The Company Man

At ninety miles an hour, I was glad the wind was deflected over my helmeted head. Trips on the bike were my favorite brand of relaxation. I hadn’t worked in about a month, but I wasn’t concerned. Something always came up.

I had my Yamaha wound up on I10 coming east out of El Paso when the call came. The only phone I linked to my helmet was the little black work phone. After every job I had the number changed, only one guy ever had the number. I didn’t even know his name, not his real name anyway.

“Talk to me,” I said, pressing the little button on the handle bar with my left hand, as my right hand cranked the throttle on my bike. The sleek black motorcycle dug further into the highway and shot down the asphalt. Anticipation of work had me twitching a bit.

“Box forty three Tuesday.” The line went dead after that.

At the next opportunity, I reversed direction, and wound my motorcycle back up. Headed home with a smile, life was good. I had a fast bike, a nice house, and an amazing job.

I got back to San Diego Sunday night, and slid the bike into the third garage stall, my toy stall. At the time it was the only toy, but I planned on more. The two stalls for the main garage, house my work truck, and my ‘everyday’ car.

My everyday car isn’t anything to write home about. Just a normal Dodge Charger, I didn’t even spring for the V8. Cloth seats, standard radio, and plain silver paint. That car serves its purpose, mainly keeping me dry when I’m not working, and the weather doesn’t like the bike. In San Diego though the weather is usually hospitable, the Charger is three years old and has maybe eight thousand miles.

The work truck is much more special, it also fits my neighbor hood better. I went with a Cadillac Escalade ESV. Big black and sexy, I keep it standard. No need for big obnoxious wheels to be grabbing attention. My Escalade it bone stock.

When I got the garage buttoned up, I popped the back door on the truck, and made sure everything was clean and ready. My pen is just how I left it, spotless and ready. It’s made to fit directly under the apron Cadillac uses to cover your store bought goods and discourage thievery.

That truck and I have a history. My work is illicit to say the least. Very little of what I do is remotely legal. Of course it’s amazing how as long as I don’t get caught red-handed, and I file my taxes like a good boy, no one every cares how I earn my dollars.

I fell into this line of work after a brief run in prison. Seventeen and stupid, I kept my sixteen year old girlfriend out for three days straight, and her father freaked out and called the police on us. He never even noticed when I slipped her back into the house.

She’d said that she would throw a huge fit, and blame it all on him. Funny how things that make sense when you’re seventeen seem ludicrous when ten more years is added to your age. The girl caved, the police locked me up for a weekend, and I met Dave Ralston.

Thinking I was eighteen, the corrections officers threw me into the adult holding tank, and there was Dave. Normal looking guy, Southern California accent, maybe five foot ten, shorter than me. He asked me what I’d done, and I told him. Unlike the officers he guessed that I was a minor, and said if I could be sneaky like that, he might have a job I’d like.

At the back of my garage, is a large shelving unit, pretty typical stuff, except for the contents of my large black duffle. Working like I was about to be, I keep it in the truck. Right on the back seat is where it rides. Next to the other black duffle that I keep my clothes in that’s all that goes in the Escalade for work.

Once the truck is ready to work, I go about unloading my bike, taking a shower to get five days worth of road grime off of me, and finding some food. I always cook when I’m home. Something about cooking suits me. Maybe it’s a distraction from my work stress like the bike, maybe it’s just that I eat a lot of crap when I’m no the road.

As a result, my kitchen is the focal point of my home, which is good because the expensive appliances fit the neighborhood I live in. A gated community, with houses well over the three thousand square foot range. The gate keeps the door to door folks away, a key point for what I do for a living. Large homes all around me ensure that my ‘little’ Twenty five hundred square feet of castle slip under the radar.

Soon as I’ve got the counters wiped, and the dishwasher running, I Move to the living room and grab a book. I don’t like television. Quiet is my ally in work and home keeps me focused and thinking. I’ll do online research on locations and I don’t mind taking in a movie, but television just feels like chatter to me.

Sometime around midnight, I wake up in my La Z Boy, and stumble back to my bedroom. It’s a pretty typical night before heading off on a business trip, at least for me.

When the state had realized I’d been kept in adult holding over night, and my lawyer reamed them over it, I got a little lucky. The judge in court thought that there was no way I was going to take a young virile teenage girl without her consent and have no marks to speak of on my person. He also thought that a night in ‘real’ jail should be enough to make sure I didn’t let it happen again.

My legal troubles were disappearing. I ran into Dave again though. He gave me some subjects to look into to see what I thought. I didn’t see him again until the end of my sophomore year in college. I’d been researching what he told me about relentlessly. I don’t know what to say about my interest in what he wanted me to do. At the time, I didn’t even know what he wanted, but just knowing it would be wrong was appealing. Especially with the research I’d done.

Dave for his part just gave me a business card. He said if I was still game, I’d need to call the number on the card and say so when I graduated. He also complimented me on my major.

I graduated on time two years later with a B.S. degree in psychology. I’d been toying with the subject matter Dave seemed most interested in, in my personal life for a while. In hindsight that could be thought of as a mistake. Mixing business and pleasure in my world is dangerous.

Monday morning, I got up early, made an omelet, enjoyed a good cup of fresh ground coffee, and took a long shower. The showers on the road tend to suck, and I like to enjoy the last one before I head out.

In the wall of my living room, behind the wood paneling, is where I keep my business safe. The safe doesn’t get opened until right before I leave, and I replace its items as soon as I return. These things are never left out.

The first thing I take out is my logbook. I didn’t make it, but it’s the book that has every P.O. Box I use in it. Without the book I can’t find my work. Tangled web we weave indeed. My chemicals are also in the safe. Soon as someone with a little knowledge was to see those, I’d be done for.

As it is, I keep the chemicals in a steel box with heavy foam inserts to protect them, and a five digit combination on it. There’s also cash in the safe. I keep several thousand bundled in the safe for expenses. It’s just cash though.

Walking to the truck with my logbook, chemicals, and three thousand in cash, I just go straight to the truck and get in. The chemical box goes under the passenger seat; cash in the center console, and logbook in my lap.

Before I even start the truck, I open my logbook to page forty five. Phoenix, Arizona. Knowing my destination, I open the garage, start the truck, and back out. When my alarm senses the garage door shut, it’ll monitor the motion sensors for five minutes, and then activate. Pretty simple set up and hassle free for me.

An hour later, I’ve got the GPS programmed for Phoenix. I never program the GPS for exact addresses. Last thing I need is for my boxes to show up in the GPS like some connect the dots trail of crime.

I get to Phoenix around three. I can’t check my box till the next day though, so I find a hotel. Never a motel, Escalades stick out at motels. Mostly when I have time to kill, I rest. The next day can be easy, or it can turn into forty hours of no sleep and constant stress. Or worse, page forty-five of my log book could have said Seattle, and I’d literally have no rest until I made it home. You don’t get to be picky in my work though, picky people disappear.

I started off working with Dave. Pretty simple, listen to the senior guy, don’t make mistakes, and get paid. Nothing was too clear at that point. We just moved crates from point A to point B. The pay for transporting the crates was spectacular.

Dave came to my apartment really late one night though, and everything changed.

“There’s been a mistake,” he said. I just nodded and grabbed my coat. I only suspected what was in the crates at that point, but I knew that a mistake would ruin everything. Dave seemed surprised that I didn’t care what the mistake was.

In Phoenix, I woke up around eight, and packed my clothes bag. I wouldn’t be coming back to the hotel. Checked out and in my truck by nine thirty, it was time to get to work. I opened my log book again and found the address on the GPS the hard way, by zooming in on the map.

Sometimes there’s a key stuck to the page. Phoenix didn’t have one. When there’s no key, I know to expect a simple dial combo box. The combo is always the same, and I memorized it years ago.

It took me twenty minutes to get to the box, retrieve my package, the same bulky manila thing I always end up with, and find a Sonic drive up. I park the truck in one of the slots pointing away from the Sonic, and order my food. Here’s where I’m patient.

I want to open the package, but I wait for the food, and pay the girl on skates before rolling my window back up, and taking a pair of latex gloves out of the outside pocket of my work bag. Only then do I open the envelope.

First I check the address and browse the GPS to see how far it is. Then I look at the pictures. She’s a very pretty girl.

That late night with Dave, someone had lost a girl. They knew where she’d run from, and what she’d been wearing, nothing but a training gag with the buckle padlocked on. At least she couldn’t talk.

I ended up finding her trying to hide under a bush about two miles away. That night, we took her back to my apartment, in the riskiest night of my career, and I tossed her into a small closet until a couple guys in suits showed up two hours later with a crate.

Dave said I had to move the next week, and then I started housing the crates. Apparently some guy thought he’d play a bit while waiting from someone to move the crate. Now things are much better run. I do the acquisition, and all actions right up to shipping. I don’t screw up either.

After memorizing the pictures of the busty blonde I was to pick up in Phoenix, I looked at the ‘list’. The list makes up my real work. It tells me what the girl, or man is being picked up for, and what I need to teach them before shipment, it also tells me where to drop my crate off, and when.

This girl was going to be called ‘bitch’ and they wanted her acclimated to strict bondage. They also wanted her trained as a toilet. I’m not sure why this one is so popular, but at least half the girls that come through have that on their sheet. I suppose if their going to call her ‘bitch’, and tie her to the wall, pissing on her isn’t too far fetched. I could care less though. I’m on the hunt.

Whoever researches these girls does an amazing job. This girl is going to be leaving her job, at a twenty-four hour gym, at one A.M. tonight. It get’s laughable here. She’ll cross the gym parking lot, slip through a crack in the wall, cross the alleyway, and then walk around her apartment building and hit her front door.

I couldn’t ask for an easier pick up. Knowing I’m not going to sleep, I drive to a public library, and find a novel to read. After about four hours, I’m going to be suspicious, so I leave, grab lunch, find another library and keep killing time.

At twelve fifty, I’m in her alleyway. Rookies show up an hour early, and have little old ladies talking about how they were parked there for a long period of time. I’m going to be here less than fifteen minutes. If she’s late it’s the researchers fault, I won’t take risks with the information. It either goes off or it doesn’t

With the truck just in front of the crack in the wall, I work fast. My chemical box is open, and I have a small squirt bottle of chloroform in hand. There’s a silk swatch in there that I palm in my left hand, and I pull a small mirror from my work bag and get out of the truck.

I’m at the crack in the wall by twelve fifty-nine with my mirror letting me see across the parking lot. At three after one, she’s coming towards me. According to the info, she’s right handed, so she’ll have her back to me when she slips through the crack.

Just like predicted, her right hand comes through first. Without hesitation, I clamp down on her wrist with my right hand, and slap my left hand over her face. The initial gasp of surprise is what I’m banking on, and she delivers.

That first deep breath pulls the chloroform off the silk in my palm, and deep into her lungs. Exactly four seconds is how long she manages to struggle before falling into my arms. I throw her over my shoulder, and press the key fob to the Escalade. The back end of the truck opens, and I twist the handle on my pen, opening it up.

I don’t worry about hurting her as I push her limp body into the pen, and seal it up. I’m aiming for fast here, not gentle. The back of the truck is closing again as I scoop her purse up off the ground and make my way to the drivers seat. There’s no time to waste, but I still open her purse and make sure her cell phone is in it. I yank the battery out before I move the truck.

The pen I use is sound proof. It takes in air through a vent with a PC fan on it, the air goes through seven baffles before making it to the pens interior, and exits through another baffled vent on the other side.

On my first job, I made the mistake of using a standard dog crate. It was miserable, even gagged I had to endure hours of driving with the girl moaning and whining. This way I don’t care what she does.

Phoenix is a memory by one forty-five, and I’m pulling into my drive way by six AM. It’s a convenient time, because most of my neighbors will leave for work in about an hour, and very few, if any will see me pulling in.

I back in to the garage, and close it up. I won’t deal with her first. I have unpacking to do. My work bag goes back on the shelf, and my log book goes into the safe first. I keep the chemicals for a bit longer, but I do replace my cash.

Once that’s done, I take my little bottle of chloroform and hit the pc fan on my pen with it. I count down from ten and then open the pen. She’s out again. Heaving her out and onto the floor, I close up the pen and truck before lifting her up and walking her to my basement door.

The door is actually a bookshelf that swings away. It’s not well made; I just couldn’t resist the foolishness of it. My basement is where she’ll stay until I crate her up and drop her off. In this case, she’ll be here for a month.

Restraints come first, always. Some will try to convince you that these women will become so submissive to you that you can leave them unattended and they’ll not bother trying anything. That’s crap. A slave like this will run from you at every chance.

I handcuff and shackle the blonde before donning my own hood. I tried a voice modulator once, but I couldn’t take myself seriously sounding like Darth Vader. Now that she can’t identify me, I get my dog training collar and fasten it around her neck. There’s a small brass lock on it to keep her in it, and a small lock on the chain that connect it to the hard point in the basement ceiling too.

With that all finished, I lock a deprivation hood on her, and turn out the lights. She’ll be able to hear muffled noises, and make out a bit of the light if I turned it on, but that’s about it. She starts waking up about a minute later, and I wait.

Right off the bat she tries yelling for help. I let her get to ‘He-‘before pressing the ‘correction’ button on the dog training collar. The blonde thrashed, her voice shocked out of her by the electrodes on the collar. Now she’s bawling, and I don’t bother with her for that.

Ten minutes later, she gets her second shock for the same reason. After that it’s a half an hour before she tries again. I just sit there on my basement steps waiting for her to try again. The fourth time, I figure she’s going to be a while before doing it again. She’s now sobbing without tears, and slowly writhing on the floor in sorrow and pain. So I clip my training remote and a baby monitor to my belt and head up to make myself something to eat.

Over the next several hours, I only have to hit the remote two more times. She’s probably done at this point, which is good, because while she was sleeping in the back of the truck, I was driving, and now I’m exhausted.

After several hours sleep I head back down to check on her. She’s still alert when I enter, turning her head left and right to try and see or hear anything. Kneeling close to her, I reach out slowly, and touch her arm. This has about the same effect as the shock collar.

I wait another minute, touch her again, and she jumps and moves away until the chain is taught and pulling at her neck. Early in the process like this, I have to be careful. They all want to knee you in the crotch, or bite anything you stick out.

Now that she’s at the end of the chain, I grab her upper arm in my hand, and pull her to me. She thrashes, so I stand up and press the shock button. This is a point I cannot let pass, or I’ll get hurt by her, so I hold the button for two extra seconds, and then grab her again as soon as it stops.

I can’t be gentle or she’ll lose the fear of death, so I pull her until the chain is slack enough to push her to the floor, and press my knee into her back. Leaning close enough to the hood that I know she’ll make out what I say, I tell her some of the rules.

“On days that you scream,” I say. “You don’t eat.”

She moans. And I pull her cuffed arms up her back, straining her shoulders and increasing her groans.

“I’m going to replace your shackles and handcuffs,” I say. “If you fight, you get shocked. If you fight twice, you get shocked and kicked. Nod if you understand these rules.”

She nods her head, and like any high stress captive, complies thinking she’ll get a better chance later. That’s not going to happen, but what does she know. I replace the steel handcuffs with wide leather wrist cuffs that have locking buckles, and clip them together behind her back. I do the same with her shackles, but add a leather tether from ankle to wrist, hog tying her face down on the floor.

Now that she’s more secure, I unbuckle her hood, and take it off.

“Don’t look up, you’ll get kicked.” She nods with a fervor, and even keeps her eyes squeezed tight. I pull the leather blindfold portion out of the hood, and reattach it.

“You’re going to drink now,” I say. “Every drink you get will be the same, so get used to it.”

With that, I pull her back up to her knees, and lower my zipper, she’s visibly repulsed, but I don’t let it concern me. I just aim for her lips, and release my bladder. She writhes away from it, and I adjust my aim as she falls to the floor trying to escape the stream.

After that I leave her lying in my pool of piss, let her listen to it flow down the sunken drain in the floor, and wonder how her life has turned so sour. I keep her on her toes like this. Either being alone, or being subjected to repulsive things.

In a few days, she’ll behave just to hear a voice. The urine will be something she’ll adjust to also. It’s a downward spiral. Blondie will have urine all over her from me, and after she drinks it once, I’ll wait for her to give up on anything clean, and release her own onto the floor. After that, I’ll give her the ‘deal’ of knowing she can shower after three good sessions drinking.

Sex with her isn’t going to happen. It’s not on my list. Sometimes they want the girl trained for anal sex, or deep throat, sometimes they just want her to not be a virgin. They come in all varieties as far as my lists are concerned. This one just happens to say bondage, and urinal. So that’s what I’ll provide.

Two weeks into the training, and she’s advancing, I’m binding her in leather, so tight it’s a chore to breathe, and wrapping her breasts in rope until they turn purple. She gets three positions a day, usually for more than an hour each, with a fifteen minute break where she’s just collared to the hard point.

Urinal training is pretty much complete, and she’ll drink up every drop and lick me clean so I don’t have to shake off on her cheek. After a full week of drinking success, I gave her a diet coke, and you’d have thought it was ambrosia.

Her diet is the same as all of them I bring through, boiled chicken breast, and plain pasta. It’s cost effective for me, and leaves me less time worrying about her food, and more preparing mine.

In the last week, I give her two glasses of whole milk daily to put good color in her, and give her complexion a fighting chance. By then, she’s allowed to stand when not strictly bound, and she’ll drop to her knees if I so much as touch my zipper.

At the end of the final week, I pull my pen out of the Escalade, and replace it with a simple dog carrier, covered with a dark blanket. Her list is clear on delivery, so I retrieve my chemicals from the safe, and chloroform her again.

She’s never been awake in my home except for in my basement; I don’t want her knowing if I have carpet or tile. The less she knows the better for me. Gagged, with her wrists and ankles cuffed, I push her limp form into the dog box, and drive the Escalade to a private air field. It hadn’t moved since I pulled in with her.

I see where I’m supposed to be, and it’s pretty simple, a routine I’ve used before. There’s a small building near the field with some crates lined up. I pull up close, and open the back of my truck.

Without care, I pull the dog box out, and it thumps to the asphalt. She groans and whimpers inside, and I push it in line. Just before turning to leave, I straighten out the blanket that covers it.

I don’t see anyone the entire time I’m there, but I know if I head back even one minute after leaving, she’ll be gone. With my job complete, I don’t even consider turning around.

I had her for four weeks, and not once did I bother to look at her eyes. I never admired her form, never marveled at her breasts of her hair. I acquired her, trained her, and delivered her.

That’s what I do. I’m a simple acquisitions agent for the company.