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."