You were relaxing having a coffee at an outdoor cafe one afternoon in Paris when a handsome man approached and boldly sat down on the chair at your little two-person table. He smiled and opened his mouth as if to introduce himself or roll out a pickup line but instead he uttered three unusual words -- together in a rare sequence -- as if he wished that his first impression on you would be that of a memorable mystery, saying only:
"Romeo Dragon Tango."
It sent an electric shiver through you in an instant. You knew what it meant. It meant that The Event was now happening. That a certain Dark Thing was about to begin. One you always knew was possible and yet a part of you also expected never really would.
Your nipples stiffened in seconds and you knew your panties would get damp.
The phrase the man had uttered was of course a "code word" of sorts, and pre-arranged. And if you cared to follow the protocol agreed upon beforehand there was now an option available to you. If you chose to exercise it. If you wished to bail out of the planned events, at any time, including as early as *now* at the very beginning -- essentially if you wished to convey DNP (do not proceed) then all you had to do in response was to say a specific "vanilla" phrase back. All you had to say was, "The weather's not right today." You even had a backup fallback phrase if you failed to remember the first one.
And so now you had a decision to make. One which could potentially have enormous consequences for your life.
You spent about a second on it.
You... said nothing.
The man was silent a little while, and perfectly still, and his eyes seemed to be gauging you the entire while. Your face, your chest, your hands, the way you sat, your outfit, your purse and coffee cup on the table, and then back to your face again, and lastly he looked straight into your eyes. His *own* eyes were the kind she could fall into, deep.
He seemed to approve of whatever all he had took in.
He stood up and adjusted his jacket. He held a hand out to you.
"Come with me."
You looked at his hand a moment as if having second thoughts. His hand was large with long fingers. Tanned like the rest of him, with no scars or callouses she could see.
You reached out and grasped his hand -- firmly. Then you stood up as well and made sure to grab your purse, so you'd have it no matter what.
The man led you by hand casually as he proceeded to walk down the street, you at his side. If anyone had saw the scene they would have assumed a blind date had just begun, or, perhaps just a meeting of two old lovers -- ones long past the point where words were much needed.
In a way they would both be right.
....
*From the journal of the "abduction" survivor and main female "star" of the events retold herein, an unknown and yet now infamous woman whose initials are suspected to be: DZ.*
We are in an alley. Still in Paris somewhere.
Just the two of us.
A white van is parked nearby.
Without asking me he unbuttons the top of my blouse and then forces it down over my shoulders and off my arms -- he doesn't remove it entirely, and so my blouse remains fastened by its lower buttons but hanging forlornly around my waist. Quickly, as if well-practiced, he stepped behind me, unclasps my bra, then pushes the bra straps down over my shoulders, and draws the breast cups away from me, then yanks the bra off me completely. My breasts are bared to him. And fully exposed and visible to anyone else who might come into the alley or even look down from some higher floor's windows. If my nipples hadn't already been bullets by then they surely would have become so then. He tossed the bra on the ground. I did not complain.
He opened the van's side door. He made a gesture as if he invited me to get in.
I did.
