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ADULT HUMOR

The Secret Garden Academy Incipit

The Secret Garden Academy Incipit

by andreajlabia
20 min read
4.06 (3700 views)
adultfiction
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Doctor Varela Autopoiesis -- professor and bestselling author -- is abducted by The Patriarchs, a criminal ring, and shipped to the Secret Garden Academy, where she, along with several other kidnapped women, will be trained as a sex slave. But the abductors don't know that she is an undercover agent...

Dear Readers, this is the first chapter of my novel 'The Secret Garden Academy'. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please rate it and follow me, and I'll publish more. Here we go!

DESI YOGA CENTER ON FIFTH AVENUE. EVENING.

Two men are hiding in the park.

Badly cut dark suits, bulging jackets concealing guns, stern expressions, sunglasses worn even in the dwindling evening light -- they could pass for bodyguards.

They stride across a heavily trafficked street on the far side of the park. A yellow cab screeches to a halt. The Pakistani driver jumps out of his car, yelling a string of creative obscenities at the men cutting across his path. He shuts off midword when he sees their guns. They just ignore him. They are fitting silencers to their pistol barrels. Glock 17s. These men are serious about their weaponry.

They are not bodyguards. They are criminals. Abductors. Come for me.

As usual, I am the last customer at Desi Yoga Center. The waiter is long gone, having left my customary glass of Sauvignon Blanc by the vanity. Out there, just across the avenue, the thugs in sunglasses are patiently waiting in the cold. The foul weather had not been forecast. An icy drizzle is falling on Central Park and the men in black are getting soaked. They are listening intently to their earpieces, waiting for the green light, the perfect moment for the abduction: me exiting the dressing room and crossing the dark hall, alone.

But I take my time. Naked, sitting in front of the full-body mirror, I slip on my silk stockings, followed by five-inch heels.

I know that a camera is hidden behind the mirror. I can picture the man looking at me on the high-resolution screen, ready to warn the abductors on their earpieces the moment I leave the dressing room. I imagine him in the hot surveillance van, calling his teammates to watch the show -- their sweaty faces, their leering eyes, their bulging pants. I raise my wine flute and take a sip, smiling for them through the looking glass. Enjoying that basic instinct, I uncross and re-cross my legs, sharonstoning the bad guys.

A glance back at the display hidden in the vanity confirms that the abductors are still there, their polyester suits shining with rainwater in the twilight. The poor guys crouching behind the massive retaining wall -- well below street level -- believe they cannot be seen by the surveillance cameras. Wrong. They don't realize the charming ladybug that has followed them and is now scaling the stone wall in front of them -- as ladybugs do -- is actually a tiny drone carrying miniaturized cameras.

Heading for the exit, I can see their warm bodies shimmering green, blue, and crimson on the infrared display as they creep nearer. I stop abruptly. They stop as well. Pavlovian response. There is still some wine left in the flute -- shame to waste it. Facing the mirror again, I sip the last of the Sauvignon, feeling deliciously evil. Giving the poor guys out there in the rain plenty of time to get drenched to the bone. Too bad, boys!

I try out different pairs of earrings. Emeralds or diamonds? I have always been more partial to emeralds. My heart is pounding with mingled fear and arousal. Emeralds it is.

For the last time, I smile for the hidden watchers. My reflection smiles back. Not bad. High heels, silk stockings, strapless bra. No panties-- the compulsory underwear for a bandage dress. I slip on the Hervé Léger masterpiece. The delicious glow of fear and excitement radiating from down there makes my nipples stiffen and perk through the thin, glimmering silver fabric.

I put my glasses on. Glasses will make me seem more vulnerable. Not that I need to be a great actress to seem frightened right now.

As I open the door into the hall, the thugs lunge ahead across the avenue. Two muffled pops herald their shooting of the surveillance cameras. No turning back now.

Coolly, I sashay across the hall to meet them.

They are two muscular men, very professional notwithstanding their drenched suits. One of them blocks my escape route as his accomplice wraps his strong left arm around my waist, gagging me with his right hand. He smells faintly of rain, wet leather, and black tea.

"No talking, yes?" he whispers in a soft Slavic accent.

Faking the surprise and terror my persona would show, I quickly nod yes. As he ungags me, I glimpse an unusual tattoo on his forearm. A slithering dragon. Then I notice a third man who has silently entered the hall, perfectly dry in a Savile Row tuxedo. He could pass for a banker or the CEO of a billion-dollar investment firm. At a nod of his head, the thugs respectfully step back, but poised to grab me again at very short notice.

Smiling a reassuring smile, the alpha criminal kindly asks if I would care to slip out of that lovely silver dress, cocking his head in encouragement, leering at me through icy blue eyes. I nod quickly, faking a frightened expression, then slowly start slithering the dress down my shoulders, blushing. The blush is not entirely fake, but it is also functional to assure them I am just another run-of-the-mill abductee. Making the opposition underestimate you is a golden rule in my new line of business.

I notice rather unprofessional bulges appearing on the thugs' crotches, as the gentleman in the tuxedo opens a small silver box and extracts a Juul cigarette. Just about to bare my small tits, I pause. I am supposed to be frightened, but proud, intelligent, and used to commanding men, not to obey. I look deliberately at the NO SMOKING sign on the wall, then glare at him. He changes his mind and replaces the cigarette in the silver box, shaking his head in amusement.

Under the men's leering gazes, I unclasp my bra, still blushing, but stupidly pleased at the sight of their bulging eyes. The bigger one slips behind me, pinning my arms and tying them behind my back. Faking a superior disdain, I look disapprovingly at the small puddles of icy water they have left on the wooden floor. Alpha Criminal barks a sharp order, and the other thug jumps, holsters his Glock, runs to grab a towel from the ladies' room nearby, and kneels in front of me to conscientiously mop the floor dry. My silver dress slips to the floor and, leaning on to the man behind me -- feeling for an instant his hardness through the wet fabric -- I step out of it, holding the alpha criminal's gaze, faking indignation.

I was supposed to show off that wonderful Hervé Léger dress at a gala dinner this evening. Instead I have been wearing it for just ten minutes.

And I wonder if I will have the opportunity of wearing it again.

"Yes you will!"

I almost jump as I hear the unexpected answer. But the voice is female, and not coming from outside. My slutty self has enjoyed donning the silver bandage dress. Even more, she has enjoyed sliding it to the floor, showing off to the alpha criminal -- and the leering men in black. Dormant for months, now back in full exhibitionist mode.

"Ms. Desi will certainly keep it for us when we get back from this mission."

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"If we get back, you idiot!" retorts my academic self, silencing Sluttyself. Meanwhile, Alpha Criminal carefully scans my body, then extracts a golden-plated I-phone and dutifully takes a full-frontal picture of nude me. He punches a code and smiles at me, listening intently to the phone, waiting.

So, our intelligence is confirmed. For whatever reasons, I have been deliberately targeted. I try to imagine the mysterious billionaire who has ordered my abduction and his motives. I picture him announcing to his friends that his new toy is on her way to training. A new sex slave, and a top scholar, nothing less, the one who wrote that successful book positing the superior intellect of women. Look at her now, guys. In stockings and high heels, legs slightly spread, hands tied behind her back.

Alpha Criminal snaps his fingers, aiming his phone camera, and the blond thug makes me turn round. I imagine the billionaire's friends admiring my backside, licking their lips in anticipation.

"Now that's cool..." Sluttyself insists, flouncing off her ass -- our ass, actually.

"Hush, you! Let me think. " I ruin Sluttyself's instant fantasy, trying to concentrate on the next move.

The golden I-phone emits a multi-tone sound, and the alpha criminal nods, as a smug smile spreads on his full sensual lips. Recognition confirmed.

I jerk my taunt nipples up, and he can't help touching them -- consciously breaking the don't-touch-the-stripper rule, emphasizing his power. But he doesn't notice the beauty mole just beside my left nipple. Too bad, because it hides a miniaturized camera. A dozen high-resolution pictures of his handsome face are automatically taken and sent to the Agency headquarters. Mission accomplished. I blink my eyes in quick succession, and a police siren starts wailing nearby, distracting him and speeding up things. He just nods to the drenched hard men.

"Have a nice trip, Madame. I'll see you soon," he whispers in a deep sexy voice.

Following the script, the thugs tie and gag me, eventually laying me carefully on the classy leather sofa. From there, through the floor-to-ceiling window, I can see the man boarding a big Bentley, a uniformed chauffeur holding an umbrella lest his Savile Row suit could suffer damages. But it will suffer some damages when my colleagues push him to the ground and slap the handcuffs on his Rolex-adorned wrists. I can clearly envision their stiletto heels on the small of his back.

As the red taillight disappears into the night, a hear faintly a reassuring whining sound. Our long-range drone taking off, shadowing my abduction. Hopefully. If the wonderful hi-tech gizmos I am fitted with work. The thugs reappear, bringing a big wooden crate, expertly disguised. Besides the customary top/bottom arrows, it sports a less usual HANDLE WITH CARE -- BOUND NUDE WOMAN INSIDE sign, echoed in several languages, including Arabic and Chinese, and a fetching mudflap graphic depicting the contents. The resemblance with the actual content -- that would be, me -- is acceptable, except for the tits which, in good accordance with the patriarchal cliché, are quite oversized, and gravity-free. It seems that the criminals, too, take the view that the best way to hide something is to advertise it. I can almost see the customs officers grinning as they pocket their bribes.

Finally, the thug twins choreograph a perfectly synchronized duet as they lift me up and then down, into the crate, as I perform the inane wiggling and muffled help cries they are expecting, giving the poor guys the opportunity for some groping, their bulges getting unprofessionally bigger and making them adjust their stiffening cocks in frustration.

Everything as expected. Best Practices in sex slave abduction.

IN FLIGHT. NIGHT.

"Wow! That was cool"

"Shut up, you bitchy girl, and let's hope we survive the trip."

"Oh come on, you lame scholar. The Patriarchs would not risk damaging their valuable cash cows."

What Sluttyself says - for a change - seems to have some merit. The crate is big and comfortably padded, and it seems to be even air-conditioned. The kind of special packaging used for shipping invaluable artworks. Which is, admittedly, quite flattering and somehow reassuring. Being shipped in this crate is probably more agreeable and roomier than traveling across the Atlantic in Ryanair economy class.

My excitement and fear slowly subside, helped by the music played by the earphones the thugs have plugged into my ears. Country music, so boring that I am practically dozing when I suddenly realize the movement has stopped. Too early to have reached my destination, according to our intelligence. But even the best plans have their flaws.

Suddenly, a dazzling beam of light enters the crate, and I find myself squinting at a heavily mustachioed, uniformed guard. He seems quite surprised not to find the contraband whiskey he was probably looking for. But his surprised smile broadens quickly into a leer, and he calls his companions.

"¡Mateo! ¡Paco!"

"¿Qué pasa, José?"

"¡Vengan chicos, miren! Uncle Sam has sent us a wonderful gift."

They carefully lift me out of the crate and set me down on a posh sofa in the middle of a seedy whitewashed room -- probably the customs office of a small tourist airport. Posters on the wall advertise local resorts in English: "Enjoy the Gulf". They cut the straps, freeing my legs and arms. Not that I have time to stretch, because Paco and Mateo adroitly pinion me, and I find myself expertly spreadeagled on the soft leather. I start wriggling, inanely trying to close my legs, but they -- in accordance with the classic scenario -- just laugh. They probably consider raping abducted women just a fringe benefit of their low-wage jobs.

More men arrive. Fortunately, the mood remains relaxed and festive, with no violence in sight. They are all big men, powerfully built, and every one of them is somehow handsome -- dark beards and mustaches, pecs and abs shining with sweat in the hot, damp climate. They could be a male dance troupe -- if it weren't for their cocks demonstrating their interest in nude me, in military fashion. It shows they are used to present-arm drills. But they are also chattering excitedly, and some comments:

"La puta tiene tetas pequenas..."

The bitch has mall boobs this time...

"Pero ella tiene un buen culo redondo, la follarè a lo perrito..."

True, but she has a good round ass. I'll fuck her doggy style...

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José the master rapist unzips, and his cock springs out ready-made -- no help needed at all. A pretty hefty cock, indeed. He leans on my tits, feasting his eyes, and smiles at me.

"Stay still, you stupid bitch. Let's see you spread those lovely legs.'"

I quickly nod. It is not a kind way to remind me, but he is right.

Doctor Varela Autopoiesis, brilliant scholar.

Doctor Varela Autopoiesis, amateur undercover agent.

Doctor Varela Autopoiesis, stupid bitch.

Pinned down, legs spread, ready to be gangbanged by a bunch of muscular, sweaty, handsome Latinos. So this is it. I close my eyes and brace for impact.

The impact doesn't come. Instead comes a new, authoritative voice, very close and very loud:

"¡Para! ¡Para! ¿Estás loco?"

Stop it! Stop it! Are you mad?

I open my left eye. An officer of sorts has interrupted the proceedings, like the Royal envoy in a swashbuckler movie when the hero has the noose already around his neck. I can see José frozen between my legs, big cock in hand, puzzled. What the hell? This is an accepted pastime when the opportunity arises. No big deal. What is all the fuss about?

The captain elucidates, in an urgent stage whisper:

"¡Ustedes tontos! ¡Esta puta es propiedad de Los Patriarchas!"

"You dumb fucks! This bitch is property of The Patriarchs!"

I can hear the capital letters.

Immediately, they untie my legs and arms. I open my other eye and see the terror growing in José's eyes. The blood drains from his face faster than I could have believed possible. Even his black mustache seems to blench as he stammers through trembling lips:

"¿Los Patriarcas?"

Hearing those dreadful words, the men in line all panic and scamper away, naked as they are, leaving trousers, belts, and even a couple of guns behind, on the floor, like the debris of a routed small army. In less than a minute just me, poor José, and the officer remain. I sit on the mattress, trembling and shaking. But José is shaking even harder. He is slumped in a chair, his head between his hands, his cock deflated in record time. Then he seems to rouse, looking at me sternly, and growls in heavily accented English, pointing a beefy finger at me like a loaded gun:

"Listen to me, you bitch. This never happened. One word and you are a dead..."

A powerful slap across his face cuts short his menacing speech.

"Callate, hombre estupido. Ve a buscar algo para la bella dama."

Shut up, you stupid fool. Go get something to drink for the nice lady.

From stupid bitch to nice lady in thirty seconds. But I am still trembling, so the officer lends me his jacket, then says gently, in passable English:

"I am so sorry, Madam. The boys... hmm, they were just joking you know."

Sure they were. Gang rape. Nice practical joke. Meanwhile, José is back with a jug and a big glass. The best sangria I have ever tasted. The officer continues his profuse apology, abjectly begging me not to tell anyone. Of course, I promise. They let me go to the ladies' room, where I get my wits back. Looking at the big mirror, I reflect that with a few sartorial touches here and there, the uniform jacket could possibly be transformed into a nice mini-dress. Maybe starting a new military style of mini-dresses, a novel haute couture trend. With a final apology, they tie and gag me, trying to conceal their misdeeds, and lift me into the crate again. The last image I see is José's sad face, a black eye, dried blood under his nostrils. I can imagine him jerking off tonight in his lone bed, dreaming of me.

ARRIVAL

I try my relaxing technique during the last leg of the trip, to no avail. I am too shaken. That had been close. Fortunately, the country music works better than Nidra Yoga and quickly soothes me into a peaceful sleep. I wake up just as the crate stops its soft movements and the upper lid cracks open. Strong arms lift me effortlessly out of the crate, setting me gently down, on a warm surface. They free my ankles and my wrists, and I can smell geranium and lavender and jasmine as someone spreads warm essential oil on my skin, and several vigorous hands start a total-body Tantric massage. It seems to obtain its magic effect because as they help me stand up I feel alert, refreshed, and reasonably calm, given the situation. Gentle hands remove the oil with velvety blankets, quickly brush my hair -- up and down - and eventually remove my blindfolds.

Blinking, I take in the surroundings. I am in a luxury massage room, warmly candle-lighted. Without speaking, one of my solicitous masseurs -- two bare-chested muscular men in black slacks - fits two soft leather bracelets on my wrists and clasps them together behind my back as the second one slips high-heels on my feet. Final touch: he carefully sets my glasses on my nose. They like the intellectual type in the nude here. Good -- I think --they haven't discovered the gizmo hidden in the glasses. Or maybe they have, and they pretend they have not. As I consider the equally plausible but hideous hypothesis I shiver, and -- in response? - they drape a red cape on my shoulders, securing it around my neck with leather-and-silver fasteners, like a medieval cloak. It feels as comfortable and smooth as silk, but it is warm -- mohair, probably. It covers me completely, but it is open in front.

Just then, I realize that the country music has stopped and I can hear instead distinctive staccato notes. Fiddles. Baroque music. A piano quintet is playing somewhere, nearby. As the last bar resounds, I hear soft steps approaching, and I feel my two guards tensing, almost standing at attention. A hidden double door opens in front of me. I am dazzled by the sudden light as a whiff of sweet salt air enters the room, blowing the cape open. With my hands tied behind my back, I am unable to keep it closed. Well-prepared by the Tantric massage, gently brushed by the soft mohair and titillated by the sparkling air, my nipples decide to demonstrate their interest, pointing up and forward.

An imposing figure stands still in the doorway, silhouetted against the Mediterranean light. He stops there for a while as he gives me a thorough once-over and - during the short spell - I have just the time to ask myself how a promising University Professor could have been lured into accepting this crazy mission. But here she is, the Famous Author turned amateur undercover agent, naked under a red cape, hands pinioned behind her back, in front of a fully dressed man, ready to sashay on high heels at his command. But the alpha man prefers to play gentleman for the time being, as he gently greets me in a deep educated voice:

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