by Mila V

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© Copyright 2021 - Mila V - Used by permission

Storycodes: M+/f; mpov; fpov; kidnap; torture; bond; gag; captive; pain; reluct; nc; XXX


Boredom can get you killed just as sure as yellow fever.

Seasonal work on a cruiser boat turned out to be quite a repetitive enterprise. After a few days of cruising tourists along the shore, I was bored out of my skull. Bikini girls brightened up my mood somewhat, but they didn't visit the boat often enough, favouring luxury yachts, and the constant stream of "all-inclusive" people mashed up in the solid mass of bodies smelling of booze and cheap perfume. I had no options but this summer contract, there was no other job for me. My ship was laid up for a few months, some legal issues with the cargo or something.

At last, there was a break. The sky got overcast, there was a string of short, but intense showers, and 'a storm' started. At least, that's how you, landlubbers, call it. We call it 'moderate to fresh breeze'. I liked the fresh breath of elements and electrified air, and the fact that all morning activities were cancelled. Too bad, those few girls who dared to leave their rooms today were covered with jackets or raincoats.

I went to the pier to breathe in some fresh air and check the mooring of my float.

There was a shout from the hotel yard - the wind snatched a hat from some matron. Children rushed to catch it, laughing, but a girl passing by got it first. She just plucked the hat from the air stream and handed it to the boy.

The girl moved towards the sea, but not by the usual route. She went along a fence separating this hotel from another, still under construction. She stopped near a lifeguard tower and looked inside - it was empty. By the logic of local 'lifeguards', no one would go swimming in such weather, and if someone did, let Allah judge them. The girl went to the beach and took off her jacket, flowing in the breeze. There was a dark-blue one piece swimsuit underneath.

I was a little worried. Sure, it wasn't a big ocean storm, but even this one could be fatal for an under-prepared person. But the girl seemingly knew what she was doing. She let a few highest waves pass, waited for a good break and dashed to the sea. She dove under a wave and disappeared for almost a minute. I moved closer to the end of the pier inadvertently. She appeared quite far from the shore, where waves weren't so high and grey. I watched her with increasing concern; she was swimming slowly towards a buoy that was popping up and down about fifty meters from the shore. She chose not to swim past it, just slapped it with her hand and went back.

By that time, two hotel employees had noticed her too and were hovering anxiously ashore, discussing something heatedly. But a sudden shower drove them from the beach. The girl let the waves carry her closer to the shore, dove under a couple of the highest ones and crossed the shallows running. The next wave snapped at her heels and caught her near the shore line, nearly knocking her over. I couldn't quite see it from that far away, but it seemed to me she was laughing. She picked up her soaked jacket and waved to the 'lifeguards', who shouted something at her and flourished their arms, but didn't dare to leave their awning.

It was fun, but the storm carried a mass of cold water to the shore, and my teeth clattered a little bit when I left the sea. Swarthy boys in red t-shirts, who were directly responsible for preventing this kind of incident, jabbered angrily, trying to shout down the rain, too fast for me to make out. Although, I could imagine the gist of it. Splashing in my bare feet over rainwater puddles in the hotel yard, I ran to my room.

At the entrance to the building, I almost bumped into another swarthy guy, whom I took for a local at first. And then he opened his mouth. "Que pasa, señorita! I witnessed your swim, and it left me astonished."

I looked at him closely. A little over thirty, emerging beer belly, not quite faded trace on the ring finger. No, he's not the man I'm looking for.

"I'm glad I could entertain you, but now I'm cold and I'd like to take a hot shower in my room, so would you mind…"

"Would you consider an alternative? I have some strong liquor in my room. Real rum, not local booze!" He saw me wrinkling my nose a little and added, losing hope already, "We can mix in some soda…"

"Let me be frank. I'm interested in trans-lezzies only. But you still have a chance. Hit on me again when you change sex," I winked, squeezed past him and paddled upstairs.

She was good-looking, fit and brave - of course, she intrigued me. I saw her on the beach, in the eatery, picked her out among other women at yoga and aerobics, noticed her strolling around hotel buildings a couple of times. But the hotel execs frowned upon staff mingling with guests, and I had to be careful. I didn't want to be booted outta the job. For two days, I was looking for a way to talk to her in private. I had to learn her schedule. I noticed where her room window was, where she preferred to sit in the eatery, and whom of the other guests she greeted. I thought about luring her to my boat for a brief chat, at least, but on the third day she vanished.

The dark-blue swimsuit was hanging on a balcony of her room, but she didn't show up on the beach, nor at the lunch, nor at the dinner. I paid no attention at first, she might have gone sightseeing or something. But when I didn't see her at breakfast the next day, some foreboding prickled me. She didn't show up at lunch, either.

In the evening, a small yacht docked at the pier, of the sort that took tourists to nearby islands and coral reefs. I went to look. Sailors unloaded some long, bulky crates slowly and rolled them on a dolly to the administrative building. A middle-aged man with a thick moustache was overseeing them; I haven't seen him here before.

I took a walk under her window before the dinner - the swimsuit was there, still. Then I went to the lobby and looked through the list of tours - there were no two-day trips. I went to a receptionist and inquired about the guest in room 217; I told him she had booked my boat for a whole day and hadn't shown up. He said she hadn't checked out. When I suggested he should unlock her room and check if she was all right, he assured me a maid had been there the day before and hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary. I insisted and told him the girl was missing for two days already. He promised to call the police, probably hoping that I would get off his back. But I didn't.

In about fifteen minutes, a man in a blue shirt with dark-blue laps and a matched 'Polis' cap showed up. I took one look at him and my heart skipped a beat. It was that 'stashed man from the yacht, he just changed his red shorts for a police uniform. His English was better than mine. He's heard me out and promised to go take a look, asked the receptionist for a card to room 217, but when I volunteered to walk him there, he pointed to a row of chairs opposite the reception:

"Wait here, sir!"

He came back in ten minutes, shrugged and said there was nothing suspicious in her room. He asked if I was related to her and would I like to file a missing person report. I said no to both questions, he wrote down my contacts and promised to keep me updated. That was the end of all my interaction with local law enforcement.

What's going on here?

A loud slap stung my cheek, and I was yanked out of my brittle sleep. Concrete walls covered in flaking plaster, a rusty grate, a dozen zip ties on my hands and feet - reality brought back everything. I was laying on my side, naked, half of my body went numb with cold. Through the last several hours I was able to fall into a shallow sleep a few times, but every time I was brought back with beating, cold water or something worse. I was worried about losing track of time. It seemed a week has passed already, but in fact it was the same first day dragging along, probably.

I raised my head. A balding man with a moustache was standing over me, he was older than those who caught me when I tried to pick a lock to the basement. I recognized him by the photo in his file: Zeki Demir, suspected in international human trafficking, but there was no definitive proof at the time. Well, there's your proof, naked and bound in the next cell. At his command, the second gangster brought an extension cord and began to unwind it, pulling it to an outlet somewhere behind the bars.

"I've finished my work for today," Zeki said in decent enough Russian, "and now we have time to talk. This is your last chance to tell me who you really are, whom you work for and what you managed to learn and pass to your superiors, before we move to advanced persuasion techniques."

He put his hands on my tits. Well, a man is a man, I thought, but he grinned, clawed into my flesh and pulled to the side, turning me to my back. I yelped, more of hurt feelings than of actual pain, but the pain was there too. His fingers have left white marks on my skin.

"Well? Who sent you?"

"I don't know what you are talking about! I'm Natasha Petrova, my brother works at the Ukrainian Consulate, you'll regret messing with me! Let me go immediately, I don't care what you're doing here, I just want to go home!"

He watched me intently.

"You're keeping your eyes too wide open for a girl who's really scared. Alright, you asked for it."

"I don't know anything!"

He reached back, and the other thug put a soldering iron in his hand. Zeki made a show of plugging it into the extension cord.

"I don't want to lower your vendibility, so I'll use your orifices, one by one, starting from the bottom. Melik, what hole will break her, what do you think?"

His underling just shrugged. I looked at the sooty copper bit with dread, and this dread was genuine.

"You think you are a tough girl, and you can endure it. No, you can't. I doubt I'll have to go to the third hole."

Of course, I won't endure. I'll give him a backup cover, it should buy me some time. But to make it sound convincing, I'll have to endure some torture, 'the first hole' at least.

"Melik, bacaklarını kaldır."

Melik jumped to me, grabbed my feet and pulled them up. I thrashed desperately, nearly knocked him over, and he put his foot on my throat. I had to quiet down, and he lifted the pressure somewhat. I felt the touch of hot metal on my anus, jerked involuntarily, and Melik's smelly slipper pressed into my throat again. The bit slid inside easily, getting hotter by the second. At first, I said:

"No! No! No!" then just howled, and when I inhaled the first smell of my burning flesh, I croaked:

"Stop! I'll tell everything!"

It's only the second floor, I think, I can make it. I was standing under her balcony, sizing up the way to climb it, when someone appeared for a moment in the window. Did she come back? But the figure in the window was too massive and stocky. After all the weirdness surrounding the girl, I wouldn't be surprised if a boyfriend or a husband appeared suddenly. I decided to go check anyway.

There was some heavy activity behind the door: steps, wooden thuds, rustling of fabric. I knocked, and everything went quiet. I waited for a few seconds and lifted my hand to knock again, but the door swung open, and a burly man jumped out. He shoved me aside and rushed down the stairs, jumping over nine steps at a time. I saw his face, twisted with agitation, for just a second, but I recognized him - he was one of the sailors from the yacht.

Of course, I should have called the security and raised a stink, but I decided to lay it off. First, I had to use my chance to search her room. There was a mess inside: sheets were pulled off, a wardrobe was open, nightstand drawers yanked out, her backpack and travel bag were unzipped, her personal belongings in a heap on the floor. Even her beauty bag was eviscerated, there was a layer of powder on the carpet. The maid will be furious.

It seemed the only place the burglar hadn't had time to search was the balcony. There was her swimsuit, drying for the third day straight, and her jacket, draped over a chair back. I excused myself mentally and went through its pockets. I pulled out a scrap of paper with a mysterious note in ball-point pen:

"bld A, flr -1, ask Cemal after 8 PM"

Cemal - I know the name. There was one Cemal, an unassuming guy, who worked in the kitchen or as a driver, I wasn't sure. I couldn't think of anything common between him and that girl.

"Burada ne yapıyorsun?"

I turned around and saw one of the maids peeking inside. I tried my best to explain what happened, mixing Russian with English, but I wasn't sure she understood anything. Preparing myself mentally for big problems afterwards, I suggested she call the security, and ran downstairs.

I found Cemal in the back of the administrative building, behind a wide steel door to a basement. He slid open a viewport, recognized me, smiled, but he was in no hurry to unlock the door. Beside the linguistic barrier, the negotiation was complicated by the fact that I had no clue what we were talking about. At last, after a string of vague hints and winks, Cemal said he was sorry, but he couldn't let me in, because "they will be transported shortly".

"Ten minutes. Please! Money?" I supported the word with the universal gesture.

Cemal hesitated for a moment, but shook his head.

"Double pay!" I lifted two fingers.

Cemal's eyes darted about, he looked around, and finally nodded: "Ten minutes!"

Ten minutes cost me nine hundred liras. Walking behind Cemal along a poorly lit corridor, I was wondering what was so exotic there, what kind of entertainment was hidden in the hotel basement, so people were ready to pay that much. Cemal unlocked one more thick steel door, we turned a corner and I felt my fingertips go cold. I saw what I had paid for.

I heard the corridor door bang, and girls in adjacent cells stirred. I opened my eyes too and tried to crawl deeper into a corner. But instead of the bastard with the facial hair and the soldering iron, I was visited by a man in his thirties, too blond and grey-eyed to be a local. I saw him before, he was operating the hotel cruise boat. He approached, crouched and produced a small pocket knife. I flinched, pressing myself into the wall. He glanced back, but the guard who brought him walked away already. The man reached for me, I squeaked through my gag, but he hooked a zip tie that was pressing a rag into my mouth, put the knife blade underneath, and the tie snapped. I watched him for a couple of seconds, not understanding his intentions, and he pulled the rag out himself.

"Quiet! Don't fight!" he said in perfect Russian. "I'm not one of them, I want to get you out."

Ah, a knight in shining armour. I couldn't contain a smile. It came out not as happy as he had thought it would, but rather sarcastic.

"Idiot!" I whispered. "Get out yourself while you can!"

"What? Why?"

I shook my head stubbornly. Can I trust him? What if it's another attempt to crack me?

"What day is it? And time?"

"Tuesday," he raised his brows and looked at his watch. "Half past nine."

"It means, I'll be alright soon. Go away."

"Are you sure? Cemal said they were going to transport you tonight, he let me in for ten minutes only. And I saw a suspicious yacht by the pier. They were unloading some crates."

Damn, that changes things. By the agreement with Interpol, the PÖH team will be here in two days after my last contact. But if the boat is waiting for the girls and me, everything might fall through. I have to trust him.

"Do you have a phone on you? Put down this number. As soon as you leave the basement, make a call and tell them just one word: 'Fugazi'. After that, go to the lobby, wait there, and go out with your hands up at the first request. Although…" I hesitated, "it would be good if you manage to delay the yacht departure somehow…"

"Too fancy," he shook his head. "My plan is simpler."

He grabbed my shoulder and turned me to the side, then started to cut zip ties on my arms one by one. Anger flared within me, he was wasting time and putting the whole operation at risk. But the feeling of liberation, the ability to spread my elbows again after more than a day of them being tied tightly, it was so sweet that I didn't object. I winced when blood rushed to my limbs, it hurt, but at least, it drew my attention away from the other pain that pulsed beneath my lower back.

The door in the corridor banged especially angrily, and the basement was filled with Turkish speech. One voice sounded upset and accusingly, another was making excuses, it seemed. The voices were approaching, the argument heated up until it was interrupted with a short yelp of pain, faded into a wheezing. My 'saviour' put his knife handle into my palm:

"You take it from here," and stood up just in time - Zeki appeared in the door frame.

The Turk tried to slam the grate shut, but my 'knight' kicked it forcefully, and Zeki flew to the opposite wall. I didn't have time to watch the skirmish, I was busy getting rid of the last zip ties. By the time I could stand on my numb and trembling legs, two men were rolling on the floor with hands locked on each other's wrists. The girls in other cells were observing, having moved closer to the bars, with eyes wide open.

Zeki was holding a long knife, 'the knight' was trying to knock it out, without much success. In other circumstances, I would have acted by the book, of course. Now, though, with my asshole burning, I had another idea. I limped up to the tangled men, grabbed Zeki by his right arm and plunged my short blade into the spot behind the elbow, cutting blood vessels, tendons, and nerves. He shrieked and dropped his knife. He won't be able to hold a spoon from now on, probably.

The men untangled at once. Zeki rolled aside, clutching the bleeding elbow with his left hand. My 'knight' looked at me in amazement.

"What?" I asked and kicked Zeki's knife in a far corner. "Don't judge me, you haven't got your ass fried with a soldering iron by this dickhead. Go outside, make the call. I'll… guard him. It'll be alright, no one will get hurt. Right, girls?"


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