Nostrovia!

WARNING: This story contains explicit sexual language and activity, including rough sex. If such material offends you, please read something else. There is something for everyone on Literotica.

~~~~~

It was a balmy evening on LA's westside, perfect for outdoor dining and people watching. Well-heeled diners came and went from the expensive restaurants and shops or strolled along Sunset Boulevard.

The popular thoroughfare was bustling with a hodgepodge of well-heeled and well-dressed locals from the wealthy neighborhoods nearby and the tourists who were mostly there to gawk, and perhaps see a movie star.

While some of those coming and going from the shops and restaurants along 'The Strip' pursued their people watching as an idle pastime, enjoying both seeing and being seen, for Peter and his companions, it was a business, and a very lucrative one.

Peter and his crew had made the rounds of various hot spots on the westside, in Beverly Hills, West Hollywood, Brentwood and Santa Monica, on a nightly basis for the last month on their current trip, looking for potential targets, and tonight was no different.

They were looking for the flashy, ostentatious car, the well-dressed man and the even better dressed woman. If they were flashing expensive jewelry and watches, that was an added bonus.

The jewelry and watches were a plus because they were both easily taken and even more easily fenced for a handsome profit. The right jewelry and watches could make for a good haul all by themselves, and without the necessity of following their marks all the way home, with the risks that entailed.

After about an hour sitting in their van across the street from one of the strip's most famous restaurants, they had identified their marks for the evening. Their potential victims had arrived in a canary yellow Rolls Royce Corniche convertible. The man was expensively dressed in gray slacks, blue blazer, blue button down shirt and ascot. Even before he stepped out of the car, Peter rightly guessed he was wearing wingtips.

The man wasn't very adventurous in his sartorial tastes, thought Peter derisively. With any luck his taste in watches was similarly predictable. When the valet opened the driver door, Peter was rewarded as he saw the man reaching for the parking stub the valet handed him. As Peter guessed, he was wearing a Rolex, and to Peter's trained eye, it appeared to be a GMT Master II Ice, worth at least a half million as he homed in with his binoculars.

As the two women got out of the car from the other side, the first to exit was the older of the two. She had been sitting in the front seat and Peter assumed her to be the man's wife. She was a statuesque blonde whose hair was cut short, barely reaching the top of her slender neck. Her persona screamed trophy wife. Her husband was predictable, if nothing else.

At first Peter thought she was thirtyish, but he quickly concluded that she was probably more like a very well preserved forty who pampered herself with frequent trips to an expensive spa. The outfit she was wearing was the tipoff to her actual age. The suit she was wearing looked like a vintage Chanel from the sixties, although it probably had been custom tailored for her.

The jewelry she wore was almost certainly worth twice as much as her husband's watch, provided they were not paste of course, with the originals tucked away safely at home in a safe. Discovering the answer to that question would later be Peter's first priority.

The other woman got out of the backseat of the Corniche, and she was a carbon copy of the wife, but about twenty years younger. Peter assumed it was their daughter. Like her mother, she was tall, but her blonde hair was cut slightly longer, coming down to the base of her neck.

Both women looked like they could be fashion models, they were slim and neither had particularly large breasts. To Peter's discerning eye, the mother looked like she was a respectable C-cup and the daughter's breasts looked about a size smaller, not having fully blossomed yet.

Because of their slim frames, their breasts seemed amply proportioned for their lithe bodies. That their breasts were pert and proudly jutting from their chests, only added to their raw sex appeal.

Peter thought about the predictable husband for a moment. He presumed that if the husband had his way, both the wife and daughter would have had 90210 tit job by now. Peter guessed that the wife probably wouldn't stand for it―not for herself and certainly not for her daughter.

The wife looked prim and proper, and hard as nails, Peter concluded. His guess was that she was very high maintenance. She was statuesquely beautiful, but she also looked like she was as cold as the marble itself. She was beautiful in a very refined patrician sort of way. Her whole persona seemed to scream 'do not touch' to anyone who glanced her way!

Her face was lean and chiseled, just as a statue, and the expression on her face betrayed no emotion, unless of course, the emotion was boredom. Based on her facial features, Peter guessed she was of Scandinavian extraction. And Peter had experienced many Nordic ice queens over the years.

The younger blonde, whom he presumed to be the daughter, was more animated as she sprung from the jumper seat of the expensive convertible, her breasts flopping wildly beneath her skimpy evening dress.

A smile seemed to come effortlessly to the young woman's face as she flirted with the valet who she caught looking down the front of her low cut dress. She could tell that he liked what he saw, and she liked having him like it.

Once the three were all standing on the curb, they walked up the red carpet toward the restaurant's entrance with the older woman in the lead, and the husband and daughter trailing behind her. The husband put his arm around the daughter's waist as they walked.

But slowly daddy's hand ventured south until it was cupping the girl's shapely pert ass. She swatted his hand away and scurried forward to join her mother. Peter made a mental note to find out what that was all about later in the evening.

"Well, it's obvious who wears the pants in the family," Peter thought to himself at the time, as the older woman led the way through the front door of the restaurant.

"She must be a real piece of work," he thought to himself.

~~~~~

Realizing his mind was drifting, Peter refocused his attention on the task at hand as he looked down at his watch. It had been a little over an hour and a half since their marks had gone into the restaurant.

Fortunately, the marks had been seated in one of the prime tables at the front of the patio overlooking the boulevard. Peter and his crew had been able to keep an eye on them the entire time. The man sat across from the two women.

Most of the conversation at the table seemed to be between the two women. Neither of them talked to the man very much, nor he to them. However, the man was constantly waving to other diners as they arrived to be seated, and many of them stopped by to talk briefly.

Peter thought about the wife for a moment. His intuition told him that she was probably too smart to make a target of herself by wearing a million dollars' worth of real jewelry to dinner. She struck him as the cold and calculating type who wouldn't take that kind of risk. She looked like a woman who worked all the angles and had a plan for everything.

He and his crew would have to follow these three home, Peter decided. There would be no quick snatch and grab tonight, even though the convertible made them an easy target for that kind of play.

Besides, thought Peter as he sat watching and waiting for them to exit the restaurant, the women looked like they would provide a pleasant distraction for he and his crew's last night in LA. After which they would fly home to St. Petersburg by way of Istanbul the following morning. Enjoying the two women would be a good way to cap their trip, following a month of good hunting in the City of Angels.

~~~~~

"Remember...NO NAMES!" Peter reminded the other two men in Russian for the third time in the last hour, as his companions Pavel and Arseny returned from packing their loot in the back of the van after moving it into the open space in their mark's four car garage and beeping the door closed.

They had followed the yellow Corniche back to family's home in The Flats between Sunset and Santa Monica Boulevards in Beverly Hills. The large mansion was on two half-acre parcels and was surrounded by tall trees and an eight foot wall. The hacienda style home looked like it had been built back in the 1920s or 30s.

The house was set well back from the street and was secluded. It was surrounded by mature trees and lush shrubbery. The adobe walls of the Spanish style hacienda were thick, and noise would not have escaped easily had anything gone wrong, and it hadn't. Everything had gone smoothly so far.

"Da, no names," replied Pavel as he followed Peter's voice to the master bedroom and looked around, hoping he would see the two women. "Where women?"

"They're in the walk-in closet," said Peter. "I stashed them there, while I dealt with the husband."

Peter nodded his head in the direction of the chair in the corner of the bedroom. The husband was bound to the chair with brown duct tape. Someone had fucked up, and they hadn't replenished the supply of zip ties in their kit.

"Well, not see that every day," laughed Arseny in broken English as he followed Pavel into the room. "Look different without blazer and ascot."

The three men stood in front of the husband for a moment laughing at him in his current embarrassing condition. He was stark naked, and his arms and legs were bound with duct tape to the Louis XV Style Armchair. The chair matched the other French décor in the room, which included the canopied bed with its thick wooden hand carved posts.

"You may be laughing now, you bastards," growled the husband, "but you won't be later. Don't think for a minute, you're going to get away with this."

"You be a good little boy and keep your mouth shut," admonished Peter dismissively in English, "otherwise we'll tape your mouth too."

"Da, we put hood back on," interjected Pavel, "and you miss all the fun."

"FUN?" spat the husband. "What are you talking about? You Russian bastards! Keep your hands off my wife and daughter, or I'll..."

Before the husband could get another word out, Peter cuffed him across the face, stunning him.

"Tape!" ordered Peter looking at Pavel.

Before the husband could say another word, Pavel duct taped his mouth closed. Whatever he was trying to shout was nothing more than barely audible gibberish now.

The husband continued to make louder and louder noises as he watched the three men remove their clothes and pile them on top of the dresser across the room, confirming his suspicions about their intentions.

As Peter deposited his clothes on the dresser, he extracted the three driver's licenses he had collected from the man's wallet and the women's purses and looked at them one more time.

"Gentlemen," said Peter in English, "let me introduce you to Prescott, over there, he is our host this evening. Please thank him for his gracious hospitality. His ladies, Lisbeth and Lauren will be entertaining us tonight."

"Da, Prescott," said Pavel appreciatively.

"Da, spacibo," added Arseny, with feigned gratitude.

Prescott was red with rage now, steam practically coming out of his ears. But he was helpless to do anything, and he knew it. Not that he could do anything anyway, even if he weren't taped to the antique chair.

Looking at the three naked men, he realized he was no match for them. They were all twenty years younger than him, and they were all larger and far more muscular. The three men were heavily tattooed and ripped.

Judging from the crude tattoos on two of the men, they looked to Prescott like they had been done in prison, which also accounted for how buff they were, having nothing better to do than work out while imprisoned.

The third man, the one who appeared to be the leader, was also heavily tattooed but he looked as though his tattoos had been professionally done. Prescott guessed that this man was smart enough to have avoided prison so far. Prescott turned his head toward the third man as he spoke again.

"Get mommy," said Peter, "we'll start with her."

~~~~~

"You need to get hold of yourself," pleaded Lisbeth as her daughter continued to cry hysterically as they huddled against each other on the floor of the closet. "Crying isn't going to do you any good. You need to have your wits about you, if we are going to get through this."

Lisbeth's words were delivered in a loud urgent whisper as she leaned closer to her daughter in the walk-in closet. She could feel her daughter Lauren's arms and legs trembling against her as they sat side by side against the closet wall on the lushly carpeted floor.

Their hands were bound behind their backs with zip ties, as were their ankles. Both women had black hoods over their heads and neither of them could see a thing.

Lisbeth had no allusion about what would happen next. The three men reminded her of the 'friends' her former husband used to bring home after a night of drinking at his favorite bar. They had been friends of her former husband from the dockyard where they worked in San Diego.

Her former husband had been popular with his friends because he brought them home to share his newlywed wife's body, passing her around like a party favor to be used by the men while they continued to drink. The only thing that made it bearable, Lisbeth remembered now, was the fact that they all had been better lovers than her husband.

That had been a long time ago, Lisbeth reminded herself now. But the images were seared in her memory. She had put up with the abuse for a few months after they married and moved to San Diego.

At first she put up with it because she had no friends or relatives in San Diego who she could turn to for help. Her relatives were all back in Minnesota. Eventually, it was because of her newborn daughter.

What finally spurred her to flee was when the men's excited and drunken conversation turned to the idea of all of them ravaging her body at the same time, taking her mouth, pussy and ass all at once, making her 'pull a train' as they crudely put it.

Fortunately, they had been too drunk to follow through that evening. So the next morning after her husband left for work, she grabbed all of the house money from the jar in the kitchen and drained their bank account on her way to the bus station. She caught the first bus to LA where she hoped she could disappear and hide from him.

The sound of her daughter's frightened voice drew Lisbeth back to the present.

"Mama, what are they going to do to us?" whimpered her frightened daughter as she leaned her hooded head on her mother's shoulder for reassurance. Her daughter must be seriously frightened, thought Lisbeth, she never called her 'mama' anymore.

"They're going to do whatever they want to us, baby," said Lisbeth, trying not to betray her own fear with her voice. "And you have to let them, baby. Otherwise they are going to beat you...or worse! And they'll still do what they want."

Lauren made no reply. She just resumed her whimpering as she tried to huddle even closer to her mother.

"Those guys came prepared," Lisbeth thought to herself as her mind raced, wondering what, if anything, she could do. Somehow they managed to follow her husband into the garage and overcame him before he could so much as shout out a warning.

She wasn't entirely sure, but she guessed they had hit him over the head, since one of the men was dragging him along when she first saw them in the foyer, just as the other two men descended on she and her daughter.

She and Lauren had been at the bar in the salon pouring drinks when the two men rushed them, easily dragging them to the floor. The two men quickly zip tied their hands behind their backs with the swift efficiency of a rodeo cowboy roping a steer.

"Don't make noise if you want to live," was their emphatic and pointed message as they placed the black hoods over their heads, casting them into total darkness.

They needn't have worried, Lisbeth thought to herself now. She and her daughter had been left speechless, stunned by the unexpected turn of events as their minds were sent reeling. They had been paralyzed with fear, unable to move, wondering what would happen next.

"Lauren, please! You've got to get hold of yourself," pleaded her mother again, as she heard someone opening the closet door. Before she could say anything else, Lisbeth was roughly pulled to her feet by one of the men, who had her biceps in the vice-like grip of his large hands.

"It party time, mommy," whispered the man with a cruel laugh into her ear as he pushed her through the doorway, slamming it shut with a thud. He walked her forward several steps to what Lisbeth guessed to be the foot of the bed.

"I rip clothes off now?" asked the man in broken English, his voice excitedly hopeful.

"There's no need for that," shouted Lisbeth defiantly from under her hood. "I'm perfectly capable of undressing myself, if you release my hands."

There was no need to destroy her expensive outfit, Lisbeth frantically thought to herself. She had painstakingly had a local seamstress copy a vintage Chanel to her own specifications, using the color and fabric of her choice.

There was little chance of Lisbeth retaining her dignity under the current circumstances, but perhaps she could at least save one of her favorite outfits. At this point, Lisbeth thought to herself, she would take any minor victory she could get.

Lisbeth gasped as she felt the cold steel of a knife blade against her calf and then the tug on the zip tie around her ankles as her legs were set free. At almost the same moment, the zip ties around her wrists were cut and she could feel the plastic ties hitting the back of her leg on the way to the floor. Soon the circulation returned to her hands as she flexed her fingers.

She could sense the presence of the two men who cut her free as they lingered on either side of her. They were pressing against her body, and she could feel their hard cocks rubbing against her sides. Their hands were inside her jacket, ready to rip it off, when the third man spoke from a few feet away.

"Back off for now," commanded the third man, "let her undress herself. That's too elegant an outfit to ruin for no good reason. Don't you agree, Lisbeth?"

"Yes, thank you," replied Lisbeth as calmly as she could, not wanting to reveal her fear to the three men. Then, unable to restrain herself, Lisbeth petulantly added, "Are they going to take the hood off me too, so I can see what I am doing? Or do you plan on fucking me with it on?"

"You can take it off yourself," replied the third man dismissively.

"Thank..." Lisbeth started to respond as the man cut her off.

"No thanks necessary," interrupted the man. "There are three of us, so we'll need access to your mouth too."

The man's final comment was a jolt of reality to Lisbeth, like a slap in the face. She felt as though she had just been drenched with ice water. Chills ran up and down her spine. Her hands shook as Lisbeth struggled to take off the hood.

"No, not yet!" said the man. "Take off your clothes first. Just let them drop to the floor."

Peter was enjoying the tête-à-tête with the beautiful and haughty woman. Taming her would be almost as enjoyable as fucking her, he thought to himself. Before the night was over, he would teach her to heal properly.

"Take your time, Lisbeth," said the man. "Put on a show for us. Slow and sexy. Show us you aren't the cold, lifeless bitch you seem to be."

"OK, I'll do anything you want," said Lisbeth, ignoring the insult, as she began her awkward striptease. This man seemed articulate to Lisbeth even with his distinct Russian accent. Unlike his accomplices, he didn't speak broken English. He sounded like someone she might be able to reason with. But his commanding tone told her she needed to be cautious.