The Outlands Ch. 02

I wasn't terribly enthused about attending the political fundraiser the Campbells had organized at our country club, but my husband was out of town for the week and boredom combined with indolence tipped the scale in favor of having someone serve me canapés and wine rather than cobbling together a meal at home. Besides, Jenny Campbell was always a good soldier for me whenever I hosted my own charity events at the club, and it was a good excuse to wear the new Black Halo sheath dress I found at Nordstrom the week before.

The dress was a gray knit that really fit me well and I paired it with my black Louboutin pumps and 16-denier sheer Wolford tights. I put my hair up in a quick bun and surprised myself by being ready ahead of schedule. Since my route would pass right by the mall, I decided to stop by the jewelers where I had dropped off a watch to be repaired ages ago. I had been meaning to pick it up, but simply could never find the time and the text message reminders they sent me seemed to be getting a little snippy. Why not kill two birds with one stone and grab the watch on my way?

I turned on our security system and backed my silver BMW out of the garage before cranking up a Bruce Springsteen playlist on Spotify. I figured I'd be back within three hours at the most and would finish the evening by the pool. It would be nice to end the day alone for a change and I looked forward to the solitude.

As I pulled into the mall, I saw a group of mailboxes that reminded me I had my car registration renewal in my purse ready to post, so I parked in the stall closest to the outgoing mail slot. Over the stereo Bruce was reminding me I was born to run as I switched off the car and got out with my envelope. It was a glorious evening with violet and scarlet hues above the canopy of maple trees that were ubiquitous in this neighborhood.

I dropped the envelope through the slot and ordinarily would have driven to the mall entrance to complete my errand at the jewelry store. However, that morning I had bailed on my regular Pilates session and the notion of walking the short distance to the mall seemed fair penance. It was a quiet and warm evening and I saw two mall cops standing by their security van nearby, giving me all the reassurance I needed to navigate the almost empty parking lot solo.

As I approached the van, one of the young officers motioned to me with a friendly wave and said, "Ma'am, if you've got a second, could you help us out?" The sliding door of the van was open, and I could see the glow of a screen inside. When I got closer the young men explained they were looking for a little girl who had been last seen in the mall food court. They knew it was a longshot but thought it would be worth having me look at the girl's photo in case I saw her inside.

Of course, I was more than happy to help out. I pictured a frantic young mother going store-to-store knowing most of the establishments would be closing within the hour and I could only imagine the anxiety such a crisis would trigger. The two young security officers looked like freshly scrubbed college underclassmen and they impressed me as being sincerely worried about the missing girl. They both were nice looking fellows too. I idly speculated they would be heartthrobs for the high school girls prowling the mall when classes let out each afternoon.

The way they were so deferential and polite to me made me think of a phrase my mother used when I was growing up. She would refer to overly polite boys as "Eddies" after the name of a television character from the sixties who was a scoundrel hiding behind a well-mannered facade. She used to say, "Beth, don't fall for those Eddies out there!"

*Sigh* ... I should have listened more closely to my mother.

The two boys introduced themselves as Mac and Michael and thanked me profusely for cooperating. Officer Mac leaned into the van to activate the screen of an iPad that was mounted on a stand just inside the sill of the sliding door. He swiped through a series of photos while I stepped closer to get a good look. Just as I began to ask him some questions about the case everything went black. Some sort of rough material with a musty smell was pulled over my head and down to my hips. It was so unexpected and surreal I was frozen as equal measures of outrage, disbelief, and panic swept over me.

"Help! ... Help me!" I tried to shout. God, what was happening?

A palm was violently clapped over my mouth and one of the faux officers warned me to keep my fucking mouth shut. I felt myself pushed forward and unceremoniously lifted into the van. I dropped my purse and felt one of my shoes fall off during the proceedings and they maneuvered me into a sitting position on the carpeted floor of the van. I heard the door slam, and they pulled the bag off of me and immediately tied my arms behind my back with tight knots at the elbows and wrists.

I couldn't see much as my eyes had not had time to adjust to the dim windowless interior of the van. What felt like an enormous rubber ball was forced between my teeth and secured behind my neck with a strap. The way the two young men worked to restrain me with such casual efficiency and no talking suggested I was not the first woman to find herself tied up in this van.

I tried to keep myself calm so I could pay attention to any clues that might help identify the little bastards. I memorized their faces and noted Mac had a shoulder tattoo with a geometric design that was striking and quite identifiable while Michael had a stud earring through his left earlobe. I said a silent prayer that someday I would be pointing those items out in a police lineup.

They went through my purse and found my iPhone, bypassing the password by holding it up to my face. My stomach churned as I listened to them casually discussing me while they perused my photos and skimmed through emails and text messages. Until now I assumed this was a kidnapping for ransom given how elaborate and well-planned their subterfuge was, but their conversation indicated they didn't know me and were trolling for a suitable victim. I was just unlucky and foolish to walk into their trap.

Then my blood turned to ice when I overheard them referring to my being sold! More than once they referred to me as a trophy catch and I listened to them argue whether it would be smarter to take multiple bids for me or whether to curry favor with their best client by offering me to him through a private sale. I couldn't believe this was happening. I scolded myself for being so gullible and letting my guard down. Apparently, I'm so trusting a fake badge and smile was all it took to have me trussed up like a turkey ready for sale to the highest bidder.

As these horrible thoughts were sinking in, the boy named Mac leaned over and gathered the hem of my dress with both hands and began tugging it higher. He teased his friend for being a leg man and lewdly suggested mine were worth the trip. As he worked the form-fitting ponte knit material up my thighs the angle of the sun through the windshield cast a single shaft of sunlight that conveniently fell directly on my legs, adding to the dramatic effect of the reveal as Mac lifted my hemline. A drop of perspiration fell from his chin and landed on my thigh where it beaded up and glinted on the surface of my nylons. I stared at it blankly, still having trouble processing what was happening to me.

Mac was struggling to get my dress up higher due to the fact I was sitting on the garment, and it also didn't help that I had such wide hips. Without thinking, I shifted my weight and lifted myself up to help him with the task. With a few more tugs he finally had my dress bunched all the way up to my waist leaving only my sheer pantyhose for any pretense of modesty.

Michael was kneeling in front of me, practically drooling as though I was being presented on a platter while his buddy used his hands to force my legs apart, giving him an unobstructed view of my crotch. My face flushed crimson as I regretted my unfortunate choice of wearing nothing beneath the 12-denier sheer-to-waist pantyhose. I cringed as they used my own phone to take photos of me from several angles and joked about helping me start an Only Fans page.

My captors proceeded to amuse themselves at my expense with Michael running his hands up and down the length of my legs and Mac straddling me from behind so he could snake his right hand under the waistband and down the front of my pantyhose. Like a burrowing squirrel, his fingers forced their way down between my legs as his forearm almost comically stretched the thin nylon to its limits. Helpless and miserable, I felt his wriggling fingers explore me.

Whether from stress or some dark dysfunction of my libido, I could feel telltale flutters in my belly and was mortified to discover my body was responding to his touch. There was no hiding the fact as he worked his middle finger between my labia and discovered how wet I was. He pressed deeper and began fingering me with slow curling strokes, dragging his fingernail against my vaginal wall in cycles that made me gasp. At the same time the sensations from Michael's hands sliding all over my legs seemed to merge with the fingers inside me causing my hips to spasm noticeably, much to the amusement of the young men watching me.

While they were happily molesting me, the boys kept up a running conversation as they matter-of-factly compared notes on what they liked best about my body, what they'd change if they could, and how I measured up to their previous conquests. Listening to them discuss me as their latest trophy was demeaning and disheartening, but I couldn't help hanging on to every word. I felt my breath catch each time they made a suggestive remark or commented how hot I was.

From their discussion I also learned there was some sort of rule that prevented them from fucking me unless and until whomever ended up buying me gave his consent -- a permission that apparently was not commonly granted. As the hunters, they could only use me as an appetizer now. Somebody else would get the main course and that explained the tint of animosity and frustration I could feel in some of their behavior.

Mac added a second finger inside me, and he began using his thumb to rub the area around my clit. Damn, he was too good at this. I pressed my chin into my chest and watched his knuckles rhythmically move against the stretched-out front of my pantyhose. It was maddening because I was in that half-state of arousal that made it difficult to think but was nowhere close to orgasm.

I got a bit of respite when they began a what-if game that basically involved describing to each other what they would do with me if they could keep me for themselves. As I eavesdropped on their stories it became clear they were huntsmen who begrudged the fact they rarely got to fully enjoy their spoils. They felt they had stumbled upon an especially tempting opportunity with me, and they both wished they could spirit me away somewhere hidden from everyone else.

Listening to their fantasies, I gathered their own homes were less than spacious and not fully appointed. Their wish lists pictured having me in lavish settings as sort of a combination cook, waitress, and sex slave. They liked the fact I was a respectable and successful mature woman and got off on the notion of having me wear skimpy leggy outfits that I otherwise would never wear. Michael thought I'd be particularly fetching as a French maid and Mac leaned toward seeing me as either a Playboy bunny or a cheerleader. I blushed as the images of me parading before them in such outfits flashed in my head.

As they regaled each other describing me in various states of dress and undress, I couldn't help thinking it was ironic they didn't have a clue what was in my closet and lingerie drawer. I've always adored lingerie and have quite a collection. My thoughts were interrupted when Michael said something I found rather telling. He mentioned almost sheepishly he'd give anything to take me on a "real date." It was both ridiculous and a little sad.

The penny dropped and I realized these were two boys who had never had a normal social life. I didn't know their histories but heard enough to know they didn't have a normal upbringing. My maternal instincts prompted me to see them as two lost boys who obviously never had healthy relationships or a normal childhood. Michael was probably influenced by the coming-of-age rituals he must have seen in films and on television -- and which he never got to experience personally. As I processed these thoughts, I began frantically trying to think of a way I could forestall their intent to sell me to someone else.

What if I could get them to hole up at my house with me? After all, I was going to be alone for a week anyway. They could literally play out their what-if daydreams for real. Of course, their fantasies were preposterous, but you have to understand I was absolutely terrified at the prospect of being trafficked and my stressed-out brain was working overtime trying to figure out any way I might connect with them to derail their stated plans. Besides, I also wasn't exactly in a normal state of mind myself. The forces that underpin the Stockholm syndrome are very real and being held captive so tightly bound and helpless was definitely messing with my head. I was used to being in control both in my work life and in the bedroom, so the experience of being dominated by two boys barely half my age was more than unnerving.

My poor addled brain became convinced my best chance to avoid being trafficked would be to leverage their desires. When you're desperate you grasp any straw, and I was so frightened at the prospect of them selling me to someone else that I would have done anything to avoid it. I just had to connect with Michael -- make him see me as a person. If I could only talk to them, I could make them see how they could explore all their fantasies by taking me to my house. It was an ember of hope I was frantic to kindle, and I tried to get their attention by speaking through the gag and nodding my head.

Michael noticed first and spoke up:

"I think she's trying to say something. Should we take out the gag and see what she wants?"

Wide-eyed, I nodded like a maniac. I couldn't see Mac's face, but I heard him respond.

"Shit! ... Look at the time, dude. ... We've gotta stop fucking around and give her the mix. Then I have to drive her damn car up the hill."

I had no idea what he was referring to about giving me "the mix" but it sounded ominous. It made me redouble my efforts to get Michael to follow through with removing the ball gag. I kept trying to vocalize, mewling, and whimpering and trying to get him to look at me. If only he would remove the damn gag, I'd be able to reason with him. I'd be able to promise him the world.

Mac had extracted his fingers from my nether regions and crawled to the front of the van where he was rummaging through the console looking for something. As Mac was busy up front, Michael took the opportunity to slide into his partner's former position behind me. He smiled at my anxious head shakes and muffled pleas as he cupped my breasts with both hands and spoke softly into my ear, "You'd really like to say something, wouldn't you, Mrs. Haley?"

I eagerly answered, "mmmmph hmmmmm!"

The boy chuckled and felt for my nipples through my rumpled dress, squeezing them several times while he continued whispering in my ear.

"Hmmm, I'm a little busy now. Maybe we should talk later, sweetie."

He pulled the hem way up to my chest exposing my stomach and I was puzzled watching him use his thumb and forefinger to pinch a fold of skin. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mac approaching but didn't realize until it was too late that he had a hypodermic syringe. Of course, bound so tightly, I couldn't have done anything, and the jab was quick and painless. I did feel a sensation of warmth with a tingly sensation that spread over my belly.

I momentarily panicked, but quickly felt a weird heavy calming sensation as though I was wrapped in a big blanket. It was sort of like being drunk and I just sat there with Michael straddling me from behind playing with my breasts and whispering for me to relax. I was dimly aware of Mac exiting the van and sliding the door closed as he left leaving the two of us alone.

It was so strange. I was fully aware they had drugged me but was having a hard time processing the fact. It was like my brain registered information objectively but got hung up formulating a reaction. Michael seemed elated as he removed the gag and untied my arms. I tried to thank him but couldn't seem to get the words out. The next thing I knew, he was pulling my dress over my head, and I lost my balance, almost falling over. I got on my hands and knees and tried to collect myself while my head kept spinning.

I remember Michael talking to me about being a good girl and, for some reason, I clung to that. It seemed very important to him. I could feel him running his hands over me and he would ask me questions about what I was feeling. At some point I realized he was down to his underwear, and I could see he had an enormous hard-on. I was having trouble thinking clearly and everything seemed in slow motion. I remember him removing my bra and he put me on my back with me looking up at him. I watched him slide his briefs off leaving his erection bobbing right over me and I felt dizzy as I stared at it.

He lowered himself so he was sitting on me with his penis pressed between my breasts. I felt him begin slowly rocking his hips and he used his hands to mash my boobs together for friction as he began rutting against me. With each thrust I saw the head of his cock emerge out of my cleavage glistening with perspiration from my sweaty chest. I glanced up and caught his gaze and our eyes locked. It's difficult to describe everything going on inside my mind at that moment.

I knew the drugs were responsible for the storm of feelings I was experiencing but that didn't make them any less real. I had never before felt such a strong desire to be used -- and even abused. I wanted him to put me in my place; to punish me. While waves of shame buffeted me, at the same time I felt myself becoming incredibly aroused. I began reflexively parting my lips for him as he completed each thrust without even realizing I was doing it.

Of course, the invitation wasn't lost on the boy, and he shifted his weight and adjusted his position, so his glans began brushing my lips when he finished each thrust. A droplet of precum prompted me to impulsively extend my tongue leading to the inevitable. It was all a blur, but the end result was me on my stomach between his legs with my lips sealed around his dick. He leaned back on both arms while I held it at the base of the shaft with my hand working my mouth up and down its length. The van was quiet save for the sound of our ragged breathing and the wet slurping sounds of me enveloping him with my tongue.

I was shamelessly in heat with my left hand jammed between my legs working my fingers through the soaked pantyhose. The thing was, though, I didn't want any of this. This wasn't me at all. It was as though my body was possessed and I was strapped in as a passenger. I felt tears running down my cheeks, but my avatar only continued to suck harder. I was desperate to please him, desperate to get myself off, and aghast at what I was doing.

I can't put into words how strong the craving was to please him. It was like a mantra running constantly in the background. I couldn't stop myself thinking about what he would like, what he would want, and how I could be a good girl for him. I began picturing how thrilling it must be for him to have captured me. A few hours ago I was perfectly coiffed, made up, and walking confidently in my new outfit as a smart and successful businesswoman. And now, here I was -- drugged and topless with my dress discarded in the corner of a dirty van being face-fucked by a boy almost half my age. I was property now. I imagined his view of my ass framed so nicely by the red soles of my pumps and felt myself shiver knowing what a good girl I was.