Mistaken Identity Ch. 01

As ever, my gratitude goes out to Estragon for his work as my editor.

"And if you could just sign here, here, here and...here," Sarah Bolton, owner and Managing Director of Executive Fantasies, handed the form to Jennifer Harris, her latest client, pointing to the crosses which indicated the places where her signature was required. She also passed across her Mont Blanc fountain pen; nothing but the best from ExF.

Jennifer skimmed through the pages, confirming that the contract was exactly the same as the one she had had thoroughly checked out earlier. She hadn't made her way to the top without carefully reading the small print; and this contract, albeit a very private one, was not going to escape her usual scrutiny. Flicking through the pages, she thought about how she had ended up here, purchasing, at great expense, this weekend of escape.

In the decade or so since she had left collage she had been successful, successful beyond her, and everyone else's, expectations. She'd spotted a gap in the market and, with ruthless efficiency, had built up her business until her turnover was measured in eight figures. However, this success had come at a cost, a very personal cost, and amongst all the business, she never had time for relationships. Sure, she'd had one or two flings along the way, but she'd never had time to let any of them get close, close enough to divulge her real desires.

And it was these real desires that she was going to indulge now. Probably it was because she was such a control freak, because she insisted that, in every part of her business life, she was the one in control, that her fantasies were just the opposite. During the working day she was constantly in demand by those looking for her to take charge, to make the decisions, to lead the pack. As a stark contrast, in her rare moments of relaxation, she had come to dream of having someone else take control and make the decisions; she would be the led, not the leader. She would weave complex stories where she was subject to every whim and caprice of some dominant figure at whose feet she would grovel. As the years rolled by these fantasies had become more intense, more involved and her desire to act them out had become stronger and stronger. Naturally this was not a thing she could share easily. She had quite a high public profile and was hardly going to endanger her position by being indiscreet with any of her rare one-night stands.

And then Julie, a friend she'd met at a marketing conference, had, after one or two too many cocktails together, told her about 'Executive Fantasies' or 'ExF' as they preferred to be known. Julie had explained that ExF was an organisation for people who wanted, and could afford, an outlet to explore the extremes of their sexuality, to travel far outside the conventional norm, and to do so without risking shame or exposure. Julie hadn't asked too closely about Jennifer's kinks anymore than Jennifer had asked about Julie's, but there was an understanding that here was an organization that was discreet, professional, and, above all, understanding. The very next day Jennifer was on the phone to them.

It had taken a while before she had cleared the vetting procedure. ExF were very fussy about their clients and were judicious about who they would deal with. Without a personal recommendation she wouldn't have got past the front door and, even then, she was thoroughly checked out to make sure she was who she said she was. Jennifer was reassured by this; after all they weren't the only ones to have made unobtrusive enquiries.

Once the vetting process was over, she was invited to come in for an interview. This was when Jennifer had first met Sarah, who insisted on negotiating with new clients in person. For Sarah it was a chance to meet the client before the last few veils of secrecy were lifted. As for the clients, well, she knew how hard it could be for some to talk about exactly what they wanted and they appreciated the personal touch. Before the meeting Jennifer had been given a questionnaire, a list of activities, each of which she had to grade from one to five where one was 'never under any circumstances' and five was 'yes please'. The list was detailed and wide-ranging which meant that, even before they started, Sarah had a pretty good idea about what Jennifer wanted. This helped to break the ice and enabled Jennifer to be matter-of-fact as she described in some detail her dream of being kidnapped and then sold at auction as a sex slave. Sarah even pulled her up at one point, advising against being too prescriptive and suggesting that her clients often found the element of surprise helped 'spice up' the experience.

Once Sarah had gathered all the details she asked for time to put together a suitable package. She explained that a scenario as involved as the one Jennifer had described wouldn't be cheap; the auction alone required quite a few in the 'cast', and each of them would want to be paid. They agreed to meet a week later, by which time all would be ready.

Now, at the second interview, they went through the contract, dotting the 'i's and crossing the 't's. Jennifer had had time to check out all details, scrutinising all the get-outs and non-liability clauses. She had been impressed by the thorough and businesslike way it had been put together and, although she had blanched a bit when she saw the grand total, she understood that quality comes at a price.

"And here's your new identity," Sarah said as she passed over a purse which had a full set of credit cards, store cards and driving licence, all in the name of Susan Brown. Jennifer flicked through them. They looked very convincing, although she wouldn't dream of actually using any of them. Sarah had explained that, while there had to be some who were aware of her true identity, it was safest all round if this was kept to the minimum possible and, to ensure that even the cast were unaware of her true identity, the actual abduction would be done under a fake name.

"It's just in case, heaven forbid, one of the cast were to go rogue," Sarah explained. "Both parties need to reduce the risk of exposure to a minimum. Of course, when our cast are recruited they're heavily vetted but you can never be one hundred percent sure and, this way, were one of them to go to the press, you would be just another anonymous woman. Were anyone to try to trace you by using these they would hit a dead end, a false name at a false address. Funnily enough, some of our customers actually find it helpful. They find that becoming their fake identity enhances the fantasy of it all.

"OK. Just one final recap," Sarah said as she wound up the interview. "You, or rather, Susan Brown, are to be on the corner of the High St and Station Road at six thirty on Friday. You'll wear a light coloured coat and carry a copy of the local newspaper tucked under your left arm. Oh, and that Gucci umbrella of yours," Sarah pointed to the folded umbrella next to Jennifer's handbag, "carry that as well. Our operatives will 'capture' you and 'sell you into slavery' until, forty-eight hours later, on Sunday evening, when you'll be 'freed'. Your safe word is 'raspberry' and your go-slow word is 'strawberry'. If you're gagged the equivalent hand signals are...."

Jennifer watched as, once again, Sarah demonstrated the hand signals. They had been through this a few times already; Sarah had explaining the difference between a safe word, which would bring all activities to an immediate halt and the 'go-slow' word which meant that she was reaching her limits but didn't want to stop. Jennifer was already quite excited. Two whole days! Maybe it was expensive but Sarah's professionalism had convinced her that it would be money well spent; she would finally get to play out for real what had, so far, only been flights of her imagination.

Come Friday she was a bundle of nerves and had problems concentrating at work. Her PA was surprised that, by five thirty, she was clearing her desk and getting ready to go; Jennifer seldom finished before seven and Fridays were usually no exception. What surprised her more, however, was that, when Jennifer left she didn't take her car but set off on foot, wearing a light coloured coat, carrying her Gucci umbrella and a copy of today's local paper.

And that's where it all went wrong. Jennifer was half way across the pedestrian crossing on Station Rd when a car came round the corner far too fast, skidded on the damp tarmac, lost control and clipped Jennifer neatly on the hip, throwing her to the ground. Her head hit a kerbstone and she went out like a light.

******

Sue Brown looked at the clock on the wall, willing the hands to move. Aged twenty-eight and working as an insurance clerk in a well-known multinational, she was looking forward to the weekend. As far as she was concerned, Friday night was clubbing night. There was a new nightclub playing the latest sounds and she was looking forward to meeting her mates there. She had even bought a new dress from Next. With its spaghetti straps and short hem it was, well, daring but that's just the look she wanted on the dance floor. She had worked late during the week, saving up her flexi hours so that, come Friday, she was off home on the dot of three-thirty. Come the magic hour she left the office, raced back to her flat, grabbed a quick bite to eat, showered and changed so that, by six o'clock, she was ready to head on out. She was slightly against the clock. Her friend Andrea had said that, if she were on the corner of High St and Station Rd by six thirty, prompt, she could get a lift downtown, which would save on the cost and discomfort of going by bus.

With the time to go fast approaching Sue glanced out of the window. A light drizzle was falling and it was not really a night to go out wearing such flimsy clothes. Once she was in Andrea's car she would be fine but bare shoulders were hardly the thing, waiting on the corner of the High St. She'd have to cover up. She got out her beige mackintosh and, needing something to protect her hairdo, she accompanied it with her umbrella. It was a Gucci knock-off from the market, but she felt it was quite a good one and you had to look quite closely to spot the difference. Now she could stay warm and dry until she got in the car. Not that she'd go out clubbing in a mac and brolly; she would leave them in the car while they hit the dance floor. There was just one last thing before she left. On her way home she had picked up a copy of the local paper and Andrea's amateur drama group had got a really good write-up. She was sure Andrea would want to see the review so, unable to fit the newspaper into her diminutive handbag, she tucked it under her left arm.

It was already dark by the time she left and the street lighting on the corner of the High St and Station Rd was none too good. Sue, who had arrived early, perched on the edge of the kerb, making sure Andrea wouldn't miss her. She was slightly distracted by an accident further up Station Rd; some poor woman had been run down on the zebra crossing. Walking in London was getting more and more dangerous. Fortunately the ambulance was there in less than five minutes and it appeared that the woman wasn't too badly hurt.

She was still watching the woman being put in the ambulance when her view was blocked by a nondescript white van, which drew up at the kerb next to her. The side door slid open and she saw a figure half hidden in the shadowy interior of the back of the van.

"Susan Brown?" the figure asked.

"Err... yes but...." She leant towards the van to see what was up. How did this man know who she was? As she did so she saw that it was not one but two figures, crouched inside the body of the van and each was wearing some sort of Halloween mask. Before she had time to react, they grabbed her and pulled her inside. The door was slammed shut, one of her captors banged on the partition and they were off. Fortunately the inside of the van was well padded as they were quite rough with her, throwing her to the floor, grappling with her arms and pulling them behind her back. Her coat was pulled from her shoulders, losing several buttons in the process and, as her arms emerged from the sleeves, she felt something hard circling her wrists and realised that she'd been handcuffed. She was screaming as loud as she could but one of her assailants clamped his hand over her mouth so her attempts were muffled. Then she tried to bite him but he was wearing gloves and her joy at making him withdraw his hand was short lived when a piece of duct tape was slapped across her mouth. They finished off by putting more tape around her ankles so that she lay, mute and hog-tied in the centre of the van's padded floor. Her dress, which was not that long in the first place, had ridden up to around her waist but she was unable to do anything about it; modesty had gone the same way as dignity. Now that she was secured, her captors switched on the light and sat back, bracing themselves against the rolling of the van as it made its way through the London streets.

"She's not too much like her photo," one of her captors commented as he looked at a clipboard.

"Here, pass it over," the other said and he too scrutinised the photo, presumably attached to the board.

"I dunno," he continued. "It's pretty close. Young, Caucasian, shoulder length brown hair. It's a bit darker in the picture but these women are always messing with their hair colour. You should have seen my last girlfriend. Blonde one week, brunette the next. Anyway, I'll do the standard checks."

He found her handbag where it had fallen and rummaged inside, finding her purse and, within it, her credit cards and driving license, which he checked thoroughly.

"Hmm... She's Susan Brown, all right. She was waiting at the pick up point wearing a light coloured coat, Gucci umbrella and carrying the local paper under her left arm. This must be the client. I mean, what are the odds?" He looked again at the clipboard. "The photo is pretty close. I mean, you ought to see my passport photo; I'm surprised they let me in to Alicante last summer."

"But that brolly's never a Gucci," the other captor protested. "I can see from here it's a knock off from one of those market stalls."

"Knock off, or real thing, it's got that double G logo on it, that's close enough for me, OK? You can't expect perfection every time. Right then, sweetheart," he turned his attention to Sue, "we've got a long way to go so you just lie there quietly. We're under strict instructions to deliver you safely and that's what we're going to do. There's nothing you can do to stop us so it would be best for all if you just lie back and enjoy the ride. Nod if you understand."

Sue rolled over and tried to lash out with her legs. However she couldn't get a purchase and she was simply brushed away. Her captor smiled nastily and pushed himself forward so that he was lying on top of her, his masked face just behind her head. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head up off the floor of the van. His other hand reached down and was grappling between her thighs, reaching for her tights and panties and pushing them down.

"Listen, cunt, I'm paid to deliver you safely and in one piece but no one is too fussy about what happens along the way. Are you going to start behaving or am I going to have to make you?" He groped between her thighs and she felt his coarse fingers on her sex. "Nasty or nice, your choice. Now, are you going to behave?"

Nodding was hard with her head held by the hair but Sue managed it. Maybe she'd live to fight another day.

"Good girl." For all his threatened rape, her captor seemed more interested in her acquiescence than actually attacking her. That said, he didn't pull her panties back up as rolled off her. Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, he returned to sitting against the wall of the van, pulled out a newspaper and started discussing with his mate the line up for the Spurs Arsenal derby due the next day. Meanwhile Sue just lay there. Curiously, her main wish was that she could pull her panties back up. They hadn't been pushed much beyond the top of her thighs but that was more than enough to highlight how vulnerable she was. Feeling exposed, uncomfortable and scared out of her wits, she wondered what was in store for her as the van drove off through the night.

After what seemed like hours Sue felt the van pull off the motorway. From the time they had taken she guessed they were well outside London and, from the way the van twisted and turned, she guessed countryside rather than town. Then the van stopped, she heard some muffled sounds from the front, the van started again, drove forward for a while, then reversed and then, finally drew to a halt. The back door to the van was opened and Sue looked out to see that they were in some sort or warehouse. However, she didn't have time for rumination. The door had been opened by a woman who wore a white lab coat and who wore a mask similar to the one her captors wore. Her captors jumped out of the van and gave the clipboard to the woman along with Sue's handbag. As she compared Sue's credit cards and driving licence with the notes on the clipboard, she checked the details of the kidnapping with Sue's captors.

"OK, this all checks out," she said at last. "Take her to processing, will you?"

Her captors reached back into the van and, grabbing her by the arms, dragged her out. With her ankles bound she was unable to walk so she was slung over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried off, down a corridor and into room, which was coldly utilitarian and functional. A long table covered in unidentifiable bits and pieces ran down one side and, next to it, was a full length mirror. In the centre of the room was an upright metal frame about the size of a door. Wrist and ankle cuffs hung on short lengths of chain from each corner of this frame and the whole thing was fixed to a low dolly on which it could be wheeled around. Sue was lowered from the shoulder, which had carried her and lifted up into the frame and, whilst one of her captors held her upright the other looked in his pockets for the keys to the padlock holding her wrists.

Sue was hoping that she could put up some sort of a struggle when her wrists were freed but she hadn't allowed for the length of time she had been handcuffed. Her arms were numb and lifeless and, before she regained any sort of control, her wrists had been lifted up and fastened to the cuffs. Now that she was able to support herself the tape around her ankles was removed and it was no time before they too were cuffed and Sue was left spread-eagled within the frame. Once this was done the frame was turned on its dolly so that Sue was facing away from the table and into the room.

"Thanks, lads, I'll take it from here," the woman from the van said. She had followed them in and, now that Sue was firmly in place, her captors could leave and she came round in front of Sue and looked her up and down. Satisfied that all was well she disappeared from view, returning a moment later minus the mask and clipboard but holding a curious collar arrangement which she proceeded to fasten around Sue's neck.

"This is an electric shock collar. They're sold as training aids for dogs," the woman started to explain as she tightened the straps so that it fitted snugly against her neck. "There is some debate amongst dog owners as to their effectiveness and some feel that they should be banned for being excessively cruel. That's as may be, we don't use them on dogs, we use them on slaves such as yourself. You look confused, so let me explain. While you're here under our control we demand, and will enforce, total and absolute obedience. Of course we expect a certain amount of resistance, and some slave owners even prefer our more, shall we say, feisty offerings. They find it so much more satisfying when the will is finally broken. We, on the other hand, are only interested in selling you and don't have time for all that so, to make life easy, we use the collars. You will obey because, if you don't, you will receive short sharp shock. Like this."