The Lawyer and the Iller

Forward: This is a revision of the chapter one to this story. The original first chapter, which you can still read, makes the assumption that a woman could enjoy being raped. Actually we know better. Susan still gets raped in this revision, but it plays out differently. I hope you still enjoy it.

Introduction

Susan Slattery was proud of herself. Here she was, promising young attorney, out on her own, starting her own law firm, and about to conclude her biggest case. Smartly dressed in a beige business suit, white blouse, top three buttons opened providing the opportunity for judicious and certainly provocative glimpses at her healthy bosom.

She had on a tailored A-line skirt dropping to just above her knees permitting just a slight voyeuristic glimpse of muscular thighs wrapped in dark brown nylons. Her feet were encased in dark brown high heeled shoes she used to click clack around the floor in front of an already enthralled judge. Hair done up in a tight bun with just a couple stray blond fronds drifting alluringly around her tortoise shell glasses. She looked every bit the young female professional about to win her case.

The case had involved another notorious womanizer who'd been leaping from bed to bed for years. However he'd committed one indiscretion too many, and his wife had brought down the hammer. The hammer came in a nasty legal battle, a massive settlement, and the man's reputation forever and irretrievably a shambles. Susan had to congratulate herself. She'd brought the mighty kingpin to his knees, and she'd acquired a hefty fee in the process. Her name would be broadcast far and wide; Susan Slattery the man killer had brought down another one. Her courtroom power would be every philanderer's nightmare. She would be enshrined in the hearts of every woman ever cheated or betrayed by a wayward husband. Her reputation had been established, her future bright.

Close to the rear of courtroom sat another professional; not in the back of the room, certainly that would have been too conspicuous, but about midway back from the middle sat a nondescript observer. He had a reputation also. His reputation was neither that of man or woman killer. His reputation was just killer.

The crushed and defeated man currently at Susan Slattery's mercy had played his one last card. Believing his destruction at the hands of the pitiless Ms. Slattery was nothing better than an assassination he'd called some acquaintances from his past. Sitting in the courtroom was the fruition of that phone call. True, he may have overstepped himself. He may have seduced one woman too many, but he knew his wife never intended what the Slattery woman had done. The great Ms. Susan Slattery had become a marked woman.

Briefcase under her arm, Susan sauntered out of the courtroom. She thought, just a short trip to the office, clear off her desk, check the calendar for next week, and then a quick drink at the tavern before home, a shower and bed. Behind her in an undistinguished dark suit walked the engine of her destruction. He'd been paid and paid well to see the woman in front of him never saw another sunrise.

His instructions had been simple. Get her, kill her, chop up the remains, and bury them. He thought about that. That was the kind of thing only a disgusting perverted mind would want. He thought it was too much trouble over a person who'd done nothing more than her job. In fact he'd watched some of the case. She was good. Besides the kind of garbage the client was asking had never been his style. He'd think about it. Maybe he'd kill her, maybe not. She was pretty. He liked the way she looked, the way she sauntered around the courtroom. She might be worth a lot more alive than in some plastic bag dead.

He'd liked her looks. Besides, if he didn't punch her out, it wouldn't be the first time he'd let someone off the hook. He was his own man, his own boss. It didn't matter too much anyway, first he had to get her, and then he'd decide what to do. The easiest way was a shot of some drug, put her under, carry her out, and take her home. She was small. It wouldn't take much to knock her down.

As it turned out it was just that easy. The bar she habituated was dark, well served, but not especially crowded. It whispered that sense of pseudo familiarity so many places did; a place where patrons thought they were known, but in truth, were just as nondescript as he had been in the courtroom. As he watched her order a drink he could tell she had that comfortable feeling of being at home, relaxed, off her guard. It would be too easy.

He tapped her arm, stealthily inserted a smallish needle; she dropped like a rock. He intimated to the bartender he was her date, helped her up, half carried half walked her to his car. He gently laid her on the back seat and drove home. She was light as a feather and soft too.

As he drove he watched for cars that might follow, and he watched for movement on the back seat. She was sound asleep, or, more accurately, soundly drugged. Her hair had come undone. It looked thick and soft. She had small delicate hands and equally tiny feet; all very feminine.

Her dress was hiked up around her thighs, nearly to her waist. Watching her relaxed deep breathing, he much preferred the idea of having sex with her of than offing her.

He'd checked into her background a little bit. She was one of those robot-like feminists; who, for want of a man of her own, preferred slicing and dicing men she didn't know. The man who'd hired her, he was told through intermediaries, had said as much. He believed it. Bitch she was, and bitch she'd die, unless...

Home was quite a distance, but after several hours of driving he was there. He carried her inside, and surrendered her to one of his friends, a woman in this case, who worked with him. She took the drugged woman upstairs, undressed her, cleaned her; put her in some pajamas, and into bed. Later he went upstairs and secured her so she wouldn't be able to get away. Then he went downstairs, showered and hit the sack. It would be hours before she awakened, plenty of time for a little shut eye.

A Rude Awakening:

Susan slowly awakened. She shifted her body, or tried to shift. Something was keeping her from freely moving her arms and legs. She felt warm, nice and cozy. She didn't really want to get out of bed, but something just didn't seem right. She tried to move her arms and stretch. She could move, but she couldn't separate her hands.

She stretched her arms out and up over her head, but without spreading her hands. She was awake now. Her hands were held together. Each wrist had some type of bracelet affixed to it. She saw the bracelets were held together by a small padlock.

She tried to sit up, but to her chagrin realized that whatever was keeping her hands together was also doing the same thing to her feet. She wriggled and rolled, and finally was able to sit. She looked down at her feet and found they each were circled by an anklet, and the anklets, like the bracelets were held together by a padlock. Eyes wide open now, she was frightened, she tried to speak, but something was in her mouth. What was going on? She reached for her mouth. In her mouth she felt a small rubber ball. Jesus! The reason she couldn't speak was because she was gagged!

Something uncomfortable was around her neck too. She reached there and found some kind of metal necklace, a collar! It was tight but not uncomfortably so and it was apparently locked on. She felt all around it. She couldn't find any locking mechanism, but there was some kind of attachment at the front. She fiddled with it and discovered a small ring with another tiny object, another ring, dangling from it.

Normally something small and delicate like this wouldn't have been offensive. Normally this might have been something she would have bought or welcomed from an admirer. But this collar and the attached ring was indeed offensive. Someone else, she didn't know who, had affixed it on her in a way she couldn't fathom. She didn't like it. She didn't like it at all. She didn't like anything about her current circumstances.

Fully awake Susan looked around. She was sitting on a bed, and it wasn't hers. It was a large, king sized, extremely comfortable bed, monstrous compared to the tiny bed she slept in. It had a massive headboard, and, peering toward the bottom, she could see a low foot board. The blankets, the cover sheet, and the bed spread had been pulled down. She was lying atop the under sheet. It was silk, the softest whitest silk she'd seen or felt. Behind her on the bed was a plethora of large soft pillows, they were all dressed out in white silk just like the sheets. Susan's mind started to race. This was crazy.

This must be some kind of sick joke. How did she get here? Where was she last night? What happened? Who put her here? And why was she locked up like this?

She jumped to the side of the bed, but immediately fell backward. She tried again; the second time she was able to maintain her balance. Susan looked herself up and down. All her clothes had been replaced. She was wearing pajamas, white shorty pajamas, and they were silk, the same as the bed sheets. They were nice pajamas, expensive. There was a full-length mirror along the wall about three feet from the foot of the bed. Susan saw her reflection in it. The pajamas looked really pretty. The top had a nicely cut peter-pan collar, pearl buttons held the top of the blouse together down the front. The buttons were all white of course. The top didn't quite reach the panties; she could see just a trace of her midriff and her navel.

The panties were very short, coming only to the tops of her upper thighs. They were cinched at her waist by a silk belt. She could tell the front of the under pants, like the top, was also loosely held together by more pearl buttons, how unusual. These, she assumed, were to be unfastened on the off hand chance she needed to pee.

Someone had washed off her make up. In fact, someone had taken some serious freedoms with her body. She could tell someone must have given her a full body bath before dressing her and putting her in this bed. Honestly, she felt really fresh, really clean. Her skin felt particularly soft. She looked at her hair. That had been washed too. Someone had combed it out, and oh my God, it had been cut! She saw, for the first time since she was maybe fifteen, she had bangs, and her hair, which she had allowed to grow long, had been trimmed off to just above her shoulders.

Susan sat back down on the bed. She was getting scared. No scared was the wrong word. She was mad. No frightened. No she was terrified. Someone had taken her, bathed her, cut her hair, changed her clothes, tied her up, and put her in a bed in God knew where.

She looked more closely at the bracelets. Bracelets really weren't the right word. They looked liked bracelets, and nice ones too. They were gold, engraved with intricate patterns. They weren't heavy. They weren't thick. They were quite nice actually. They looked like something someone would buy at one of the better jewelry stores. They looked expensive, but no they weren't bracelets. A person could take bracelets off. These bracelets didn't seem to have a hasp or any connector. Looking closer it appeared there might be a very small place where someone might be able to insert a key. It would to be extremely small, tiny, but yes, now she could see it, there was a place for a key. They might look like bracelets, but they were really very expensive manacles held together by an equally expensive looking padlock that had been looped between two tiny rings, one on each manacle. Leaning back she pulled her feet up and looked at the anklets. It was the same story. Two beautifully engraved intricate manacles held together by another expensive looking padlock.

Oh Jesus, how had she gotten into this? She wasn't mad anymore. She was afraid. She was very afraid. No, she was scared out of her wits. She pulled her feet up under her, held her hands together and started to cry. How did she get here? She had to think. Think Susan. Think! For

Christ's sake! What happened?

She started to remember. Yes, it was coming back. She had gotten off from work. It was Friday, and she was tired. She wanted to unwind. She'd slipped into the tavern at the end of the street.

It was just down from her office, and people knew her there. She'd be able to relax, let her hair down. Hair she thought. She looked across at the mirror again and saw how her hair had been cut. Where was she? It had been a particularly grueling week. She had finally finished an especially nasty case wherein a husband had at last agreed to a very lucrative divorce settlement. The cad had deserved everything he'd gotten, and she was glad she'd been able to pin him to the wall. She'd gone into the tavern, ordered her favorite drink, a man's drink, bourbon over ice. Just as she finished tossing it off, someone who'd been sitting beside her had jostled her arm. That was the last thing she remembered.

Someone, she supposed, had drugged her. Whoever it was had put something pretty potent in her drink. Was it the bartender? No, she knew the bartender. But of course, everyone thinks they know the bartender. Then who was it? Oh wait!

When she was finishing her drink, the same someone who'd jostled her had to have done something. It wasn't something in her drink. It was something else! She remembered feeling a faint pinch on her arm. Susan looked down. There it was! It was tiny, but she could clearly see it, a small but tell tale mark, like maybe the prick of a miniscule pin, or worse the prick of a needle. Someone had followed her into the tavern sat down beside her and just as she was finishing her drink they had jabbed her with a needle. It had to have been a potent chemical, because she couldn't remember anything after that.

Susan was really scared now. It wasn't like she'd gone out and gotten stone cold drunk or ridiculously high. It wasn't as though she'd shacked up with some man for a one-time roll in the hay. Yes, she'd done those things and thought nothing about it the next morning. Those were things she had every right to do. After all, she was a fully grown, well educated, kick ass, liberated woman, a lawyer, a divorce lawyer, an attorney with a string of male scalps figuratively hanging from her office lodge pole. No, this was something different. Someone had been out to get her, and by the looks of things, they'd gotten her.

She cried some more. Someone really wanted to hurt her. That was the only explanation for her particular predicament. It wasn't that she wasn't good looking, like she'd been kidnapped or something for sex. In fact, she was quite a looker, a babe. One might say she had a second lodge pole in her apartment where she kept the scalps of brokenhearted lovers. Not lovers in the carnal sense, more in the figurative sense.

She had a terrific body. She stood a tall well-conditioned five foot five. She had a membership at the hottest health spa in the city where she was a regular. She kept her weight down, her figure trim, and her men at arm's length. That was a joke she liked to share with some of her girl friends. Susan had nice breasts. They weren't big, she wore a thirty-four B, but they were well shaped, and they were all hers. No silicon implants for her. Not her! No Sir! These pear shaped babies sticking out on her chest were the result of training and exercise, and that went double for her flat stomach, her arms, and her legs.

She had a pretty good face too. She wasn't stunning, but she had always been able to hold her own. She had blue eyes, luxuriant lashes, light brown almost blond hair, a smallish aquiline nose, good cheekbones, a small dimpled chin, and luscious lips, even if only she thought so.

She knew one thing. She knew how to use her lips. Susan wasn't just a great kisser she knew how lips could manipulate men. She knew what men noticed, the insecure bite on the lower lip, the subtle nibble on the end of a pencil while thinking or talking. Men watched that stuff. They fantasized about something else being in her mouth. Ha! She might be a tarty tease, but no man's thing had ever even remotely close in that regard. Sure she'd put out once or twice to promote her career, but she had standards, no bare backing and, certainly no sodomy. If a man wanted her he worked for what he got, and what he got was straight sex, only missionary, if that. She was confident in her ability to control her surroundings. Well, maybe not right now, what with the gag and the cuffs. What was she thinking? This was certainly no time for casual reflection. She was in trouble.

She stopped crying. She wanted to keep on crying, but realized it wasn't doing any good. She didn't know where she was, and she had to find a way, some way, to get loose, get free, and get the hell out of wherever she was. Just then a door opened somewhere.

Behind the bed was a long hallway, and at the end of the hallway a door opened. It was her captor; the owner of the house who'd opened the door. The owner was a tall, well built man, a person whose career was defined by murder, kidnapping, extortion, and, as Susan was about to find out, scaring young women . He stood just six feet tall. He was in his mid thirties, about six years older than the girl sitting on his bed. He had dark brown hair, flecked with the first signs of gray, brown eyes, a strong looking nose and chin, and a small scar on his right cheek.

He'd done nothing particularly brave or dangerous to acquire the scar. It had occurred when he was a teenager playing baseball. He was the team's catcher, and an errant pitch had jammed the catcher's mask into his face causing the scar. As scars went it wasn't much, but he knew it added to the somewhat sinister nature of some of his better facial expressions.

He was muscular though not muscle bound, and his military training had given him some, not much, skill in hand to hand combat. Right then as he entered the bedroom he was wearing a comfortably fitting pair of jeans, a short sleeved white T-shirt, black tennis shoes, white socks, and his old reliable Timex watch.

He had friends and associates who liked to go overboard on everything they owned. He was never one to do that. He used to joke how he always wore a precision wrist watch whose name brand was two syllables and ended in an X.

Since being separated from the army he'd gotten involved with some bad characters. He'd become what some would call a hired killer, a torpedo. For the right money he'd get rid of someone's problem, especially if the problem was a person.

This girl had been one of those people someone wanted removed, and removed permanently. He'd watched her for some time, and realized she was a piece of cake. She had almost no social life. All she had was a career; a career, it seemed, aimed at making as many men unhappy as she could. He didn't really care what she did. He was in it for the money, and she set a good price. Now he had her. He could kill her, sell her, or even cut her up and put her in the dog food. But he thought she was pretty, so he decided he might keep her around a little while. If she was fun, he wouldn't get rid of her right away, so he'd brought her back to his house.

Actually his house was a substantial old farm property he'd converted into a very nice, large, home. He had outfitted it, though he'd never ridden, it with a horse barn, a salt-water swimming pool he never swam in, and the usual lawn fixtures. The whole thing sat on a two hundred eighty-acre tract of land well outside the city. It was mostly wooded, but there was ample pasturage for grazing.

He thought, well I guess it's time to decide what to do with this girl, his newest acquisition. He'd brought her here because all his employees were devotedly loyal. Though they were all fluent in English, he and they kept all their dialogue to the languages they spoke, mostly Asian dialects. He knew the girl on the bed was well educated, and she'd certainly try to manipulate the people around her. What she didn't know yet, and would certainly find out, was these people were not easily manipulated.