My arms were up over my head, chained with harsh manacles to the water pipe above me. My shoulders ached something terrible as I struggled to support my weight on my trembling shaky legs. My bare feet slid against the cold concrete floor, and I knew I had been drugged. I could not straighten my legs to ease the grating and yanking on the ligaments in my shoulders. I wanted to cry, but my head already felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and I did not want to make things worse. My head was muddled as it was and I felt like I was in a fog as my head rolled back in forth in my attempts to look up and open my eyes.
I knew I had to be in a sort of basement. I heard the dripping of water off of pipes; I could feel the dampness of the pipe I was chained too on my freezing wrists. I must have been down there for a long time because my bones ached from the cold. I felt like the slightest little bump and my bones would shatter into a million pieces. So when I thought I got my foot firmly underneath me and attempted to stand and fell when it gave out once again, my arms screamed in pain as I plummeted to the ground, only to be stopped by the unforgiving yank of the chains.
When I heard the door creak open, the rusty hinges warning me of my captor or tormentors coming, I tried to open my eyes, but they were too heavy. A low moan, the only sound I could make not being able to form any words, left my lips. I heard more voices approaching me, speaking in an eastern European language I did not know. As they got closer I realized there were only two men, at least only two men engaging in conversation. I felt fear thicken in my throat and I almost stopped breathing. It is no exaggeration. The drug still in effect and the seizure of fear gripped me tightly and my chest restricted, my throat nearly closing. I gurgled a moment and then the ability to breath returned to me and I panted. I wish I could have known what they were saying, but when I felt a hand reach out and rest gently on my hip, fingers stroking my skin gently, I tried to wiggle away but to no avail.
“Can you speak?” the voice was in English this time, but there was no denying the accent was decidedly German sounding to me. Whether it was Austrian, German, Dutch or Swiss I could not tell. Had my mind not been so muddled I might have been able to distinguish, having spent so long studying in Salzburg, but I could not. I tried to speak back to him but it was a little moan. My lips would not move. The one who spoke to me and turned to speak in another language to whoever he was with. It was not a Germanic language. I knew that. I assumed it was Hungarian, the language of the country I was in when I was taken, but I really had no way of knowing. It did not sound particularly Hungarian, but that might have been because the man speaking to me had a German accent on top of it.
“You are my slave now,” the German said. I tried to protest but it was just another moan. “Obey me and you will be treated well. Disobey me and I can be a cruel master.”
Tears did slip from my eyes now, terror gripping my heart. His hand moved down my side and to my thigh before pulling away. Fat tears rolled down my nose and off the tip onto the hard cold ground. I was left alone then. I heard their voices trailing off in the language I did not speak. I faded in and out of consciousness for a long time, and I do not know how much time passed, but right before I was beginning to regain my faculties I heard the door creak open again and a needle was forced into my arm. After that, I only saw darkness.
Maximilian Furst sat across from Istvan Belko waiting for the money transfer to go through. The money had to transfer through four different banks, one in Hungary, one in France, one in Latvia and one in Denmark, before ending up in the slavers Swiss bank account. And Istvan Belko had his rules. You did not leave with one of his merchandise until he had confirmation the money had made the round trip. And Maximilian had his own security net, so an additional three banks were made along the way. One could never be too careful when endeavoring on these types of nefarious activities, and his new little Jessica was an added risk.
Most girls taken were backpackers, the further away from Hungary they were from the safer the sale, so Jessica should have been an easy victim. She was an American, backpacking through Europe the year after she graduating from college. Backpackers met untimely ends all the time. It could be dangerous. But Jessica had lived in his native Austria for a year before she set off on her European backpacking trip. She had studied in Salzburg and had friends in the country. Her disappearance would become known much sooner than anyone in this business preferred. But he was paying Istvan Belko for the added threat, and the greedy man could not say no.
Maximilian had first seen Jessica a few months before her graduation on a train returning to Salzburg from Berlin. He had been there on business, and she had been on a trip with her friends presumably. Maximilian had always been a man who knew what he wanted, and Jessica was not the first girl he had purchased from Istvan Belko. The moment he heard her laugh and looked up from his newspaper to see her he knew in time, if he was patient, he would have her chained to his dungeon floor with a color around her neck. Now, after seven months he was only a computer notification away from realizing that fantasy.
She had big brown doe eyes, innocent and guileless, eyes he would love to see filled with fear and submission. Her lips were full, soft little clouds that would look marvelous stretched across his cock. Her nose was delicate and straight, her teeth even and white, and her frame small but curvy. She looked the perfect slave; now all he had to do was make her one.
He glanced up at Istvan Belko to see if there was any sign the transfer had gone through. It could take almost twelve hours and they had already been waiting three. Maximilian reached back into Jessica’s wallet. She had some money, her state ID, her school ID, and some rewards cards he could not care less about.
“If she was not a virgin my friend I’d let you go down and fuck her while we were waiting,” Istvan Belko finally said. Maximilian nodded, but did not look up from her license. Where the hell was Delaware anyway?
“She is unconscious,” Maximilian said after a few moments of thought.
“She’s your property. You can do what you want,” the man suggested with his greasy smile. Maximilian looked up at him, his blue eyes sharp and icy cold.
“I don’t want to fuck a corpse,” he replied.
“She’d still be warm –”
His computer dinged and Istvan Belko took his feet from his desk and leaned forward. He hit a few keys, fixed the glasses that rested on his bulbous nose and nodded.
“It went through,” he smiled and reached out to shake Maximilian’s hand. Maximilian hid his contempt for the man and shook his hand without a word. Istvan Belko walked with him out of his office, a small room on the third floor of his abandoned warehouse. He ordered a man to go down and get Jessica, but Maximilian waved a hand at him when he asked him to wait by his car. Maximilian did not trust these scum with such an expensive new toy. He walked down the three flights of stairs and then entered the basement, his black, newly polished shoes glistening in the dimly lit, dripping cellar.
He walked past the cells that held the other merchandise, men, women, boys and girls. He waited for the man to unlock the door to the room Jessica was in and stepped inside with him. She was naked, as was customary for a man to inspect his slave before purchasing it. But now that she was to be transferred a thin black robe was wrapped around her before she was unchained from the ceiling. Maximilian stepped forward when the worker made to pick her up. Maximilian took her in his arms and followed the man to the top of the stairs. Jessica moaned low in her throat and he looked down at her, wondering if she was beginning to wake up again. He had wanted her to speak to him when he inspected her for the first time. He wanted to hear her speak to him in her pretty accented German, begging, pleading, expressing her fear to him.
She was so fragile and vulnerable. He would not have to do much to break her, mentally or physically. He watched as her lips parted slightly, giving her the appeared of a fish looking for air. He felt his lips curve slightly. A little moan left her mouth again, then a little gasp, an “oh”. He had been told by a friend that waking up from whatever it was that Istvan Belko gave them was a truly horrific experience in and of itself. They were cold, disoriented, confused, and they ached physically. He wondered how the slaves that were bought by cruel men ever recovered. His own dear friend had hosed his whore down with ice cold water when she tried to wake up. He had recorded it and shown it to Maximilian and their other friends at one of their gentleman’s nights. Maximilian had thought it excessively cruel, and the girl was nearly comatose now. He pulled Jessica closer to his body and she tried to move her face to press into his chest, seeking his warmth.
“Calm down, little slave,” he said in English as she continued to try and move. His words did not seem to calm her, but her struggling ceased some. When his car was brought up he laid her across the hood, binding her ankles and wrists with zip-ties. He retrieved a gag from his car, something safe that would not suffocate her in her current state, and placed it on her. She began breathing through her nose, though it was partially stuffed and she struggled for a few moments. Gently he stroked her hair and eventually her breathing evened out. Only then did he blind fold her.
“Help me with the trunk,” he told the worker following him and he gently placed her inside. The nameless worker handed him a syringe and a piece of silk cloth once the trunk was shut.
“At about five o’clock she will be ready for one more, in case you have not reached your destination yet,” he said and Maximilian nodded and thanked him. It would take him nearly eight hours to get to his home in the Alps, and so he would definitely be needing it if he did not want her to get sick all over his car and begin to fight. He got into his car without any more to do and began driving home.
He had a home just fifty miles outside of Innsbruck, nicely hidden in the Alps. No one would come looking for them there, and so no one would ever find her. When the tourist season was at a low, he might even be able to let her outside from time to time, if she proved to be a good girl for him. He enjoyed training, he enjoyed punishment and discipline, (he considered them different things), but what really turned him on was when they stopped fighting. When they gave in and submitted to him completely. When they realized that their only purpose in life, their only reason for living, for breathing, for being, was to worship him.
He liked how they looked on their knees in front of him, whether they were sucking him off, or kissing his feet and sucking on his toes, he didn’t care. That was the proper place for a woman, and this little one would look so good there. It had been too long since he had a proper slave. One that couldn’t leave when she was tired or freaked out by what he asked. He sold his last slave after realizing she got off on being sodomized by more than one man. She was not what a proper slave should be. A proper slave should worship her master and only her master. It is her master’s body she should desire and crave, and the order to pleasure another man should be seen by them as a punishment, not a reward.
After that he had tried dating. He was rich, handsome, and when he travelled, foreign. Most were willing to put up with some kink for the money he had to spend on them, but when he began asking too much they left. There were two major problems with those relationships. He should never have to ask, and two, they should never be able to leave. He was coming out of one such particular relationship when he spotted Jessica on that train. Speaking German so badly had been almost charming. When a man tried to ask her if she wanted any refreshments she had tried so desperately hard to speak properly, looked at him with such a need of approval, that she had done well, that he knew she would make a perfect slave. He had watched her for much of that train ride, growing only more desirous of owning her as time went on.
He remembered when the trained pulled into the station in Austria and she and her girlfriends began to collect their bags. Maximilian had grabbed his suitcase and briefcase and made for the exit. He had to pass her to get to the door, and when he did his body collided with her, sending her to the floor, her passport and wallet falling out by his feet. He apologized as he hunched down, pulling her up to her feet and grabbing onto her passport and license.
Jessica Allen, Delaware, USA, DOB 1990. It was all the information he needed to give to Istvan Belko’s men and he handed it back to her without her even knowing he had seen it. She blushed and wiped herself off, apologizing to him instead; saying she always took up too much room. Gratified by her supplication he moved on and left the train. He did not wait to get off the platform before calling Istvan Belko’s man in Austria.
He drove with the radio off so he could hear her stir if need be. Anxiously he kept his eyes on the clock, making sure he would be in an area to stop at five and give her the injection. It would not be the first time he had done so, and so he knew where to stop. All girls were picked up outside of Budapest, no matter where they were taken from. She could have been captured walking past his home in Innsbruck and she would have been transferred to Budapest first. It was how Istvan Belko insured he got his money. But she had been in Budapest itself when she was grabbed, and so Maximilian did not have to pay those transportation costs and good too. She was expensive enough.
She was expensive for two reasons. She was American and she was known to be travelling around Europe by European friends who would be expecting calls. The fact that she was American was only relevant for two reasons; they were rarer to find around Europe, (a reason Canadians had a similar price) and people liked to hurt Americans, especially in the circles he ran in. Istvan Belko was not just a sex trafficker. He cared little what you bought from him for. Some had no qualms about buying people only to kill them, and many rich men given the chance, would rather have an American. The fact that she was known by European friends to be travelling in Budapest during this time just heightened the risk of being caught.
When five o’clock rolled around he was just outside of Graz and pulled off onto an old side road. When he opened the trunk her eyes were open but her muscles were still paralyzed. He smiled at her and ran his knuckles over her cheek. Fat tears rolled from the sides of her eyes and down her temples as she looked up at him. He reveled in the fear he saw. Fear was recognition of power and he so loved seeing it on a woman’s face. He took out the syringe and gently placed it into her arm. He shushed her when she began making little mews of protest, cooing to her like she was a child. As he slowly pressed the clear liquid into her arm he watched her eyes grow heavy.
He closed the trunk when he was sure she was asleep and went back to the driver’s seat. That would last her to Innsbruck and probably well into the next morning. He struggled to keep himself from speeding as he drove toward home. He did not want a cop to see him and pull him over with a bound, drugged and kidnapped girl in his trunk. Luckily he got home with no problems. The air was cold when he pulled her out of the trunk, but she did not shiver or stir. Her body lay limp in his arms and he enjoyed the feel of it. So utterly helpless, unable to defend herself, and at his mercy. He carried her into his home, away from prying eyes, and down the basement stairs.
His basement was finished for the most part, just one little square walled off remained that he used for a punishment room. He laid her down on a little bed of pillows, something one disobedient slave informed him she would not sleep on because it looked like a dog’s bed. Her last few weeks as his slave took place in a small dog crate in the cold punishment room in the basement, until he finally managed to sell her back to Istvan Belko for a decent price. He put a blanket over her but kept the zip-ties in place. He removed the gag but left the blindfold. No one would be hearing her screaming up in the mountains and he did not want her vomiting into a gag. It had been a necessary risk on the road, but here he could do without. He glanced at her once more before leaving the basement, making sure the dead bolts and locks were all in place and turned. He went up stairs to lay down and wait. He wondered if this one would scream for help when she woke, or simper and cry until he went down to begin her training. Both thoughts brought on a stiffening between his legs and a smile to his face.