Strange Queens Ch. 02: Kidnapped Love

Shaking her head and resolutely reminding herself to stay steadfast, she pictured Jordan and her heart skipped a little as she saw the beautiful features, the round full breasts and soft white skin of her girlfriend. The thought, for once, didn't arouse her, and didn't remind her of her loneliness. It simply brought her peace and strength, the two things she needed most right now.

Chelsea had searched the cupboards but they were empty of clothes, so she decided to sleep with her pants on. She left the jumper off, but left it by the bed just in case. After some thinking, she turned the light off and slid between the sheets. The starts were visible out her window, as she'd left the blinds open, and she looked up at them. She found some peace in that, too, that reminded her of home. Eventually, she dozed off.

* * * * *

Jordan sped through backstreets and alleys of the city. So far she'd already checked the shopping centers Chelsea always used, so now she was on her way to the clubs where Chelsea used to pick up her nightly male. Pulling to a halt a block away from the notorious part of town affectionately called Slutsville. Hopping out and throwing her utility straps on the back seat, she leaned into her backpack and jerked out the grey vest she'd stuffed in there. Putting it on, suddenly her skin tight look of black pants and figure-hugging tucked in shirt went from working girl operative to simple and stylish dresser. She tucked the pistol into her waistband and the flip knife in her pocket, stuffed money into her other and made for the corner.

The first place she came to was a small, unguarded nightclub. Wandering down the stairs she entered to behold a small bar with several tables. A large stage made up the far wall and four poles were on it, each with a girl dressed in slutty tight underwear, some only half dressed with either no bra or panties, and even one missing any clothing at all, were variously perched on stools, swinging around poles or crouched before a row of seats pressed up against the stage. Men, women, and some that could have been both were sitting in these chairs, some sitting back and enjoying the show, others perched by their arms on the edge of the stage or reaching up and stroking whatever the girls gave them to touch. Jordan didn't look too much at them, other than to make sure none of them were Chelsea. As much as the sight disgusted her, she found the sex-crazy girls aroused a lust deep inside her that dared her, drove her to go to the stage, take one of the sexy girls to their room and fuck them senseless.

Jordan sat at the bar and made little talk, silently watching. She ordered a drink and drained it quickly before leaving a generous tip and making her exit. She repeated the process, coming across similar strip clubs, rave festivals and pubs, each with their own level of sluttery on show from both the stage talent and the audience alike. At each place she had a drink, mingled slightly and then left, so as not to arouse suspicion. One such place had outright asked her to go up on stage while one girl took a rock of a man out back, offering a surprisingly good pay for her time, but she politely declined, ordering another drink instead before departing.

Jordan had skimmed three blocks and was feeling a little light-headed, despite having strategically ordered low-alcohol drinks all night. She was approaching one of the outer corners of Slutsville and had only a few more blocks to go before retiring for the night.

As soon as she rounded the bend, she saw a girl leaning lazily against the wall. Jordan knew what she was, even if she hadn't been looking like a nineties gothic punk rocker at a pimp rave. Tight shiny stockings, huge - and I mean huge - heels, a pencil rubber skirt, rubber bra with layered triangles over the nipples and thin wire straps holding it up, with suspenders showing under her skirt and pink panties visible in her asscrack that was only half hidden under the rubber. Greasy pink and red hair was tied in a twin ponytail on the sides of her head and more makeup than a Japanese kawaii girl going for a more-overboard Harley Quinn cosplay. Black lipstick and black eye shadow framed even blacker eyes and bone white skin.

Jordan passed her quickly, not wanting, for a multitude of reasons, to look at her body. Any less rubber bra and she might as well call the bra a strap, Jordan thought, and any higher a skirt and it might as well be a belt. How the girl could get away with standing in the cold next to naked, Jordan didn't know. But she soon found out. As she passed her, the girl's long pink-nailed hand shot out and grasped her arm much more firmly than Jordan would have expected her to be capable of. The force of the grasping, and her own momentum, spun her to face the prostitute and she gazed at Jordan's face, a mixture of thoughts and emotions playing over her face as she peered at her. She stared at Jordan for a few seconds, not speaking, and casually blew smoke into her face. Jordan tried not to inhale but the stuff was choking, toxic, seeping into her nostrils and lungs without her bidding it to. She coughed and spluttered, doing her best to control herself, but something about the acrid smoke was making her eyes water and her throat burn.

'Fine little Miss aren't ya, bitch,' the sex worker said in a harsh, nasal voice. 'Right honey, aren't you.' She had that typical escort accent, the working class slurs of "love" and "honey" that you'd expect your typical TV show whore to use. Jordan was bent over now, holding her nose and trying not to cough to violently. 'Stupid bitch tried to ignore me, how unfor'unate.' Drearily, a part of Jordan's mind realized that she wasn't talking to her. Someone else must be with them, she thought, or, she was in communication with someone else somehow. With a shock, Jordan realized that this girl might not have been your average hooker waiting for a pickup, but a cover for a shady organization that dealt in stealing people. Above her, still gripping her arm so tightly it was cutting off circulation, the whore leaned over, her other hand holding a cigarette to her mouth. She finished her sucking, closed her eyes briefly as she inhaled it, then once more blew it all in Jordan's face.

The cloud billowed past her and she renewed her choking, unable to stop herself sucking great waves of the acrid smoke into her lungs. She began to feel incredibly dizzy and waves of nausea washed over her. As her subduer let her arm go, deep red marks pressed into her arm under her sleeve, Jordan fell to all fours and puked into the gutter.

'Take her in,' she heard from a distant place above her. 'Take her in, dis one's ready for ya, Brett.' Jordan's head was spinning faster than a dryer and the light in her mind floated further and further away until, far into the distance, it winked off, leaving her in total darkness.

Jordan woke with a cough. Then, she retched. Coughing, her throat burning and her mouth devastatingly dry, she stumbled about on her hands and knees, her head still spinning. She tried to relax and slowly the nauseous waves slowed until she could straighten up a little and wipe her mouth. As she did so, she found bare skin touched her lips - no sleeve. Peeling her eyes open, Jordan found that she was in darkness. Unsure of whether she had actually opened her eyes she rubbed them furiously and blinked hard, but nothing but cold, pressing black welcomed her. She scrambled back a bit until she found cold against her back and she sat against it, breathing fast but as evenly as she could. She fought panic back and swallowed several times, her dry throat scratching.

With a loud screech and shocking suddenness, a spear of light slammed into Jordan's retinas and she squeezed her eyes shut, shielding her face from the light. She cowered into the wall, trying to move away from the brightness. The sound of laughing and jeering could be heard echoing down from above and voices could be heard talking. Snippets of words came to her, some people talking about a "body" and "slave", some mention of a "slut" and "prize". Jordan realized they must have been referring to her, calling her a slut, a good catch. With this, memories of Jordan's capture began to flood back to her.

A scraping sound echoed into her chamber and, moments later, a resounding crash echoed about. She jumped and cowered more, to the absolute delight of the jeering voices above. The sound was totally deafening in the small enclosed space and, as the voices continued to mock and laugh, the hatch above her swung shut and crashed down. Once more, Jordan was plunged into darkness.

After some seconds, Jordan shakily lowered her hands. Cautiously, she crawled towards the center of her room and found that a metal bucket had been dropped in with her. Cold water met her fingers, water that had splashed out when the bucket had been dropped to her. Thirstily she sunk her hands into the cold liquid and felt it seep into her dry skin, the cold chilling her numb fingers. She cupped some and sipped it, pain exploding from her cracking lips and mouth. Then she stuck her face into the bucket and sucked, washing and spitting the first mouthful out and gulping a few more down. She washed her face and hands before sitting back.

She was clean, and had drunk. She had some water. These were good. Refreshed now she began to regather herself. She sat still and started to analyze what she knew. Little information could be extrapolated from her captor, either the slutty girl or the jeering voices above. One fact did stand out, however; her kidnapper had said a name. Brett, yes, that was it. Brett. Jordan filed this away for safekeeping. As for here and now, Jordan knew little. No idea where she was, or even what room she was in. But wait a moment, she told herself. She did know something. When the bucket had been roughly dropped in, it had reverberated hollowly around the small space.

Small space, she thought. So she was in a small chamber. The hollow sound meant it was acoustically solid, a closed formation not unlike the inside of a guitar. The hole, then, would be the hatch in the top. A hatch in the top meant a multiple story building, either into the ground or into the sky. And acoustics like a guitar meant thin walls of a certain type of material, not likely to be brick or stone.

So Jordan did know some things about her prison, even if they didn't help her immediately. Feeling stronger now, Jordan scootched herself back to the wall and slowly stood up. She was shaky, but she could stand. Keeping one hand on the wall, she circumnavigated the room and found it to be about eleven steps square. Accounting for her small and careful steps, she guessed it couldn't be much more than five meters square.

Now Jordan adventured inwards and came across the bucket with her toes, cold water making soft splat noises as she padded over it. Finding this to be another key, Jordan began to cluck softly. As though she were a bat, she found she could, hazily, picture her room. Like a fuzzy television image, she pictured four walls and - ah, yes, a bucket in the middle. Holding her hands out, Jordan found a rope stretching from the bucket's handles up into the hatch. So they had a rope to extract it. It was taut, not stiffly, but not enough to fold or use as any tool, and Jordan had been stripped naked, so her knife was gone along with her money, pistol and keys.

Satisfied for now, Jordan sat in a corner, dragging the bucket as far as she could to her. Though being naked wasn't that strange to her, being so in a hostile, captive environment like this was scary. She tucked herself up tight for warmth and leaned back, resting herself in her corner.

'Oh, Chelsea..' She murmured softly. 'I'm so sorry. So sorry I failed you. Sorry I let you go, that I let myself get captured like this. I'm... I'm sorry.' She said, sorrowfully.

She put her head on her arms and sighed despairingly.

* * * * *

Chelsea didn't sleep well, but she slept. Waking early, she sat up and immediately checked herself. She was still dressed in her pants, and her socks and jumper were by the bed where she'd left them. Checking her room, she didn't find anything that made her think her room had been entered. Peering outside, she could make out the faint hints of light on the horizon above the side of the hill outside her window and guessed it must be not long till sunrise. A few birdcalls were starting and soon the other occupants of her home would be up too.

Chelsea was sitting, stretching some short yoga routines, on her bed when she heard a car. Listening intently, she heard it approach, pass close to the house, and then quieten. Obviously it had passed the house via the side track that led past the garage to the sheds behind the building, she thought. Hmm, she mused. So someone's been out late. After several seconds the gate on a shed could be heard squealing in protest before quiet crunching feet made their way up to the house. The back door opened softly and someone hung up their jacket or jumper, before, several seconds later, footsteps could be heard padding down the hall. Chelsea returned to her bed and slipped between the sheets, settling quickly so that she could pretend to be asleep if necessary. Her ears remained alert and intent, and her heart sped.

After several silent moments, a clicking could be heard, the sound of metal on metal. A key was being fitted into the sturdy brick lock on her door. It twisted slowly and the pins snapped each in turn, before the thick bold clacked back into its housing and the door creaked as it eased open. A heavy breathing came to Chelsea's ears and she identified the familiar weighted inhalations of Paulo's bulky frame, strong but fat in his mature age. Her heart skipped and she felt an almost dizzying wave of tingly happiness at knowing he was right there, in her room. But she slammed her mental fist down in frustration and, at least for the moment, managed to quell her religiously-bound affection.

'Chelsea?' Came the whisper. 'Chelsea, my girl, are you awake?' Paulo asked softly. Chelsea made no sound, neither replying nor faking a snore. Paulo hushedly asked again, edging further into the room. Finally he edged in proper and stood at the foot of her bed, his large frame shadowing her wrapped up in her sheets. Chelsea had never felt a more totally compelling desire to thrust the sheets away and bear her body unto him, but she held herself in an iron will. Eventually, Paulo sighed, as though resigning himself to knowing he had to say something he didn't want to, even though, well, he didn't want to. Sidling around to the desk side, he drew the wooden chair back and sat.

'Chelsea... My, I've run in circles over you. You know I've been out all night looking for people that know you, connections I can make that might lead me back to whatever whorehouse owned you, or which family you hailed from. But everywhere I went I ran dry. A nightclub you apparently frequented nightly has not seen you in years. Your old apartment building was torn down a month ago, the landlord bankrupt after you and several others simply upped and left without a payment. Even your purchases are mysterious, all made with a private credit card that processes either off-shore, or in a very private company. And at that, you only buy strange supplies, cans, packets, goods that mostly come pre-prepared. No vegetables, no vitamin or dairy or anything.'

He went on, 'so all I can deduce about you, you mysterious, sexy, lusty babe, is that you are a mystery. An oddity, a non-existence. You are here before me and yet I cannot find anything out about you.' Paulo put his hands to his face. 'All night, I searched the city, beforehand I searched the internet. No records. You have truly been wiped from the face of the Earth.' He sat back. No sounds could be heard for a few seconds. Then, he spoke. 'Sit up.' The words were a command, strong and insisting and controlling, lacking any of the sincere conversationalism of his previous sentence. Despite desperately willing herself not to, Chelsea's hand swing the cover off her and she turned and sat on the side of the bed.

'So you were awake.' He said, still hard and controlling but calm, passive. 'No doubt you know this already about yourself, indeed, this explains your lack of desperation or fear at being taken so surgically from your daily routine.' He mused at her. 'Perhaps it was your plan to become captive of Paulo Crete? Perhaps a plot from one who wishes to do my family wrong?' Paulo said, suspicion creeping into his voice. Chelsea was on the verge of whimpering no, begging that he believe her, that she was innocent. But before she could do much more than look at him and begin to shake her head, he had pounced. Springing forward, his hand was clamped around her throat and, despite his stocky frame and Chelsea's solid weight, was lifting her butt off the bed several inches. He growled at her. 'Who sent you? Hmm? The Rafonse? The Greek Demons? From which devil's gang does your spying whore mouth hail?' he breathed, his nose centimeters from hers. Choking, Chelsea could do little but stare back at him, her eyes locked on his, pleading, desperately willing him to believe her. Despite her situation, despite it being the last thing she needed or should be doing right now, Chelsea's legs were shaking and her crotch was hot and sticky.

Paulo glared at her, stared deep into her eyes. Hers, the golden shining pupils like twin suns glowing the glorious warmth of the sky at him, were dull and clouded, fear and pain clotting the color out. Something in them made Paulo halt. He didn't know what, but something there made him do a second take. In that instant something passed between them and his sudden burning rage died like a match dropped in water, burning out and freezing over, leaving a darkened, ashy cold behind. His fingers loosened around her neck and her own hands flew up to it, easing herself off the rigid digits. Paulo dropped his gaze and she fell back to the bed, coughing, one hand on the tender red marks around her throat, the other supporting her. She didn't want to think about the embarrassingly large pool collecting in her pants, or about how her lips were almost quivering. She was damn hot, she thought, damn, fucking, spiced, the fuck, up! She sucked in air through clenched teeth, a fiery ambitious lust already filling her as oxygen rushed back to her body. An angry lust, a confident, sexy, teeth-clenching, lip biting, cock-riding god-almighty-screaming lust was exploding deep inside her like a nuclear explosion in slow motion, and it was currently mushroom clouding up her spine and seducing every single bone, tendon and muscle on it's way.

'Forgive me, Chelsea, I must beg your forgiveness,' Paulo began. 'I am most sorry. For matters of my family's honor, when I feel it is threatened I tend to get... Angry, uncontrollably so.' Paulo was saying. But Chelsea, one hand still on her neck, was lifting herself up now, kneeling before him on the bed. For the first time he appeared to take in her semi-nudity, and she liked that. It was as she had wanted. She swung her arms around his large torso and pulled him in, hard, strong, pressing her body against his, begging more of her to touch him. She inhaled his strong sweaty odor and the fire inside her burned brighter, the sharp smell arousing her at a primal, animal level. She pushed her lips into his, sucking at them, her tongue already snaking forwards and prying between his more coarse lips. Her mouth opened and her tongue went to it's work, sliding around and around, scooping his saliva into her own mouth where she hungrily drank it down.

Her hands, sliding up and down, all over his back and sides, ran over his body, unable to get enough, and within seconds her fingers came together as she slid her palms between their chests, hooked her fingers into his shirt and tore it away. A tucked undershirt lay underneath and she feverishly unclipped his bracers and flung them away before diving into his waistline and tearing the shirt up. By now his own hands were on her shoulder blades and it was like his huge hands were holding her. In seconds she'd extracted the shirt and parted from him only to draw it over his head, tossing it aside and resuming her passionate lusting pashing. Unsatisfied with her Lord's timing she grasped his wrists and pushed his hands forcefully against her breasts and he began to knead them, the soft, milky melons fitting perfectly in his large palms. Chelsea let out a moan against his lips and her rocking on the bed increased and so did her hands' work speed, rushing, now fumbling at his zipper. She tore it down and threw his pants open, throwing them down and revealing his boxers. She wasn't waiting for foreplay. One hand hooked into the elastic band and the other slid down his front, grasping his length and drawing it out.