By Geoffrey Merrick
( Illustations by Agnès )
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Michelle Mureau hurried to the mailbox at the front of her family’s property. She hurried because all she was wearing was underwear and a filmy pink negligee ... not to mention the very sexy shoes. To any one else this would be a ridiculous get-up for that time of day, but for Michelle, it was just business as usual. After all, according to general consensus, she was one of the most beautiful models in the world. She had been discovered on a French beach when she was fifteen. All legs and eyes then, by the time she was sixteen, breasts and body had been added to the heady equation. By the time she was eighteen, she was declared a supermodel. But now, it was just after she got up, and she hoped that, with all the parents out to work and all the children in school, there would be no one to see her incredibly sexy self in such a revealing outfit.
She was wrong.
Two pairs of eyes watched her, as they had been watching her for weeks.
And these eyess watched her expertly, judging everything she did.
Michelle, they saw, was tall, of course, but not too tall.
Incredibly long legs, but shapely...not like the sticks most of her peers walked on. No, she wasn’t like her peers.
She had a body; hourglass shaped, with a soft, curved, firmness that was making him hard even then.
What a rack, The Procurer thought from behind the wheel of the bakery truck.
He could see them bobbing in the clingy bra: real jugs that were strong yet malleable. Butterballs, a media wag had labeled them. The Best Breasts in the World, another writer had declared.
And her face. That was the truly amazing thing about Michelle Mureau and what set her apart from the others --a set of features that had no right coming together, but somehow did to create an impression that was unforgettable and truly goddess-like, yet still sweetly and invitingly human. A thick, heavy, silken mane of honey hair, parted roughly in the middle to swoop down to those incredible jugs. Sleepy blue-green honeyed eyes set above a straight, soft nose. And lips...lips like the juiciest worms, practically screaming out for crushing. Amazingly, her one so-called flaw actually heightened her allure: her two front teeth were slightly bent outwards, creating an overbite that kept her lips always slightly parted... yearningly.
The Procurer’s partner – a “lovely” woman with the apt codename of “The Bitch,” waited until Michelle opened the mailbox on the stone wall by the village lane before stepping out.
It was before seven, so the road was still empty, the wind cool, and the air a trifle misty.
“S'il vous plait?” the Bitch said in perfect French.
Michelle
turned quickly, surprised, but without a hint of fear on her face -- seemingly
completely unselfconscious about the way her big breasts hung free just under
a filmy piece of material and the way her long legs stretched naked from beneath
her skirt.
The woman immediately held up a writing pad in one gloved hand with the name
and address of someone nearby, and asked innocently for directions. As soon
as the totally oblivious and accepting Michelle looked in the direction of
that person’s house, opened her mouth, and started to point, the woman
pressed the zapper against her back, then thumbed the switch.
There
was a muffled pop. Michelle jerked in place -- her eyes widening a split second
before they began to close. The woman pressed up against her, sandwiching
Michelle’s ripe body between hers and the wall as The Procurer soundlessly
brought the bakery truck alongside.
Cupping Michelle’s smooth chin and pressing the leather of her glove
against the model’s warm, slack mouth, the Bitch wrapped her other arm
around Michelle’s tiny waist, then turned -- practically vaulting her
into the rear of the truck. She stepped in behind her, slid close the door,
and it was done.
The Procurer drove calmly, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to leap back,
tear Michelle’s clothes off, and rape her savagely then and there. But
they were in a small town, where anything unusual was noticed, kidnapping
an internationally famous 19 year-old supermodel who lived a quiet life with
her unassuming family.
Someone would quickly realize that Michelle had not returned with the mail.
Someone would call the village square. The authorities would quickly realize
that no one had seen her. Michelle was not someone the butcher, pharmacist,
or cafe owner wouldn’t miss. So first they had to get out of town...then
they could see to Michelle’s extracurricular activities.
In the back of the truck, in the narrow space between the racks of bread,
the Bitch slid the specially made ball between Michelle’s slack lips.
As they had devised, it pushed open her jaw, pressed down her tongue, and
filled her cheeks. But then the extra added surprise clicked into place --
a recessed pyramid, like those tire piercers designed to keep people from
rolling back into a parking lot, snapped up between her two top front teeth,
locking the ball in place.
Then out came the surgical glue...the kind surgeons used to seal a wound instead
of stitches, which could leave a scar.
The woman pressed the girl’s lips together and dappled the right and left sides of her rich, soft lips with drops of clear adhesive. When she released the girl’s face, the effect was uncanny. It looked like Michelle was essentially at repose, her lips slightly parted only above and under her overbite. There was virtually no hint her mouth was plugged and her lips sealed.
The woman was tempted to use the glue on Michelle’s wrists and ankles,
but thought better of it. If the girl somehow got out of control, she might
tear open a vein. So, instead, the woman crossed Michelle’s arms behind
her and affixed them with a clear plastic pull-tie. Then she did the same
for her elbows, ankles, and knees.
Her throat was affixed the same way to the front bottom of the shelving on the van’s left side, and her ankles to the back bottom of the shelves on the right.
Then came the piece de resistance. From a small bottle of clear liquid, the
woman took two porous nose plugs.
They were soaking in a surgical sedative. Then, dotting the sides with the surgical adhesive, the woman popped them up Michelle’s nose until they couldn’t be seen unless you stared directly up the girl’s nostrils.
Then, with every breath Michelle took, she was tranquilized -- her subjugation invisible to any eye.
It wouldn’t knock her out...just make her very sleepy.
She was also recovering from the initial electrocution, her eyelids fluttering,
her limbs trembling.
The woman
surveyed her...looking like a goddess supermodel as well as an extremely beautiful
teenage girl laid out on a
bakery van floor, her mounds round and high on her chest.
The woman
kneeled beside her and placed her lips directly against Michelle’s ear.
“Bonjour,” the woman whispered and then continued in fluent, accentless
French. “You are ours now. We are
taking you away from this village where you will exist only to serve us.
There
is nothing you can do, so don’t even try. No one can help you now....”
Smiling at the way Michelle’s young brow started to furrow and her lips
started working, ...
... the woman stood and leaned against the partition between the rear storage area and the driver’s seat.
“All set?” The Procurer grunted.
“All set,” she replied softly. “She will try her utmost
to escape, insuring her near total sedation with every breath.”
“I still think we should’ve glued her arms,” he growled.
“They’ll be time for that,” The Bitch promised. “Once
she’s redressed...."
The
local gendarmes stopped him just as he hustled the Bitch into the back of
their sedan. It was parked a few miles
out of town, in a gravel commuter’s lot. The officials had the van and
car encircled in seconds, their guns at the ready.
“Please do not move,” said the lead man, a tall, broad-shouldered,
thin detective with a mustache, who held up his identification. “We
are investigating a disappearance.”
“A disappearance?” the man echoed. “I’m just driving
my sister to an appointment. We were coming back to get the truck afterwards....”
“Really?” replied the man as the others held their positions.
“Are you sure you were not going to take move something from the van
to the car...or someone?”
The man just stared at him as the mustached policeman signaled for them to
search the van. They pulled the doors open.
It was empty.
The policeman turned to stare at the other man, blinking. “But...we
saw you drive in....” Then he became curtly professional again. “Please
open your car trunk, monsieur....”
It, too, was empty.
The policeman flushed, the expression on his face saying that he had made
a terrible mistake that, even now, might be costing a young girl’s life.
“Pardon, monsieur,’ he said tightly. “Madame....”
The woman in the car nodded to him.
Then all the cops drove away in a cloud of dust, dirt, and gravel. The man
waited until the sounds of their cars was gone before entering the car, opening
his “sister’s” coat, slipping his hand beneath the dress
there and squeezing Michelle Mureau’s right jug like a cow’s udder.
That was wonderful,” the Bitch said from the floor of the back seat,
her clothing and makeup expertly blending in to the dark seat and carpet there.
“So simple, yet so perfect!”
“Yes,” he grunted, watching in hardening appreciation as Michelle’s
heavily made up face reacted to his molesting even under the Hollywood special
effect latex and heavy sedation. “There was a reason we did all the
research, all this planning....”
“Watching her try to wake up...try to talk...even after I wrapped the
strap around her neck...delicious!”
The man looked carefully. It was still there, around Michelle’s throat,
holding her to the seat back.
All The Bitch had to
do was push her head with a gloved hand to make her appear to nod through
the thick, tinted window....
“Come on,” he growled, starting the car. “Get that shit
off her. I want her to look like her when I nail her.”
-----
Michelle’s eyes were filled with sky. Her cunt was filled with his cock.
(Don't
miss the closer plans. Three pics here)
They lay in a field outside of town, naked, hidden in the tall grass. He had
pulled off the coat and torn
away her dress as if they were made of tissue paper.
His hand was over her filled mouth and glued
lips. Her arms were still tied behind her with clear tape
and plastic pull-ties. They had wrapped her ankles
with plastic pull-ties and staked them into the ground with
plastic tent spikes, so her widened legs couldn’t kick, revealing their
location.
And he was raping her with violent abandon, unable to wait until they left
the country.
“I’m inside now, see?” he whispered harshly, plunging powerfully
again and again. “Now, even if, by some
miracle, we’re stopped, you’re still fucked. You hear me, missy,
you’re fucked!”
Michelle’s body jerked as he rammed again, her brain trying to make
sense of what was happening. She
couldn’t resist, couldn’t scream, could hardly think, yet she
felt every sensation as his cock scraped deep inside
her warm, wet walls -- her biology belying her revulsion.
She couldn’t understand what drove this man to abuse her. Desire her,
yes. But to her culture, sex was
natural, as was beauty and nudity. It did not drive them to attack, imprison,
and defile....
Yet here she was, in the middle of a field, hundreds of people searching for
her, silenced, stilled,
being violated.
His other hand clamped her full, buoyant, left butterball -- feeling its rich
creaminess, its round, cafe
au lait aureole and nub nipple -- clawing it spasmodically as he thrust. Drool
and saliva poured out of his mouth,
splattering her face and chest, each drop making her cringe and gasp, each
breath dizzying her.
Her eyes rolled as he came, her body stretching and shuddering as if in death.
Quickly emerging from her, he slid up to her stomach, plopping his still wet
erection between her creamy
mounds, and gave himself a surging tit-fuck. Just as Michelle was becoming
aware of this further fouling, his cum
spurted into her nose and eyes.
(Don't
miss the closer plan. Two pics here)
As she shook in shock, he undid her ankles, retied them with a pull-tie handle
between her ankles, and
dragged her back to the car. Practically hurling her inside, he returned to
the driver’s seat as The Bitch, up until
then serving as lookout, gathered Michelle up onto her lap and muffled her
lips even more by tying her torn dress
over her working, cum-smeared lips.
“Sorry
about the clothes,” he grunted, the car moving back onto the road.
“No problem,” the Bitch said, reaching into a cloth sack and coming
out gripping wet-look black nylon/
lycra spandex cire.
“I went shopping in her catalog...!”
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