The gauge was heading toward E, so I took the exit. The white Honda stopped at the top of the ramp. Sat there. I was about to lean on the horn when a woman got out of the passenger side, hefted a backpack, and crossed the street to the on ramp. She stuck out her thumb. I had a decision to make. I'd have about ten minutes if I decided to go for it.
"Where you headed?"
"Collins."
"Well, I'm headed that way. Can't get you all the way there, maybe about half way."
"Sure!"
I thumbed the tab, unlocked the back door.
The woman threw her pack in the back, climbed into the passenger seat.
"Samantha - Sam."
"Moe."
She gave him a look.
"It's actually Michael, but no one has called me that for just about ever."
I rolled down the ramp, got up to speed, set the snooze control.
"Collins, huh? What's in Collins?"
"I don't know."
"Oh?"
I gave her a look. She gave me a smile.
"No, I'm not crazy. I just pick a place and go there. I've been doing it since high school. When my friends were taking cool vacations, well, I couldn't afford it, so I picked a place and went. Still do. Spend about a month, get to know the place."
"But Collins?"
She shrugged. "We'll see."
"What do you do? I mean being able to take a month off. Teacher?"
"Yeah. Middle school. I use the trip to gather course material, so it's kind of a working vacation."
"Mm."
"You?"
"Chemist. I specialize in perfume."
We chatted about nothing in particular for a few minutes. I glanced at the clock.
Decision time. She was cute enough, cute in an average way, but easy on the eyes none the less. She seemed to have all the right parts in nice proportion. I appreciated the way she filled out her jeans when she skipped across the road.
A woman alone, miles from home, going who knows where. I flipped open the console.
"Here. Try this. It's something new I'm working on."
I handed her the small vial. She unscrewed the cap, took a sniff.
"It doesn't smell like anything."
"It works when in contact with the skin. It creates a unique scent based on your physiology. Try it. Put some on your wrist."
She rubbed the little roller ball on the inside of her wrist.
And the lights went out.
While it's true I am a chemist, I specialize in anesthesia. This particular concoction I call 'zombie juice' because the person pretty much becomes a zombie. It's a synthetic form of burundanga. The shaman in the rain forest use a ground form of the plant during their ceremonies. They blow the powder into the participant's face and the participant goes into zombie mode for a couple of hours. They're able to respond to what's around them, sort of, able to answer simple questions, perform simple tasks. But the key is that it destroys short term memory. Not only don't they remember the event, they don't remember anything from about fifteen minutes before.
I glanced at the dash clock. It had been a bit over eight minutes. When she woke, the last thing she'd remember was being on the highway in the white Honda.
I capped the vial, dropped it in the console, hit the blinker, and eased into the breakdown lane.
I ran my hand under her t-shirt. Her tits were on the large side, but I noticed she wore a padded bra, so maybe not. I ran my hand down over her belly. She wasn't fat, but she wasn't thin, either. She was all soft curves. I like that. I'd rather cuddle with soft curves than bony angles any day. Not that I planned to do any cuddling.
I unfastened her seat belt and pushed her down onto the floor. I reached into the back seat and grabbed her pack. Her wallet was in the front zipper compartment.
According to her license her name was Sandra (not Samantha) Winslow She had blonde hair, green eyes, was 5' 5", weighed 125 pounds. That seemed a bit optimistic. She was 27 years old.
She'd be out for about two hours, maybe three, and my place was a bit over an hour away. I took the next exit, filled the tank, and rolled back onto the highway.
It took an hour and a half, but that still left me a thirty minute to an hour window, maybe a bit more.
I took the remote from the console, raised the garage door. The house is on a small hill and the garage is under the house. It's old, in an old neighborhood. It's not quiet suburbs, not quite country. A nice quite little neighborhood.
I thumbed the remote, watched the door roll down, stepped around the car, and pulled Sandra from the floor. I grabbed her pack and led her upstairs. She followed, docile. While able to follow simple directions, it takes many repetitions, so it's easier to just do things myself. I stripped her.
While not curvy, she wasn't 125 pounds, either. She would still look good in a bikini. Her tits were nice and big, had a nice heft to them. Why she wore a padded bra is beyond me. She had a full ass and wide hips that made her look a bit bottom-heavy, but just a bit. All in all a very fuckable little animal. Not that I planned to do that.
The house is a six room ranch, three small bedrooms along the back, open living room/dining room in front along with the kitchen. It and the bathroom share a wall. I opened the closet door and retrieved the chain and locks and the cuff. I wrapped the cuff around her ankle. It's steel with a leather lining. She wouldn't hurt herself when she tugged on it, as I knew she would.
I locked one end of the chain to the cuff, locked the other to an eyebolt set low on the wall. The chain is about ten feet long. She'll be able to use the kitchen and the bathroom and most of the dining room. I've lined the windows with Lexan, so they can't be opened. And I replaced the bathroom mirror with a plastic one. I locked some of the cabinets, the ones with knifes, glasses, and whatnot and threw the breaker on the stove. Last thing I'd need is a visit from the fire department. There's food enough in the fridge and in the cupboards. There's some plastic cups and dishes, plastic flatware. I've never had a problem with one of them trying to hurt themselves, but it pays to be careful.
I dragged the futon pad and pillow from the spare room, pulled her up onto it. I closed and locked the doors to the other rooms she can reach.
The TV is in the living room and I set the remote on the dining room table. I headed downstairs. Downstairs I've got a den of sorts, a couch to sleep on, a wardrobe with enough clothes to last awhile, a small fridge, there's even a toilet and shower tucked in a corner of the workshop.
The computer showed that the feeds were live. I fiddled with the pan and focus for a bit. The three cameras are set into light sconces on the walls and are pretty much invisible. A note spits out of the printer and I run it upstairs. Basically it says she's my guest, that she's safe, that I won't hurt her, won't rape her, that there's food, that there's a fresh toothbrush in the bathroom.
I'll keep her at least a week or two, maybe longer or until the novelty wears off. It always wears off.
***
She's adapted well enough. She woke as they always do - slowly, befuddled. Then she fell into a natural sleep and awoke again a couple of hours later. She seems less frightened than the others. She yanked the chain a bit, saw the futility of it. She explored, seemed to accept the fact that some areas were closed off to her. I went upstairs.
"Good morning, Sandra."
She didn't reply. She looked wary, but stood passively, realized she was trapped. She had an arm across her chest, her hand covering her bush.
"You don't remember me, I know. It's because of this."
I held up the vial.
"I call it zombie juice because it pretty much turned you into a zombie. You could walk, respond to simple questions, follow simple instructions. But it also messed with your memory. Last thing you remember you were in the white Honda, right?"
She didn't answer. I waited, waited some more. She nodded.
"Well, he left you off and I picked you up. We chatted a bit. I decided I'd like to keep you around for a while. So here you are. In a week or two or three I'll drive you home. You'll wake up in your own bed none the worse for wear."
I set the bag of toiletries I'd retrieved from her pack on the table along with her computer.
"No internet access I'm afraid. Even without GPS, they're pretty good about triangulation."
I opened the machine, booted it.
"Since you won't remember this conversation, why don't you write yourself a quick note."
She stared at me.
"Do it, Sandra."
Again there was a pause, but she relented. I stood by her, reading over her shoulder. I enjoyed the closeness of her, enjoyed the way her tits swayed as she bent over the table, resisted the urge to squeeze her ass. There'd be time for that in a bit. I told her I wouldn't rape her, but I didn't say anything about a bit of groping. Actually there's going to be a lot of groping ... and sucking. Maybe it's instinct, but in zombie mode the girls are excellent cock suckers, in a passive sort of way.
"Good. Now save it and make a note on the paper so you'll know it's there."
She did and laid the paper on the keyboard.
"Do you have any questions?"
She didn't answer. I opened the vial. She tensed. I grabbed her wrist. She didn't fight me, but she didn't cooperate. For a moment her eyes went wild.
"Why ... why are you doing this!?"
"Because I can."
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22.08.12