaking slightly. She got the left eyelash perfect immediately, but the right one took a few times before she was happy it wasn't too crooked.

She used a lip liner to outline her lips before painting them with multiple coats of the brightest pink lipstick Abigail had ever used and applying enough layers of gloss to make her lips really shine.

Abigail undid her dark brown curly hair from the bun she'd put it in, and tried to brush it so that the curls would bounce and flow around her shoulders more seductively, though she didn't think she was that successful. Dusting some body glitter across her chest and collarbones she stepped back to look at herself in the mirror.

Examining her reflection, Abigail realized she now barely recognized herself. The heavy makeup was somewhat messy and not the best job she'd ever done, but it definitely made her look different.

As for the skimpy outfit, it was far from the conservative and boring clothes she normally wore. She'd grabbed the leopard-print blouse seeing that it had a collar and hoped that it would cover up more of her than some of the other tops. And while that had turned out to be true, it was more due to how little material was involved in most of the other tops rather than any modesty the yellow-and-black blouse gave her.

Her bare shoulders and exposed arms made her somewhat anxious about the stubble in her armpits, though she doubted anyone would be looking at her arms based on how much of her breasts were on display. She'd made several attempts to do up more of the buttons on the blouse and hide at least some of her cleavage, but they'd all failed.

Abigail had considered taking off the red push-up bra entirely but realized that the thin material of the blouse was transparent enough that cleavage was better than everyone being able to see her large nipples that would assuredly be at their pokiest and most erect due to the cold air the hotel's AC was pumping out.

The black leather miniskirt hugged her hips and ass tightly and was shorter than anything Abigail could remember ever wearing. While she thankfully couldn't see the red g-string, she felt it between her buttcheeks and no amount of adjusting could make it more comfortable.

She'd taken off the stiletto heels to do her makeup and as she stepped back into them and buckled the ankle straps they added at least four inches to her 5'1" height.

"I look like some sort of cougar bimbo," she thought to herself, blushing. "But hopefully that's not what they're looking for right now."

She shoved the makeup back into the purse and took one last glance at herself, adjusting her skirt and blouse so that they covered as much of her body as they could, which wasn't much.

"Can I really do this?" Abigail whispered to herself. But she thought again of the armed men after her and realized that she didn't have another choice.

Summoning every ounce of confidence she could muster, Abigail left the bathroom, doing her best to ignore her breasts which constantly seemed on the verge of bursting free and escaping from both the push-up bra and the blouse.

She walked into the hotel lobby and saw that the armed men (could they possibly be soldiers?) were still standing at the entrances and turning away guests. "I'm sure you'll be able to leave soon," Abigail overheard one hotel employee telling a group of guests at the reception desk. "Just hang tight and this will all be over soon." He tried to force a laugh, but it came out more as a sort of choking sound.

Fighting off panic, Abigail scanned the lobby for anywhere else she could go and spotted the hotel bar. Doing her best not to stumble in the stiletto heels she wore, Abigail made her way over to the bar and entered.

Glancing around the dimly lit bar Abigail saw groups of nervous-looking guests crowded around tables. She'd hoped to see something (An escape route? An accomplice?) but whatever it was, she hadn't found it.

Not seeing any empty tables, Abigail walked over to the bar and, as she stood there not sure what to do, a tall and broad-shouldered middle-aged white man approached her. Abigail could feel his eyes taking in her revealing attire and lingering on her curves. For his part he was dressed much more conservatively, wearing a light blue short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned at the collar and linen pants

"Buy you a drink?" he asked.

"Uh, sure," Abigail replied hesitantly, not sure what else to do. She asked for a glass of red wine, which she quickly changed to a daiquiri when her memory flashed back to the disastrous red wine incident on her flight.

The man guided Abigail over to where he'd been sitting at the bar and she was soon perched on the edge of a bar stool, holding a daiquiri in one hand and doing her best to keep her legs crossed so as not to flash her panties at the entire bar.

The man introduced himself as Mark, and as they chatted his language became increasingly flirtatious and sexual as his hand reached out to touch her leg or shoulder.

Abigail was about to ask him to stop when she saw some of the soldiers from the lobby enter the far side of the bar. Panic surged through her veins as she saw the men begin demanding identification from guests, their stern gazes scanning the room. Some people refused and they soon found themselves lying on the floor, their wrists handcuffed and their pockets and purses dumped out before having their IDs retrieved.

Abigail's mind raced, staying in the bar was not an option. Even if they didn't recognize her, she still had her ID in the purse. She glanced around the room once more, hoping she'd be able to slip away unnoticed.

Turning back to Mark, Abigail realized he'd asked her a question. "I'm sorry, what was that?" she said.

"I said, how much?"

How much? How much!? For what? Abigail suddenly realized that Mark had mistaken her for an escort which, based on her current appearance, she had to admit was an easy mistake to make. Frozen in place as her mind grappled with two different problems at the same time, Abigail felt her mouth moving without being fully conscious of what she was saying.

"Three hundred." Was that a good price? Maybe? Abigail had no idea exactly how much an escort might cost.

"Two hundred."

Abigail was relieved that her guess hadn't been rejected, but couldn't believe she was now haggling over how much she should be charging when all she wanted was out of the room and away from the soldiers.

"Two fifty."

Mark smiled. "You've got yourself a deal..." he trailed off until Abigail registered that he wanted her name.

"A--" Abigail realized she couldn't use her real name. "Alicia."

"Another drink?"

"No, I think I'm good," replied Abigail. "Shall we head to your room?"

Mark finished his drink, placed his arm around Abigail's waist, and Abigail managed to guide them towards the door on the opposite side of the room from where the soldiers were checking IDs.

Or so she thought. Directly outside was another man, holding a gun larger than any Abigail had ever seen.

"ID!" he barked, holding out one hand.

"They're in our room," said Abigail quickly, pointing towards the elevators, hoping the armed man wouldn't think it strange that they'd gone to a bar without any.

"Fine," the man grunted. "But take the stairs, elevator's out of service."

As they walked across the lobby, Abigail was convinced that at any moment she'd hear someone yelling for her to turn around, but they made it into the stairwell without incident.

Once the door had closed behind them and they began heading up to the third floor where Mark was staying, Abigail felt his hand sliding up and down her back, reaching down to cup her ass first through and then underneath her tight leather miniskirt. Abigail wanted to slap his hand away but she was pretty sure the hand gripping her ass was the only reason she hadn't tripped and fallen in the heels she was wearing.

Exiting from the stairwell Abigail saw more armed men going room-to-room, knocking on each door and kicking in those where there was no response.

Mark appeared entirely oblivious to this--the large bulge in his pants giving Abigail more than a suggestion of why--and led them both to his room.

Opening the door, Mark gestured for Abigail to go in ahead of him. Abigail entered and her gaze darted around the room but found it to be more or less identical to her own. Beige carpet, en-suite bathroom, small closet, queen-sized bed. Nothing helpful.