The girl tried to scream and wrench herself away, but the anesthetic was already clawing up her nostrils into her brain. They both saw her expression change from surprise to confusion to horror to terror and then to a clouding weakness. They both felt the wonder of her youthful form mashed between them. Then they both were shifting her slumping form toward the back. No more than fifteen seconds had passed.
They took a split second to stare down at her comatose form between them in the dank darkness of the crowded, unlit back room, her breasts shifting in the pink cotton, before he pulled the pad away to reveal her lax face, her sweet pink mouth open.
They got her out the back and into the gathering sundown without ceremony. The woman had their sedan's back door open, and her husband merely pushed the unconscious girl onto the seat. It happened so fast, with the car between them and the street that, even if a car had been going by, no one could really understand what was happening.
Then he was leaning in, going through the girl's jean pockets, savoring the firmness of her shape just on the other side of the cloth. The sensations didn't slow him -- finding and tossing Leesa's car keys to his wife as if they had practiced it. Their years in the hospital and school system held them in good stead.
The woman noted all the suitcases which had clued her husband that the girl had made a fateful stop on her way home -- meaning that even if her folks had known she was coming, there was no way to know for sure what had just happened. But obviously her parents didn't know, so no one would even ask about her for days, or even weeks or months. The school would think she was at home. Her parents would think she was at school.
The kid pumping air into his bike didn't even look up as Agnes Brannigan drove Leesa's car calmly out of the parking lot. He did look up when Tom pulled around, turning in the other direction as his wife. The man glanced down the otherwise empty road, gave the kid a thumb's up, and drove away. The kid didn't even realize that the man's wife wasn't in the car with him anymore, and he was thinking more about getting back to the dance magazine than catching another glimpse of the great-looking girl in the pink t-shirt.
The kid went back to repairing his bike, shaking his head. Why did the rich owner keep this shop open anyway? They could go days without any customers this late in the season. And even when people did show up -- like the three who just left -- they left without buying anything. And that was the last he thought about it.
Tom Brannigan pulled into the long cabin driveway, savoring again the remote beauty of their farmhouse.
It was right along the lake, surrounded by trees, with other nice vacation cabins just a few hundred feet away. There were some rowboats by the small wharf out back, but the real centerpiece was the rambling structure, complete with living quarters, and a quaint, rustic bed and breakfast closest to the road.
It was a great location, with as many truckers and traveling salesmen as there were vacationers looking to get away from the rat race for a few days. The male nurse and female gym teacher had bought it when he finally had enough cleaning bedpans and she was fed up with forcing high school girls to climb ropes and jump pommel horses. She had enjoyed ogling their gym shorts and cheerleader skirts, but thought it best to retire when the urge to punish them for their beauty got too great.
Besides, he thought the hospital administration might get suspicious if too many patients suffered from strange side-effects on his late night watch. Even so, they retired to run the inn with a thorough knowledge of anesthetics, restraints, and physionomy. They had spent months fantasizing about various ladies disappearing, but it had never been safe enough ... until today.
Brannigan pulled the car around back to the section closest to the outside cellar entrance, then turned to look at the backseat.
Leesa lay there; eyes closed, dark blonde hair fanned out, slim, soft lips open, unblemished nostrils flaring.
His eyes moved down her body ... her breasts lolling in her shirt, her flat stomach covered with pink cotton, the low-riding hip huggers gripping her smooth curves, and her legs stretching seemingly forever.
Checking the placid lake surface through the trees and the shuttered windows around him, he quickly opened the cellar door, then opened the car door so that both doors created a shield from all eyes but the passing birds. He gripped under the girl's arms and dragged her out and inside the basement.
When he closed all the doors, it was magic time: that moment between dusk and sundown where the air is filled with perfect light.
The taxi pulled up a short time later. Agnes Brannigan stepped out with a duffel bag, paid the driver, and went inside to discover that their few guests were still out to dinner. She immediately went into the living quarters in the back and then down into the cellar.
The floor was covered, cement block wall to cement block wall, with padded mats she had carefully stolen from the gym over many years. The place was otherwise empty save for iron and wood uprights, support beams, and pipes than ran along the ceiling and walls. The illumination came from dim bulbs set under gratings in the ceiling.
Leesa Mendaski lay in a pool of yellow light which made her flesh seem to glow. There was more to see than before. Her t-shirt was ripped between her breasts, hardly covering her small pink aureoles. Her jeans were off, laying in a pile beside her long legs. Her pink, string panties matched her shirt.
The breath caught in the woman's throat. "So..., so...." She couldn't find the words. "Pretty" wasn't enough. "Beautiful" was not apt.
"What you bring?" her husband grunted, nodding at the duffel bag.
Agnes snapped out of her reverie. "Went through her stuff before I sunk her car in the swamp. Walked to the gas station to call a cab." She shrugged the bag off her shoulder. "Her cosmetics, lotions, lingerie, heels...."
He returned his gaze to the anesthetized girl. "Keep the lotions," he said. "Bury the rest." When his wife started to protest, he calmly cut her off. "We've been waiting for this all our lives," he said softly. "Thinking we'd take a vacationer or a student or a patient. But the one who broke our little boy's heart? It's too perfect. No, my darling, she's not wearing what she wants to wear ... she's wearing what we want her to...."
The woman looked down at the exquisite girl lying there, then stared at her husband, her smile widening....
The great thing about bed and breakfast hostelries, as opposed to inns or hotels, was that, for the most part, guests wanted to be left alone rather than served at all times of the day or night. So they had plenty of time to measure her.
Five foot, seven inches tall. A hundred and ten pounds. Bra size: 34D. Waist: 23 inches. Hips: 33 inches. Hair: dark blonde, with some light blonde and even dark red thrown in. Eyes: blue-green. Shoe size: seven.
Even so, their three guests weren't totally independent. The Brannigans answered the buzzes and phone calls which came from their rooms. And once their bedtime needs were taken care of, they returned to their living quarters, unlocked the basement door, and walked down the plain carpeted, contained stairs to the cellar.
Leesa was awake. She was still in her torn t-shirt and panties, only her nicest pair of black high heels were affixed to her lovely feet. They matched the things on her head. A padded black leather prod gag was deep in her mouth, buckled brutally tight at the nape of her neck. A matching padded black leather blindfold covered her face from the top of her nose to nearly the top of her forehead. It was buckled just as tightly just above the gag, effectively sealing her pretty face.
TO BE CONTINUED