Strange Queens Ch. 02: Kidnapped Love

Indeed, it was through one of Paulo's many money laundering operations, operations designed to exploit as much of the surrounding country as possible while affecting individuals as little as possible, that Chelsea had come to be here, thanks, in no small part, to Paulo's gift itself. A ring of notorious night clubs and brothels within the bustling capital city not far from Paulo's home, an area affectionately known as Slobsville, were not unfamiliar in the trading of those who would offer a service to those that required one. Paulo had deals with nearly every one of them, deals that involved little more than a blind eye being cast when women entered the doors and didn't exit through them later.

Fifteen red light pubs, nine whore-houses and one private juncture all received hefty payments from an undisclosed, private messenger twice monthly in return for attractive, shapely and single women to be quietly and cleanly whisked from the streets or their private show rooms and passed to a transport service that would take them to a storage establishment before being sold to wealthy bidders, ransomed back to their families or put to work maintaining business. Many females happily running trays around restaurants, working tills, typing in offices or pushing tools all around town were in one way or another purchased, either for permanent rental, as a slave or just hired as a worker from these reselling houses.

Jordan's imprisonment was one of these such places, one of the worst, a company not afraid to get it's feet dirty, it's hands wet or it's nose sticky. An old mining company gone bankrupt, it had sold it's estate, three kilometers of open land full of storage rooms, unused shafts and offices and rows of sheds for scrap land, and had been acquired by a private organization that would put each room, shaft and shed to use - housing slaves. Mostly women, the girls would be drugged and dragged to the warehouse, stripped, tagged, likely violated, and thrown into cells.

Jordan's cell had been a refitted mining shaft, cleaned, ceilinged over and locked. Kidnapped from her rescue mission to find and save Chelsea, she had spent the night passing every single red light building and stopping only for a drink and a question. Eventually she had passed an agent and before she had known, she was asleep. Upon waking, Jordan had found herself naked and trapped in a totally black stone room. Three days later, she would be extracted and sold to a buyer who would have been presented with very detailed images of her entire sleeping form.

Chelsea had been spared this path, however. Found by Paulo and his son Albert attempting to steal her rather fancy car, they had instead taken her with it, forcing her to drive them to their home. On the way, however, Chelsea had been hypnotized by Paulo's voice, his God-given gift taking it's effect over her. With little else to do, Paulo had claimed her body and mind as his own and Chelsea had been by his side ever since. Rather than an immediate change, Chelsea had resisted any noticeable effects for hours, but her hormones had flowed and flowed and by the time she had been visited next by Paulo she had nearly no chance of resisting him. Mounting him, she made love madly and in doing so lost any willpower she had to resist him with. Her mind, now following her body's lead, was tied, happily, eternally, to Paulo. Enslavement by God's will - whether willing enslavement or otherwise - was Chelsea's life now.

'No thank you, my sexy little dear,' Paulo said through a mouthful. Chelsea never stopped looking stunning in her skimpy little bikini. Stepping over and using her free hand, Chelsea made to straighten up his belt and pants, seemingly - innocently, sexily - oblivious to her hand brushing this way and that all over his member. 'Okay, but don't spill anything, baby. Where are you off to, anyway?' Chelsea asked, giving his meat a few playful firm grasps and pecking his cheek before padding off, butt wiggling, to the laundry.

'I must visit a client who has a new shipment of, goods, for inspection before they are sold.' Said Paulo. 'Regular loads are becoming harder come by, and more and more of them aren't sell worthy.'

'I know, dear,' Chelsea said from the laundry where she was bent butt-out over the washing machine, extracting a wet set for hanging, 'I remember last months' slave inspection from Coral Reef.' Chelsea was of course referring to an inspection Paulo had taken Chelsea along on, during which only fourteen girls and three boys had been stockpiled. Out of them all, six girls and one boy were physically fit and shapely enough to sell to buyers, the remaining ones either too young, too scared, too small or too suspicious. That same company had later been stormed by police and nearly a hundred service workers had been freed from various chains, rooms and visitors taking their new toys for a spin. One of them had clearly been planted, but, since only the one trader was raided, it was likely to have been one of the rejected ones and hence not been able to worm all the way to Paulo's operating location.

Paulo said little as he finished his breakfast and Chelsea went on happily with her washing, content to be serving her Master well. Anything that made him happy or his life better was something Chelsea was more than glad to do, a directive she often let herself get away with obsessing over only to find herself weakly in need of him and nearly puddling around her feet. Occasionally Chelsea worked so hard that her day's list was done before he came home, and she would simply sit by his bed or in his chair and whimper softly.

In total, Chelsea had been Paulo's loyal puppy for not even a week. After that first fateful car trip in which Paulo had had to claim her being as his own, it had taken less than twenty four hours for her to give in to her new life. From then on it had been as though her existence had not yet started. Everything before didn't matter, only the now, only the Master, her savior. She didn't care what happened in her life before him and never even thought about it.

Padding back out through the kitchen with her new basketful Chelsea gave her Master another peck and a firm cock-pat before waddling, her butt wiggling, away.

Dressing properly, Paulo left twenty minutes later for a site across town. He drove his usual inconspicuous plain white car and weaved around as any morning working businessman might. Nearly an hour later and in a riverside warehouse, Paulo's car was parked surreptitiously in an emptied out shipping container while he rode a decidedly heady fish-smelling lift up several floors to the administration levels of Sea & Food Co. Ltd. Guided through the offices and rooms of the management part of the fishing corporation, Paulo and the two senior operators escorting him took him out onto a high running catwalk that lead directly from the offices to the wharf side, an inlet for deliveries of containers. Stack upon stack, row upon row of huge shipping containers stretched out either side, joined to the office building via a sturdy but hand built bridge. The small group weaved through a short enclosed hallway of tight spaces surrounded above, below and on every side by stacked containers before reaching a small, nondescript "room" of sorts. Seven containers, their door ends, faced inwards, forming the walls around them, stood closed. A container was rested above as a roof and more under foot.

'Welcome to our new storage facility, Sir.' One of the guides, an older man, tall, well built, with a naturally evil snarl seemingly permanently plastered on his face, said. He gestured about him. 'Seven containers nestled in the middle of our furthest storages. Of nine hundred and twelve containers only approximately six hundred are traded with each year. The rest have been slowly acquired by those in our business who know of our little deal.' He spoke with a slight accent, suggesting he was, once, from another country. The accent only helped to deepen the slimy aura he already emanated. 'Through the sacrifices made by us, these containers are now stationed here permanently as a storage area to be used as we see fit, and we refitted this back corner so that these seven crates faced inwards. From here, through the hallways we placed, we can access our girls privately and quickly whilst assuring that they cannot be detected by any outside sources, as well as evacuated just as easily should our cover be compromised.' He smiled a toothy, yellow stained grin. 'Shall I get them out?'

Paulo nodded curtly, without a word. The older man issued an order with a wrist-flick to the other man with them, a younger, well-built but slightly smaller boy of about half the older man's age, who sprang forward and hefted the heavy locking arm on each crate's doors in turn. As he did so, he drew back the heavy iron doors and light poured in. Inside, variously laying, sitting or huddling on the floor, were several girls, naked and blinking in the light.

Once each crate was open and it's contents emptied, including the two that formed the passageway walls leading into the private little space, a total of twelve females stood. Ushered out by the younger boy, they were instructed silently to stand in a line before the three men.

Paulo looked them over. Various women, most younger, some visibly older, stood before him. All were beautiful in some way; most were very curvaceous, some had long flowing blonde hair, many bright eyes, other still shapely legs and hips. Few had sad, downcast eyes, some fearful, some hopeful, and some still merely watched. One or two has some visible reddening around their crotches, signs of possible rape or intercourse within recent days. Paulo drew his eyes evenly across each in turn, analyzing them, evaluating them, estimating how much money they would make him.

With a gently cough, the older man cleared his throat beside Paulo. 'If I may, sir, our repayment for our efforts in purchasing, and organizing this little storage space...?' He inquired, leaving the question hanging in the air. For many moments Paulo didn't speak. Then, simply, gruffly, he said, 'Choose one.'

With a wide grin and a clap of his hands, the salty-faced man stepped forward and began casting his eyes over each girl. Some watched him fearfully, others simply stayed staring at the floor. He peered closely, inspecting a breast here, a leg there, as though inspecting a new computer or checking the size of a fridge for a certain space. Then, when he had decided, he pointed to one very soft skinned girl, a girl with short brown hair and bright, glowing blue eyes, and said with glee, 'I'll take that one.'

* * * * *

Jordan was thrust into darkness. She fell roughly and her wrist jarred sharply under her as she caught her fall. She let out a little yelp of pain and tried not to use that hand as she got herself up, feeling the rough, dusty surface under her. Coughing, she sat, legs under her, rubbing her sprained wrist painfully.

After her very intimate relations with the punk who had extracted her from her cell, Jordan had been in an even deeper turmoil than ever. She'd enjoyed it, oh fuck had she enjoyed it, but now not only was her body infested with his semen, but she had further let her only true love down. As soon as they'd finished and he'd dressed, he had grabbed her roughly around the arms and man-handled her up and out, bundling her into another office room. There he delved into a drawer and pulled out a blindfold, forcing it on her when she struggled. She'd lacked any real enthusiasm - she'd just gotten a mind-bending root, and her head was swimming with mixtures of lust and dread, ecstasy and regret, but she had backed away and put her hands up when he'd come near her. He'd slapped her hard, then grabbed her jaw and kissed her, tongue deep, his other hand tapping her cunt rhythmically. It had been enough to seduce her into complying and he'd slipped the fabric over her head and led her through more rooms and corridors before she felt the cold wind of the outside world biting her bare skin. From there she'd been bundled into a car and his arm had been around hers for the whole trip, keeping her close, making sure she didn't try to move the blindfold, and making sure he touched her whenever he could.

After a while they'd stopped and she'd once more been pushed out, held by her hands behind her back, an even colder wind cutting into her skin. Salt filled it and fish seemed to waft along with it, but anything else was just dark colors. Lots of stumbling, carpet, then wood, then metal, and now this cold, hard stuff. She'd had the fold taken off an instant before she'd been shoved roughly into her new cell and then, with a squeal, the door had closed, screaming locked behind her.

Jordan looked around and for the first time, as her eyes began to adjust, saw that there was some tiny points of light. She could see three on her left and four to her right, in what looked like corners. Obviously, she was in a rectangular room, one that wasn't totally air-tight. She turned back to her left and peered closely, trying to work out why there were only three light points on that end, when-

'Hello?'

Jordan jumped back, startled. The fourth corner, the corner with no light, had spoken. A soft, female voice had tentatively whimpered it to her from the darkness.

'H.. Hello? Jordan said back, her heart racing. 'Who's there?'

'I- I'm Amele, who are you?' An accented girl's voice came back. Jordan realized that a girl must be curled up in that corner - hence, no light.

'Hi there.. I'm Jordan.' She said softly back. 'Can I come closer?'

A shuffling came and some scratching, before a very soft "yes" came to her. Jesus, Jordan thought, the girl must be frightened out of her wits. Jordan gently shuffled closer, dragging her good hand and knees on the flaky surface, trying to nurse her injured wrist. She felt before her and all of a sudden her fingers met toes. She visualsed where the girl must be from the way the foot was, and guessed that she was sitting knees-up on the far side against the wall. Jordan scootched slowly around till her butt met the wall, before sliding down it and sitting, she guessed, by the girl's side. She spoke again.

'Why are you here?'

A sniff came back, before an almost whisper, 'I don't know.' Jordan felt her heart pang strongly with sorrow. She sounded so young...

'Hey, it's alright. I'm here, I'll help you.' She said, very gently feeling to her side. Her fingers brushed leg, so, instead of moving up the leg till she came to hand - she guessed that, if this little girl had been through anything Jordan had, she might well be hyper-sensitive to anyone touching even her outmost extremities - she simply put her arm on the leg and let the girl find her hand. She felt soft, tentative fingers brush her wrist before those fingers slipping into her own and closing. The feeling of a friendly hand was comforting to Jordan, more than she wanted to believe, and hopefully it was having the same effect on the girl, Amele. She said nothing for a moment, simply enjoying the warm touch. Then, she asked;

'How old are you, Amele?'

After a few moments, the girl whispered, 'Seventeen.' Jordan let a silent curse float on her breath. Jesus.

'So how did you come to be here, Amele? Do you know where we are?' Jordan asked. Amele told her.

'I.. I think we're in a shipping container. 'The stuff on the walls and floor seems a bit rusty. And, no room is small enough to have holes in the corners.'

French. That was it. The girl was, at least slightly, French. The hints of "ju" sounds on "do" and "you", and the "de" sound on "the" gave it away. She spoke English well, however. And the girl was smart. Sure, it didn't take a genius to feel rust and see light, but Amele had put the two together at seventeen where Jordan, especially in her state, a state Amele might well be in herself, would have taken a long time to realize her new prison. This raised another question in her mind.

'How long have you been in here, Amele?'

'About four days, going by the corners as my time.' So Amele had not only been here a while, but she had developed a method of crude time watching via the corner holes. Smart indeed. Amele wasn't finished, however.

'I noticed that the sun shines a tiny light through one hole in the afternoon,' she was saying. 'After it's been up for a while, a little ray comes in from that corner up there.' Amele must have been pointing up to the corner on their end of the container in the top left, the corner that would have been the outside of their cell, the inside being the doors through which Jordan had tumbled minutes before.

'I had a few shards of shiny rust on the floor where you landed,' She continued, 'One to mark the start of the little ray, one for the end, and three between. It's probably not accurate, but they were my hours. You would have messed them up though when you arrived.' She concluded. She seemed neither upset nor happy about that small fact. Jordan gave her hand a little squeeze. 'Don't worry,' she said, ignoring the previous bit and going for reassurance. 'It'll be alright. We'll get out of here.' With that, very gently leaning close so that her shoulder was on Ameles', in a sort of awkward attempt at a comforting hug which wasn't a hug, Jordan did her best to make them both feel as positive as she could. Amele seemed not to notice the contact, but didn't move away when Jordan's arm met hers or her chin lightly touched her shoulder.

After several moments, Jordan made to move, her butt suddenly very uncomfortable on the rough hard metal floor. She put her hand down to lift herself only to pull it back in pain. In her attention to Amele, she'd forgotten her wrist, which she'd kept in one place by her leg for the time being. She hasped sharply and her head reflexively rose off Amele's shoulder. The younger girl noticed, and asked, 'What's wrong?'

Jordan told her. 'When I landed in here, I fell on my wrist. I might have sprained it, I just, can't tell. It hurts like a-' Jordan paused, 'Like hell.' She'd caught herself from saying "like a bitch." If Amele had been through the raping she had, she would have been called that, and worse. Saying it here might inadvertently offend, or remind her, of that. Far from noticing, however, Amele seemed to be interested. 'Show me?' She asked softly.

Jordan held the arm out before her in where she thought was a good spot before Amele. She felt the girl's fingers brushing the air before one found her arm and then another joined it, and the two sets of fingers ran lightly up her skin until they brushed over painful wrist. Jordan took a tiny breath, even that small contact bringing a sting out. Amele's fingers gently slipped around her wrist and one hand formed a closed fist around her arm, behind the injured area. Then, with her other, she began to expertly massage the areas between Jordan's fingers, pressing her thumb into her palm and her fingers between tendons and tiny bones. It felt strangely refreshing, and the girl was, if not an expert, a damn good massage therapist. Already Jordan was feeling better, in more ways than just her wrist. She felt as though, just a tiny bit, her stresses and troubles were being rubbed out too. The girls sat in silence for a few minutes, Jordan letting the younger girl work softly on her injured wrist. Eventually her fingers began to massage and rub around the painful area, but far from Jordan's expectation of pain, the area was just a tender numbness. In wonder she watched, or rather, felt, as the French girl worked her magic on her wrist. When she was done, Jordan felt her grip release and the soft fingers slip from her skin.

'Wow... That was...' Jordan said, rather speechless. No sound came from the corner where Amele was. 'Where did you learn to do that?' Jordan asked, holding her tender wrist, finding she could now bend it - partially, but enough to get by - with considerably less pain.