37 min readJul 14, 2021


Cindy’s Adventures. 9.6k Erotic. Adult

Cindy suffers through childhood. Kidnapping and long lesbian sex session. She ponders on why everything fun is also illegal.

A story for fourth grade English class: (Ignore spelling.)
My sumer vacation, by Cindy Edwards.
last June, Uncle John comes to stay with us a-while. He’s a nice man. Mama said he was away in some bad place for while an needed a place to stay, so he culd stay with us for a while.

I didn’t see him much at first cause wwe went to Florda for a while. I saw seels swimming, and there was a big scary shark in the pool. It scared me, an a lot with those big teeth.

Then on the way back my brother had to pee and Daddy get gas. It was at night and we was all tired. Anyways, we got gas an left an it wasn’t only an hor before someone noticed Jeff wasn’t there.

When we got back, we found Jeff an a bunch a cops. Daddy looked funny while one cop cussed at him. Haha, it was funny.

Anyway, we got arselves bck an found uncle John drunked an sleeping on my bed. It’s okay, Mama said. I could sleep on the couch.

I coul’n sleep without teddy the bear so I went in to get him. uncle John was awake, though an said I could sleep with him, stead There was room. an we had a lot of fun that night. He showed me his pee thing and I showed him mine. I didn’t think it would, but it did fit real good. Then he told me not to tell anyone and I didn’t.

He buys me things and takes me places, without Jeff, heheehe. An we have fun.

I read a lot this summer, all kinda books. an life isn’t all fun, too. Mama makes me clean my room now, an she used to do it. Since uncle john bought me a cellp.. cellpphone thing, I can talk to anyone any time, too. So life isn’t as bad as before sumer vacation.

Cindy Edwards, fourth grade.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -

Now, that was one son-a-bitch of a homework assignment, let me tell you that. When my teacher read it, I was taken to a small room with a long polished table and a dozen chairs around it and forced to sit by myself. I was frightened out of my wits, having no idea about what was happening.

Then a lady came in carrying a briefcase and a handful of manila folders. She had a nice smile but hard eyes. When she grabbed my hand, I pulled away.

She shook her head. “You poor girl.”

“What did I do? Why am I being punished?” I remember how I started to cry, I was so confused. “I wanna go home. Where’s my Ma?”

“She’s busy right now. I’ll take you home soon, honey.”

I didn’t know at the time, but the police had gone to my home and apprehended my parents. Not arrested, apprehended for questioning, and taken them to the station while others waited for Uncle John to come home and collected evidence.

“I want to go home, NOW,” I screamed, settling back in my chair.

“Soon, baby. First we have to talk.”

“I don’t wanna talk.”

“It’s not your fault, Cindy, but we have to find out what happened, what he’s done to you.”

“Who’s done what? Nobody’s done anything to me,” or words to that effect. You have to remember, that was long ago and I’m not recalling this word-by-word.

She was well into the interview before I realized she was talking about me and Uncle John. Only after commiserating, subterfuge and other twisting of explanations. To a nine-year-old, it was only confusing.

“But how could him buying things and playing games with me be so bad? It was funny, most of it, anyway.”

“You don’t have to hide it from me, or yourself, honey.” She shook her head again. “I’ve heard it before, too many times. I know it’s hard to understand and accept, but you’ll get over it … eventually. By that time, her eyes had softened.

I don’t remember her name, though she must have told me, only the guilt she implied, that I was REALLY the blame for something or other.

Among other things, while my young mind was struggling to understand any fucking thing, she asked such strange questions.

At first, I didn’t particularly like telling but, most likely since it had been fun, didn’t hesitate very long. It was private stuff I’d promised never to tell but, for all I knew, many young girls had done the same. He was my uncle, part of my family, so, so what? Even keeping it a secret didn’t sound all that strange. Kids like keeping secrets from their parents.

Well, she did take me home and I didn’t see Uncle John again. Since my family never talked about him and evaded my questions, I gradually forgot about the guy. As an adult, I’ve never been interested enough to find out.

What it did do for a young girl was to foster a confusion about sex and about the real world. How, I wondered, could enjoyment be evil? Not, mind you, as a fully-conscious thought, but deep in a developing brain.

Then, in my early teens, came alcohol, marijuana and the sixties. That period of social intemperance brought more confusion, more guilt, bringing the incident with my uncle into my conscious mind. Again, enjoyment mixed with guilt of doing something illegal.

Maybe like that one guy at the trial insinuated, that I subconsciously egged him on? It was possible. I did often run around in only panties and leave the bathroom door open. For the first time, really, I began to consider myself a “bad” girl. It might be MY fault he was in prison. My fault his life was ruined.

Shawn Adams helped in those feelings. He was known as a “bad” boy, not respecting authority, any authority. One time he gave me a bracelet, telling me not to wear it in public for awhile. When I saw a picture of it in a newspaper, as stolen from a condo in another town, I knew why. Although not wearing it in public, I treasured that bauble for the next twenty years before it was stolen by a casual lover. I still hope that bastard was busted with it.

Then, when I’m about fifteen, we’re smoking pot when the police break in. We don’t get any jail time but I learn again that having fun seems to be illegal. The same with other drugs. I try them but finally settle on gin cause I like the taste and it does the job.

I quit school in the tenth grade, tired of all the bullshit. And it is bullshit. The school books say one thing, newspapers and television say the opposite. Columbus DIDN’T discover America. Georgie Washington owned slaves, even screwed them. Abe Lincoln wasn’t really against slavery, and other bullshit.

My first real job, lying about my age, was as a barmaid. Right away, I moved into an apartment with a couple of co-workers. That was when I really learned the ropes, how life was really lived. With new knowledge, that confusion, built up over the years, disappeared. I found part-time hooking fun, exciting, and interesting. Yet another way where fun was illegal.


Now I have a new lover, the umpteenth and a bad boy, of course. He’s six years older than me and brags that he’s never worked a day in his life, outside of jail. Before he was eighteen, his mama had a doctor give him a paper saying he has a bad back and spine. Also anal something or other so she could get expensive medicine from the state to sell on the street. Now she’s dead, but he still buys and sells it.

“Simple, honey,” Joey tells me. “We grab the bitch, have fun with her, then give her back to her daddy. After he pays.”

It does seem easy. I even know her, slightly. We met at a lounge on Adams Street.

I was with a couple of friends that worked with me at Tremper’s. The factory on South Wales, you know?

This one girl was sitting at the bar, looking sad, so we invited her to sit with us. When you’re out having fun you don’t like to look at someone in the dumps. We figured to cheer her up.

We didn’t know her daddy was rich … till she told us. She was a bitch, depressing the rest of us with her sorry talk. No new car this year? Loddie, da. I’ve never had a car, period. Feel sorry for her…. Shit!

Later, going through her purse — she’d been too drunk to notice me stealing it — I kept her driver’s license and money, throwing the rest away. Well, actually, Julie kept the purse itself.

When me and Joey are watching a detective show about kidnapping, he mentions that, “Think of it, honey. I’m smarter than all those actors. If we kidnapped someone, they’d never find us. That plan they had was just too fuckin’ stupe.”

That’s when I think about that ID card. It has an address on it. Hastily, I dig it out from the back of a dresser drawer, hidden inside a bible.

“Here, honey. She’s fucking rich. Maybe we could, you know, actually do it?”

“Fuckin’ ‘A’, baby.” He’s more enthused than when I’d lured that tourist into an abandoned home two-doors down from the “Copper Penny”….

“Careful, babe,” I’d told the guy while walking up onto the back porch. If he’d been halfway sober he’d have seen nobody lived there. Shit. The porch had missing boards, for god’s sake. “Watch your step, there. A steps missing. Daddy said he’d fix it but never has.”

“You sure it’s safe? Daddy isn’t home with his shotgun?” He giggled as I pulled open a squeaking screen door. The door itself was inside, used as a table by crackheads to brew their shit, or whatever.

“Safe as shit, baby. No problem.”

His problem came as we entered the kitchen, still containing a sink filled with crap. It came in the form of Joey and a two-by-four.

“Crack” and the guy stumbled forward, still on his feet but not for long, as the board hit him again, on the back of the head.

Joey let out a “Goddamn” because he’d got a splinter I had to take out later. Joey gets so weak when he sees blood, specially his own, hee-hee. It don’t never bother me, his blood, that is, hee-hee-hee….

Well, after that Joey wasn’t able or didn’t wanna do that again. “You can use a iron pipe? It don’t leave splinters,” I told him, but he still refuses….

Well, that’s the way we live, the exciting life if you don’t like money and do like hiding from the fuzz.

So we spend the night making plans. While he’s drawing things on paper and thinking, I look her name up in a phone book. “Joan C. Campbell”. No such listing, but there is a Campbell living at that address on Jackson Street in the suburbs.

When I call the number and ask for “Joan” a woman answers and tells me to wait. She’ll get her. That’s good enough. I hang up.

Joey grew up living in a rented cabin on a farm. He knew of a forgotten shack he and other kids had played in.

“That was before all those farms were bought for factories and speculation. I don’t think there’s any farming there now. When I drive by, all I see are factories and weeds. The houses are boarded up and falling down.,” he says.

“Kids? That would be a bummer.”

He shrugs. “Don’t think so, babe. We’ll have to check, though. The shack might not even be there anymore.”

It’s only one item on a long to-do list.

Weeks spin by while we work on that list. Some things are easy, others take longer. And a few items are even added, but we want to be sure. Not having a car complicates things to no end. We can’t let anyone else in on it and none of our friends trust us with their cars. A few months ago, Joey borrowed one and didn’t return it. We needed money for the rent and drugs so he sold it to some freak. Now we can’t borrow none.

Desperate, we knock over a gas station….


Finding a rusty five-gallon gas can, Joey has an idea. There’s a station down the street that has plenty of business during the day when workers drive back and forth to work, but hardly any after that. It’s old-type, with a bulletproof booth where you hand money in through a slot. Then a guy inside turns on a pump for a certain amount of gas.

Wearing a short skirt, half-open blouse, and sneakers, I carry that large empty can over to the booth.

“I need gas,” I tell the attendant, a slim young black guy. “You’ll have to show me how. I never done it before.” I can see Joey creeping up through weeds behind the shack.

I’m sure the guy’s seen me before. I live right down the street and go past the station on the way to my usual stroll near “Bucky’s Tavern”, a good place to find Johns when that bar closes. He wouldn’t, though, know where I live — I don’t think, anyway.

I look at the ground as I speak, acting shy. “Please? It’ll only take a minute and I don’t want to splash it on the ground.”

Either the plea, my attitude, or the remark about spilling must’a got to him. I can see, over my forehead, as he looks around before coming out.

That was when Joey hits on him with a loose brick he’s picked up somewhere. Unlike the guy in that old house, the attendant falls in a heap after one blow.

While I pretend to help the guy, actually going through his pockets, Joey rifles the shack. He can’t work the register. He does find a full bank bag, though, under a counter.

By plan — I told you we worked this all out on paper — I hand the pocket contents to Joey. As he leaves, I return to the shack and call “911”.

While waiting for the police, I nibble on free chips and candy bars. The kid won’t know the difference and I am hungry, you know?

Well, I watch as they carry him away. One cop questions me and I tell them, “Two guys, I think they was Mexicans, came up behind that guy and hit him with something. No, they was’a wearing masks and I couldn’t identify them. Uh, uh, only the accent. One’a them yelled for me to keep quiet. To ‘Stay right there an shut the fuck up.’

“Can I go now?”

See? Having the guy know what I look like is good to have him drop his guard, but not so good if they canvass the neighborhood for me. Since I’m not suspected, that’s no longer a worry. Besides, someone in a passing car might have recognized me standing in the lights, or even one of those hidden cameras.

That money pays our expenses for the kidnapping.


“What you think, honey?”

We’re standing just inside the door of the meanest-looking pile of trash I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty. There isn’t any running water or electricity. The floor has boards missing, others shifting or squeaking, maybe too fragile to stand on? Although no light comes in through the walls or ceiling, they look ready to fall in. Someone has even used a thick plank to keep one sidewall from falling in. Two others help with the ceiling.

An ancient cook-stove stands against one wall, probably supporting it. Window glass is cracked or missing. On the way in from a long winding dirt driveway, overgrown with two-foot high grass, I’ve seen an old shitter sitting at the rear. Who knows what monsters inhabit that small shack?

“It’s solid, Cindy. I lived here with my Mama for a year. I kicked the walls from both sides and you can see that the roof doesn’t leak. No puddles or rotten spots on the floor. What more could we ask for?”

I’m speechless, simply speechless. “What the fuck?” I manage to mumble, mostly for my own benefit rather than simply storming out on my way to Siberia.

“I know some guys that’ll come in and fix it up. It’ll cost but, since it’s under the table, they’ll keep their mouths shut.” He comes over to stand behind me, half-supporting and keeping me from folding down to that evil-looking floor.

We’ve bought a 12-year-old Mitsubishi pickup truck for the kidnapping. Although we wanted a minivan, it was all we could find and afford from that heist. Instead of tying the captive firmly in the rear of a van, she’ll have to ride between us in front — no back seat at all. We tested shoving her down in the small space behind the seat, but found the two of us would have to ride doubled over the dashboard if we did. I was the test subject and had trouble breathing in that position.

I’ve never been very good at arguing, with my parents or Joey. Maybe it’s because of being so damned mixed up as a kid and finding real life isn’t like it’s supposed to be. I’ve always been afraid of emotions, of people laughing behind my back when I disagree with them. Although bowing to Joey’s ideas, I don’t never try to talk him out of anything.

I can, though, twist HIS thinking around a bit by agreeing and then bringing up little points that eventually change his view. Since it takes a lot of effort, I don’t do it often. He seems so sure of himself that I just follow what he says.

I do try to talk him out about the shack but it don’t do no good. And, like I suspected, he turns out to be right about it after all. It’s something I learned long ago, that in an argument I’m usually wrong, so why argue?

A week later, he takes me back there. The outside looks the same except for deeper ruts in the driveway, but the inside has changed … a lot.

“I told them to be cheap. One found used side-panels he could steal from his boss. They don’t match, not the same color or size, but work.”

He’s right. The floor and walls have been fixed and seem reasonably clean. I can see where new boards have been pounded into the floor and the walls are patchy in color. There’s glass in the windows and the roof even seems sturdier.

“The crapper’s okay, too. The old shit has evaporated and it doesn’t even stink anymore. They got that old hand-operated water pump outside to work with a little grease and a new seal. It works like a charm. I wouldn’t want to pump much bathwater, but it’s not hard to get a gallon or two for drinking,” he says.

There’s even a double bed and a couple of huge stuffed chairs. Not too bad, though primitive. No microwave or refrigerator. And I notice Joey doesn’t mention the stove. On a family vacation as a kid, we used a wood stove for heating. I remember how to make it work. I was one of the kids that had to take care of it on the vacation.

“Guess it’s okay … now. I gotta try the shitter first, though. One fuckin’ spider or lizard and you’re on your own, buddy. I can’t have any critters crawling up MY ass.”

“Ha! And what about that John that insisted on eating it out?”

“Wild critters, I mean. He was domesticated and with lovely tongue action.”

After trying out the mattress, we leave for home.


It takes several trips in that tiny truck, but we stock the shack with food and necessities, including a small battery television-radio combo and extra batteries. Once we get that Joan girl, we intend to spend most of our time there so that neighbors won’t be suspicious — or break in to see what they can steal.

Among the supplies are a half-dozen disposable cellphones, each for different uses and to be thrown away often in case of tracing by cops. They were purchased one at a time from different stores at different times. We plan to talk only briefly and in code.

One is to to be hidden out in the woods for emergencies, another kept locked up in the truck. That way the bitch won’t be able to find them and call for help. Two spares and the last two for the money pickup only. That last, Joey assured me, would be fast and furious. If the cops get onto one or two phones, we’ll still be safe. Once we start, buying phones might be suspicious.

There’s also a purchase of two cheap hand-held CB transceivers. Their only purpose is to throw followers off for a few minutes. Expecting cellphone calls, the cops might lay off on radio signals, at least long enough for us to get away. It’s to be a mixture of phones, radio, and old-fashioned written instructions.


By the time of the actual kidnapping, we have barely enough money left for a full tank of gas.

Taking the stolen driver’s license, I wait until 4 PM before calling that number from a pay phone.

“Can I talk to Joan?” I ask.

“Speaking. What you need?”

“You don’t know me, but I have something of yours.”

“What? I haven’t lost anything.”

“A red purse, with your ID, bank card and other items. No money, though.”

“Where’d you find that? Someone stole or I lost that years ago.”

“My friend stole it. She showed me last night. That’s where I got your name and address.”

“Stole it? Were you one of those women I was drinking with?”

“Yeah. So was my friend, the thief.”

“Then what’s the point? There wasn’t anything valuable in it.”

“I just thought you’d be interested. I won’t bother you again.”

“Wait! I might want it back, the identification. I hear identity theft is a big thing. Can you bring it over?”

“I don’t have a car. You’d have to come to my place. And … I hate to ask but, is there any reward at all? I have two kids, you know, and need any money I can get.”

“Twenty … no … I can make it a fifty for your trouble. What’s your address?”


I’m waiting, sitting on the steps in front of a vacated home on a residential street when she arrives. Because of the recent mortgage bullshit, I think all of them are empty. At least it feels like a graveyard as I sit there. At night the gangs and crackheads might take over but it’s empty for now and without many cop patrols. I see one once and simply turn my head until they leave. Now is not a good time to be thought a hooker.

Five minutes late, she pulls up across the street and motions me over. In return, I smile and gesture to her to come to me while waving the driver’s license. I can see her looking around, probably debating the act, before curiosity takes over and she gets out.

Halfway to me, she must have seen Joey coming towards us from across the street, cause she pauses a moment, then runs toward her car. She doesn’t make it. Joey reaches out and throws her against its hood.

“Help me, honey,” he calls.

I run over and grab her from behind and we wrestle her to the ground. It doesn’t take long to get some of those disposable plastic strips around Joan’s wrists. As she screams, I see a sweater on the seat of her car and shove it over her head, one hand trying to fill her mouth with heavy cotton or whatever.

Still struggling, though the screams have change to gasps and half-understood curses, we sit her in her car while Joey runs over to get our pickup. The whole thing takes only a few minutes that seem like an hour. In that neighborhood, any watchers will be more likely to steal an almost new car with the keys in it than to call the cops about a mugging.


She doesn’t start struggling until we’re halfway to the shack. Wrist cuffs and hobbles help, but it’s hard for Joey to shift gears with her long legs flailing around like ball bats. Joey finally pulls over to the side of the road.

“You’ll have to sit on her, honey,” he says.

I’m on the outside and get out, both of us trying to settle her down. I don’t know how, but all the pulling and shoving ends up with her legs in the air, kicking the back window, and her neck bent onto the floorboards of the tiny truck.

He grins as I climb back in, sitting on her chest. For the next few minutes, she continues bouncing around. I feel like I’m riding a fucking horse instead of another woman’s tits. Eventually she runs out of steam, which is a great relief for both of us.

To my surprise, getting her out of the truck and into the shack is relatively easy. I guess she’s given up.

After throwing her onto the bed, I fix sandwiches while Joey gets the chains ready and tests them. She ain’t going nowhere. If she does run, she has to get by both of us, through that long driveway, then run down a lonely dirt road at night.

The setup is a long heavy chain extending from beams near the ceiling, then across the room above our heads. A circle thing on it is attached to another, lighter, dog chain dropping downward. It, in turn, connects to a metal cuff like those old chain-gangs used. With it on an ankle she’ll be able to get most anywhere in the room, though still chained up.

For a toilet, she has a metal bucket sitting under a window. Outside the window, there’s a drop off for five or six feet near a concrete block foundation. When the bucket fills, or stinks, she can empty it out the window.

“Once she settles down,” he says, “we can take off the wrist cuffs and she can do the housework.”

I certainly have no objections to that idea. We might as well put the fancy-ass bitch to work while she’s here.

While we eat lunchmeat sandwiches and potato chips, I ask him, “What about her? I made her a sandwich.”

“Fuck her. We’ll leave her like that tonight. It might help break her in.”

“Where’ll we sleep, anyway?”

“It’s a big bed. If she objects, she can use the floor.”

“And if she shits the bed?”

“Cut it out, honey. This is leading nowhere. As tired as I am, I could sleep with a horse and not mind a fucking bit.”

“I’d like to see that … I mean the horse, you horny bastard. Let her have the middle. I’d rather sleep on the edge of the bed.”

“If you don’t want my dick,” he says, motioning toward the captive, “I’ll give it to her. You two can make a pussy sandwich, me the meat in the center.”

“You wish.”

He reaches across the table, cupping my chin. “Maybe I do? There’s enough of me for both of you.” His eyes say volumes. He is serious. “What would you do?”

“I … I dunno. I’d have to think about it.” I’m surprised, but have to admit, even to myself, that she can’t object. And I know Joey loves only me. And it might be weeks or a month before we return her. And I’m sorta, you know … bi-curious.

I know some of my hooker friends do it with women, but have never dropped that low myself. It’s like we business girls try to hold onto a little dignity. Such as wearing shoes to bed with a customer, them more naked than we are. That kind’a thing, ya know?


Joey was really up for it last night. He screwed me twice and, in-between, I felt the mattress jumping around and heard Joan groaning and bitching. Tired myself from the day’s activity, I slept like a babe. Not feeling the girl to be a real threat to our affair, I figured he could use a reward, so I slept like a log ‘tween times.

He’s up early, anxious to tell her parents and start setting up the money exchange thing. It is a complicated process. Wheels within wheels within wheels. He tried to explain once but only confused me. Teen gangs, train lockers, FBI, bullshit, and I dunno. But he says it’ll work, and it better.

That leaves me alone with Joan. I’m a little apprehensive, but those are good chains. During the night, the thick sweater came off her head, cause while I make coffee I look over and see her watching me.

“Morning, girl,” I say, watching for the coffee to perk. “You have a good sleep?”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe later,” I say, smiling, “after I have my coffee.”

“You would, you bitch.”

I turn, so she can’t see my face, and smile, shrugging my shoulders for her benefit. “You and my friend have fun last night? He seemed to.”


“You already said that. You want some Java?”

“Fuck you.”

“It’s not polite to keep repeating yourself, honey. You want a cup or not? I’m trying to be civil, here.”

“And why the hell should I be ‘civil’ to you?”

I’m becoming angry. It’s not my fault she…. Wait a minute, hee-hee, it IS my fault.

Anger building, I pour two cups of coffee. As I pick hers up, I hesitate, then pour a little cold water into it. Don’t want to actually burn her, or myself if she throws it at me.

As I approach, she watches me with a steady tempestuous gaze. She tries to turn away. Seeing a pair of gold and orange panties down at one ankle, I pull the leg over towards me and pour the coffee down onto her cunt-hair.

Damn, does she jump. The woman wasn’t expecting me to do THAT, to another female, yet. She screams invectives as I laugh my ass off. Putting the cup down on the floor, I sit beside our captive, one hand settling of its own volition onto a minor though wet jungle between her legs. “Awwww. Bet that smarts,” I whisper while rubbing soft flesh. “See what happens when you annoy me?” I say while running a finger up and down her outer labia. She’s mine, and I want her to know it.

“Now,” I tell her, “you’re the subject of a kidnapping, for which we hope to get our just awards. You … well, you’re the kidnap-ee. The sooner you get that through your little brain, the better we’ll all like it.

“You just try to hold that anger in while you’re here. Then you can go home and take it out on your family.

“But if you annoy me, us, you’ll suffer much more than we will. We could tie you to a tree outside, in the cold, rain, and among vicious animals and not give a rat’s ass whether you live or not. If you humor us, do as we say, you’ll be in relative comfort. It’s your choice, and, honey, I don’t really give a fuck which.”

“If I behave, will you … will you promise to keep that ape off me? Please?”

I shake my head. “He won’t damage you. You’re worth too much to us in mint condition. As far as I’m concerned, he can play with you all he wants.”

I can’t help adding, with a wide grin, “I might play a little, myself. Just for the hell of it.
While you’re with us, you’ll do anything, and I mean everything, we tell you. My friend has a good imagination. You should see the list of punishments he, we both, worked out,” I lie.

I see her deflate like a balloon, once-glaring eyes turning to look straight at a wall. “Could you please, please, remove your hand. Please?”

Damn. I hadn’t noticed. During the one-sided conversation, I’d still been feeling her up. I lift it off soft flesh. Starting to wipe the finger on her panties, I change direction to slip it into her open mouth. “Please lick my stinky finger, please. Please?” Laughing, I go over to the table to drink a cup of coffee.

At least one of us have to be with her at all times. Hell, for all we know she’d taken a locksmith course at some fancy college or studied karate. I don’t bother her sexually and Joey doesn’t while I’m around. Since we all live together, I prefer harmony to constant animosity.

But I can’t look her way without a certain feeling of power. Rich bitches like her have angered me ever since the fifth grade.

For week after week, it’s an existence of more or less forced companionship. Being lazy, of course, I use her for any labor or housework. I search for and find an extension to the chain to let Joan out to cut wood and to haul ashes from the cook stove. Of course, I stay nearby while she handles the ax, a .22 pistol in my belt. If I sleep or nap, I tighten her chain, leaving her enough slack to do dishes or whatever but not enough to reach me at the back of the bed.

Any time she displays anger, she’s beaten down, literally. Joey usually takes that role. Sometimes, though, he isn’t around and I have to do it. At first, chastising Joan was an unpleasant chore but in the enforced boredom I begin to enjoy it. As the weeks go by without change, we all develop a sort of “cabin fever”, finding little ways to annoy each other.

Like the time Joey returned, angry about some little thing. “God-Damnit. This bread’s moldy, unfit to eat,” he screamed at me, changing tack to charge over to slap Joan in the face. I was, hee-hee, holding a carving knife at the time.

“It’s only because you haven’t brought any new bread home,” I said. “Your own damned fault.”

“You could have reminded me.”

When I didn’t answer, probably still angry at me, he strode back over to poor Joan where she was sitting on the bed, holding her chin. Pulling down his trousers, he took out his cock. Forcing open her lips, he mouth-fucked her while staring into MY eyes. Hands behind her head, he shoved it back and forth, challenging me.

When I only grinned, saying something like, “Ride’um, doggie,” he gave her mouth one hell of a workout. Didn’t have any juice left for that night, which was all right by me, letting me sleep.

Although I made certain she was constantly aware of her status, we did have many pleasant conversations. Sounds strange, but we were women and alone a lot. Those little talks proved useful. One thing Joanie complained about was how her daddy sunk so much money into a collection of gold coins from around the world. Supposed to be worth half-a-million. Her point was that he might not have much cash around for the ransom.

When I told Joey, he was ecstatic. One of the problems was that any currency we got for Joanie would be marked or the serial numbers recorded, damned hard to spend or sell.

“What we’ll do,” he told me, “is tell them we want cash. Then, after they spend time marking that shit, at the last minute we’ll change it to his gold coins. They won’t have much time to fuck those up before the drop off.”

“But those coins are also traceable,” I reminded him. “I saw on TV how many such coins are unique and others could be marked. And if you melted them it would be easy to tell just where in the world that gold came from.”

“Not if you melt them down together and mix the gold. It should confuse any tests,” he said. “And I watch television, too. Even natives in the jungle know how to melt gold, and without expensive equipment. All you need is something to hold it that doesn’t melt first, and a fire. We already got a fire.” He pointed at the cook stove.

Looking over at Joanie, sitting on the bed while she listens, he adds, “Maybe we can even let the bitch here do the hot and heavy work with her papa’s gold while we take it easy.”

Sounded too simple for me, but I went along with it. There must be plenty of places that buy gold without questions. If you can sell stolen jewelry, you can sure as hell sell stolen gold. I wouldn’t know how and would fuck it up but Joey’s smart.


“I hired a gang of kids,” he tells me. “They all wear gang colors and the same jackets and pants.”

“How much you give them?”

“Nothing yet. Only $50 each on collection day. Promised to pay more after they help us with the ransom. By that time we’ll be long gone. Let them piss up a rope for their money.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“It’s only for an hour or two, and I can watch the right ones all the way through.”

I shrug. It’s his scheme, not mine. I’m only the guard, him the tactician.

Once Joey got away with screwing Joanie in front of me, he makes a habit of it, the fucker. He says not to worry, since I get my share. But it does gall on me, watching him humping away while I sit or lay, watching.

Joanie even seems to enjoy it, becoming kinda friendly with him, which does worry me. Once he has the money, does he even need me?

So I begin making life hell for the bitch, keeping her busy with make-work, screaming at her when she sits down. He might screw her, I figured, but she’d be too fucking tired to respond.

“Isn’t this enough firewood, Cindy?” she’ll ask.

“Nope. We need more. Keep chopping. When you’re done, your chain can reach that pile’a chunks. Drag another log over and keep working.” I do enjoy the way that those ass cheeks move and stretch as she handles that fucking ax.

After chopping, I order her to scrape coals, hot and cold, from the bottom of the stove. I know she hates that job, getting filthy from the cold ones while dodging hot sparks as she pulls on the shift lever.

I stand out of reach of the sparks and berate her, laughing at her efforts. I want her too damned tired to respond, to lie like a log as he pumps MY cock into her. And it seems to be succeeding.

“Jesus Christ, Cindy. The bitch is filthy, burn marks all over her legs and arms,” Joey complains.

“Tough shit. If you want her clean, do her work yourself. I’m not about to get myself burned.” That always shuts him up.


One day, though, Joanie changes tactics, coming up behind me while I watched television.

“Please, Cindy. Why do you hate me? You know being with him isn’t my idea. But I want to live. You can see that, can’t you?”

Tensing up, I could feel a hot breath, just before she kissed me on the ear.

“If you aren’t getting enough loving, honey, I can help, you know?” she whispered.

“After you grow a set of balls?”

“There are some things women can do to help each other. Some nice things.”

“And I’m expected to do your tasks, I take it?”

“I’d do it because I like you. That’s the only reason. Really.”

“You don’t know what I’d like.”

“I can try, if you’ll only let me?”

With that, she reached down to slide a hand inside my blouse. Cupping a breast, she gently rubbed the nipple in a slow circular motion while squeezing it gently. Meanwhile, her lips left my ear, tongue circling along a cheek to nibble on the edge of my upper lip.

As I turned my head to say something, our full lips met, her tongue entering my mouth to probe deeply. Mine joined hers, not trying to get away but battling like two badgers in heat — and we were, in heat, that is. Hers, though, was forceful and her breathe sweet. In moments, I slid around in the chair to catch her upper torso as it descended over my shoulder and across my chest amid the clanking of chains.

Both of us ready, I half-carried her sweet weight over to dump onto the bed. The chains barely inhibited us as I just about tore Joanie’s jeans off, one leg of which remained on the chain.

She stripped her own blouse off, no bra saving time in exposing full breasts, nipples already standing as straight as little fleshy soldiers, yearning to attack my tongue. A battle they weren’t destined to win.

Next came orange and yellow panties. Since they were her only pair, worn at capture time, they easily shredded between my fingers, exposing a delicious cunt already thickening with passion while waiting for my touch.

Joanie looked and smelled so delectable and willing, eyes shining and arms outstretched, reaching to me, that I didn’t bother with my own clothing, simply dropping onto those globes, face buried between mountains of warm female flesh.

Arms clasping at my back, she rolled side to side, engulfing my still-clothed body in a grip threatening to smother me between her titties like a baby losing its grip on vital sustenance — the only defense to our melding of flesh.

We rolled over, her on top to fill my mouth with swollen unpainted lips, teeth grinding against my own as we swapped hot breaths, sweetened air rushing from her lungs to mine, as mine were to hers.

Rolling over, all twenty of our digits fumbled with my blouse, getting in each other’s way. Sliding down my body to my knees, she unbuttoned dirty army camouflage trousers. As I lifted my butt, she managed to pull them down, then off.

Seeing her kneeling at the foot of the bed, I spread eager legs, fingers on the crotch of my own frilly panties rubbing while frantically motioning her to join them there.

She dropped to bare knees, mouthing me through the silk, pleasuring me in a manner Joey never had, never could, while taking her own sweet time as he never would. The crotch soon wetting, slid easily over sensitive labia, tickling and threatening to spill the little man off that boat.

I shifted my butt upward to meet the challenge, to intensify an already exultingly intense series of sensations as I soared toward a climax.

Feeling a probing tongue finally making its way around the silk, underneath the elastic at my leg to finally explore bare skin through a forest of genital hair to find my source of pleasure, eagerly lapping forbidden juices and sweat as my blood pressure soared.

Actions bring reactions, such as that hot chill leading to a … climax, then two more in quick succession as my hands clutched the back of her head, attempting either a birth in reverse or a rebirth.

For an eternity, we lay in quiet repose, heartbeats synchronized, slowing while drums beat inside my cranium as blood pressure settled back to a semblance of normal. I could smell the odors of passion, even while hearing the chirp of crickets under the shack.

Slowly, my lover crawled upward, kissing and licking from cunt hair to bellybutton, roaming through jungle and cavity with equal exploratory abandon. I felt her continuing over a tummy wet with sweat to finally fondle and suck at my breasts, bringing a feeling of cool saliva to blistering hot skin, held down by a newly-heated fleshy weight.

I held her head tightly to kiss at the top of her head, getting hair in my teeth in my fervor. Emulating a big baby, she couldn’t get enough of my breasts, attempting to suckle like an infant, teeth nipping at eager nipples eventually to nibble and tongue my neck, hands on my ears, pulling my head closer to meet questing hot lips.

My hands slipped free to wander over and stroke her back, stopping to run probing fingers up and down a deep ass crack, tentatively nudging a secret place reserved for elimination of waste, as though such a creature exuded anything of no value.

My lover must have felt my finger, as she shoved her body upward a few inches to accommodate the probing digit, open mouth reaching down a bit to nibble on my chin.

Turnabout is fair play in sports and sex. I reached down and upward, my right hand slipping into the junction that housed her privates, not so private at the moment, rubbing a precious vagina along its length while my middle finger entered her body, curving upward to pressure her clit with every stroke, every flick of the nail.

I could feel her body shift by millimeters for better effect, seeming to vibrate with every plunge of that questing digital manipulator. Sighing, she clutched me even tighter, brushing my thumb against damp pubic hair, up, down, up…. No unlucky grape or coconut could have survived the friction as our bodies melded into one huge eight-legged spider creature with two backs. “Oh, ohhh, uhhh, ohhhh.”

Slowly, I extracted my hand to replace it with my left leg, its wider surface covering her entire vagina to slide back and forth, gently stirring Joanie’s pubic hair while rubbing a swollen clitoris. Careful, Cindy, I warned myself, or you might start a fire from the friction. Delicious odors seeped and clung to eager flesh.

Feeling her welcome weight, I forced it upward and myself down to again pay homage to her breasts, kissing and sucking as a hungry banshee, only a brief interlude to let our combined sweat ease me lower, lower, toward Joanie’s navel. On the sweet journey I felt fingernails pressing onto my back to leave long straight striations, the pain encouraging speed, my tongue finally pausing at her navel to lavish that depression with saliva, a small but vital lake, indeed. I then lapped it back out for future use on her pussy. Beneath me, her tummy seemed to ripple as if an old-fashioned washboard.

I almost missed her initial orgasm, triggered by the first thrust of my tongue, slamming that tender tummy down against my forehead in sudden release. I was in place as the juices flowed, to spread and clean them against a backdrop of quivering hot flesh. “oh, god, oh…”

“Com’eir, lover,” she whispered, rolling off to pull my head up to her level to receive millions of kisses, thousands of tongue probes while smearing a quart of sweat between us.

“Listen, Joanie babe,” I managed to whisper around a tongue inserted in her ear, “don’t you dare tell Joey. He hates this woman on woman shit.”

“He-he. I’m not that stupid, honey. Let’s snuggle awhile.”

“Baby, it’s cold outside.”

“But warm an juicy down here,” Joanie said between tongue jabs circling my still-swollen clit.


“Damn it, woman.” Joey stands at the entrance to the cabin. It’s been a week into a new arrangement between myself and our captive. “Damn it. Can’t you keep this one fucking room clean?”

“I … I’m working our bitch all I can, honey.”

“Then work her harder or do it yourself.”

He sits at the table to eat his supper, prepared by me while the captive slept. She has more privileges now, at least while Joey’s not here. I even share the work with her and often neglect to chain her unless I’m napping. After all, like Joey himself says, “We’re deep in unfamiliar woods. Where can she run to that we can’t find her? On foot, it’d take a half-hour just to get to a little-used dirt road. If, that is, she went in the right direction.”

“Won’t be long now,” he continued. “Her father has the money. He’s ready and says he’s put it into the suitcase I mailed him, ready for instructions for pickup.

“I have that teen gang ready, all wearing their ‘colors’ and dressed the same. I promised them a thousand each for a few hour’s work.”

“But can you trust them kids?” I ask while taking roast chicken from the oven. “That they won’t take the suitcase and disappear?”

“They don’t know what’s in it. I told them it was a thousand-year-old brass relic for a collector. Besides, I’ll be circulating around the terminal to keep an eye on them, and I’ll be armed.”

“And the lockers are ready, too?”

“Finished it today and put my own combination locks on both of them. The kids get one combination.”

“I hope everything goes okay,” I say, dipping potatoes from a pot on the stove and serving my man.

“Only a final call to Mr. Campbell tomorrow morning. Then I’ll wait at the train station for the kids. I have a maintenance uniform ready in the truck. The brats won’t recognize me, but I’ll see them. All will be wearing the same jackets with their logo on the back.”

Chained again and sweeping the floor, Joanie turns her head to smile at me.


At ten in the morning, Mr. Herbert Campbell stands watching an FBI expert install and try out a homing device inside a dark gray suitcase, the one provided by Joey for the ransom. The suitcase is a common make and color. Joey bought thirteen of the cheap but sturdy cases.

“We can track this case within ten feet outside, double that inside a building, sir. You deliver it to where they say while we hang back to give them time. To make certain, we’ve also recorded all serial numbers.

“After they count it and return to their nest. We’ll find your daughter, swoop in and release her.”

“How can you be sure all this will work? Sounds pretty complex to me.”

He shakes his head. “We can’t be positive. We can only hope that asshole will keep his word. We’ll have a helicopter up to keep track, though, and can swoop down to surprise him, them.”

That’s when the phone rings. It’s Joey.

“Change of plans, Mr. Campbell,” he intones quietly. “No cash. I know you collect gold coins. No. Don’t argue. Take out the money and fill the case with coins, loose except for individual wrappers. I want all you can stuff inside. Cheat and you’ll never see your daughter again, alive. Same delivery terms. Bye for now.” He hangs up.

After Campbell tells the FBI, he hurries to the basement to loot his own safe. There is barely enough time to repack the case and no time for the FBI to record or doctor the coins. That was Joey’s intent.

“Those coins are still rare, sir. He thinks he’s smart but won’t find selling them easy,” one agent comments.


A few minutes later while the FBI stake out a parking lot on one side of town, the one Joey had stipulated the switch was to take place, Mr. Campbell’s maid answers the door to admit a seventeen-year-old boy wearing a black gang jacket.

“I’m here for the suitcase.”

She hurries to inform her employer, who already has his own jacket on, suitcase by his side. Mr. Campbell was ready for the drive to Joey’s exchange point, the parking lot. The FBI agents were out back starting their vehicles and making radio checks, preparatory to the trip.

Having no time to waste, Mr. Campbell hurries to the front door, struggling with the heavy suitcase.

“But … but I was told — “

“It was changed,” the boy said with a sneer. “You giving it to me or not?” He looked at his watch. “I’m not waiting another minute.”

In a quandary, he hands the suitcase to the boy, who climbs onto a motorcycle and speeds down the driveway.

It’s pandemonium in that household as Mr. Campbell rushes down the hall to a room filled with FBI communication equipment.

Five minutes later, government cars are on the road. Ten minutes after that, the chopper has located the motorcycle, following until it stops at the Metro Train Terminal. FBI cars come from the other stakeout to slowly converge on the station.

Inside the large terminal, they find at least a dozen of those kids, all wearing the same jackets and carrying similar suitcases throughout the station.

One thing an FBI agent does see is one kid putting his suitcase into a storage locker, one of a solid bank of about fifty of them, another such row, back to back, facing the other direction. He reports in and stands back, watching the locker while the other agents follow individual teens.

With all the concrete and steel in the building’s construction, the GPS equipment can’t get a good fix. Joey has again surprised them.

None of them notice a man in a maintenance uniform using a handcart to trundle a wooden crate out to an old Mitsubishi pickup truck, then drive away.

Later, the kids gradually gather at an exit, angrily arguing and kicking empty suitcases around. On questioning, they tell a story about being hired then shafted for their pay.

The vital suitcase is eventually found under a table in a back room, empty with the GPS happily beeping its little heart out.

Frustrated, they have no choice but to hope Joan will be released as promised.


Joey must have been satisfied, extremely so, as he drove the old pickup truck back to the cabin. Those months of planning had gone off perfectly.

On hearing his arrival, I leave Joanie where I’ve been helping her stack wood, running around the outside of the shack to greet him. I see him maneuvering the small vehicle to back it near the door. Leaving the engine running, he runs inside to tell me.

As he slams around inside, I come in from the front, holding a rifle. “You get it?”

“Sure did, honey. It’s right out front.”

He looks around. “Where’s the bitch?”

“Chopping wood out back. How’d it work? Seemed confusing to me.”

“You know those storage lockers at the commuter train station? They’re cheap and come without locks. A customer can use their own lock or buy one from the clerk.

“Well, most people probably never try reaching way inside to feel the back. I never did until someone told me there’s no metal backs on the things. They come in sections of nine lockers square, with no backs at all. The installers use thin plywood panels between out-facing rows.

“What I did was to rent two lockers on opposing sides of the rows, using my own locks. Then I used a battery jigsaw to cut a hole through the plywood where two of them join at their rears. One of the kids opened one and shoved the suitcase into it. I was watching, then rushed around to open the opposite locker, pulled the case out that side and left. The cops didn’t even see me. They were busy watching an empty locker on the other side of the row and a dozen kids wandering around at random with similar suitcases.

“Then I went to where I’d hidden an empty wooden box, emptied the gold into it and drove away. That’s all there was to it.”

“They had the entire police force and FBI there, didn’t they?” I had to ask.

“Sure, at the original location, but I changed the location so that they didn’t have anybody at the train station until a kid on a motorcycle got there.”

I rush over to hug him. It’s almost over, the whole damned thing. “And when do we release Joan?”

“Give it a few days until things settle a bit and we melt the gold,” he says. “Maybe I can rent or borrow a car or something? We can leave her here, unchained. Let her find a way out of the woods.”

“She might know our names, you know?”

“Baby. Face it. Those cops aren’t idiots. If they don’t know it’s us by now, they will find out. Don’t underestimate them. The truck and this cabin are covered with prints. I’m on security cameras all over that station. In time, they’ll put it together. You’ve watched those TV shows.

“If we kill her, the charge will be murder as well, and they’ll look harder. It wouldn’t solve a thing.

“By the way,” Joey asked, “Where is she?”

“Chopping wood. I told you.”

“She is wearing that chain … isn’t she?”

That was when Joan, unchained, chose to gun the engine, briefly spinning tires before taking off with both truck and gold.

You know the rest. What can I say? You caught us on that country road toward the highway. It’s a long, long walk to town.

The End.