The delivery van pulled up the last, torturous stretch of road leading to the target property. It was a three-storey house, gabled, with hipped roofs, a cracked and mossy exterior, upper-floor windows smashed in and dark, and a balcony that appeared virtually on the brink of collapse. The van came to a halt, directly at the summit of the steep and rocky driveway, trembling and spewing black exhaust fumes before the driver cut the engine.
He was a tall, heavyset man. Bald, with a blank and glassy stare that revealed little of his true character. The man's name was Mikail Yezhov, he was of Ukrainian origin, reared and educated in an unregistered orphanage after the death of his parents in the Holodomor, or great famine of the 1930s, that left him without a family or a sense of humor. He worked for another man, a Kurd, who provided him with "missions", delivery jobs, well renumerated with only the small requirement of keeping his Bolchevik-rimming mouth shut.
The Kurd had given him an address, two months earlier, to this secluded location. Underneath the address had been written detailed descriptions of five persons, to be found and brought here to this house. The names were all female. Two were Russian, one was Polish, one Hungarian and the last of some mulatto origin that Yezhov could not identify. No matter. He had found the lot of them and delivered, with relative ease, mainly due to the circuit of connexions he kept in a hidden agenda, as well as the bottles of Armagnac and wads of money shared with the border polices.
He stood there for a moment, surveying the smashed and darkened windows of the house, the long grass and weed-covered porch, wondering, briefly, who the owner of this property was. Who actually resided in such a gloomy habitat?
Never go into the house. He had been warned. Leave the target outside, front porch, ring the bell and leave.
That was his mission, and until now Mikail had never deviated from it.
He took one last curious look at the upper-floor windows, barred, with the seedy curtains hanging behind, and then went around to the back of the van and flung the doors open gruffly.
"Zovnishniy!" Mikael yelled. "On your feet!"
He reached in the van and seized the girl, dragging her roughly out. She was young, with clear, white skin, large green eyes and a silky blonde mane. Her mouth was sealed with electrical tape and her hands and feet were tied with a cut of fisherman's rope. He undid the bindings around her ankles and let her down on the gravel pathway leading to the house.
He pointed to the mildewed front door.
"Up there, now!" And delievered a sharp kick to the girl's stubborn rump. She gave a muffled yelp and moved forward, stumbling in her high heels, one of which had snapped off in the effort, giving her a precarious gait.
When they had gained the front porch Mikail pushed the buzzer and then leaned in the girl's ear and whispered, "You stay here now. You run, I come back for you. Understood?"
The girl shut her eyes and nodded, trembling with fright. Her cheeks were glistening with teardrop sweat. Mikail clucked his fat tongue in his cheek with satisfaction.
"Good," he said. "I go now. Zabava. Have fun."
And with this he jumped back in the van, gunned the engine and backed out of the property, leaving her dazed and trembling on the steps of her new home.
For what seemed like an interminable length of time there was no response from the interior of the house. The girl risked a glance over her shoulder and saw that the van had now disappeared, along with that horrid Bolchevik who stank of cheap vodka and smoked haddock. Her eyes darted around wildly, the house was entirely surrounded by deep, thick woods, and beyond that who knows what. There certainly wasn't anything else in sight but trees. The drive here had been painfully long and nerve-shattering. It certainly seemed long, when you were sequestred on the hard metal floor of a diesel-stinking Lada, with scarcely air to breathe, and tires so deflated they sent jolts of pain through your tender back everytime the vehicle hit a pothole. She looked down at her bruised ankles, marked where he had wound the rope tight. A tear rolled down her plump cheek.
Then the door suddenly flung open. A tall man stood in the center of it, surveying her. He was wearing a Venitian mask, painted white, with curling blue and gold motifs around the eyes. He had a broad, muscular figure, well developed, though partially hidden under a lengthy, embroided vest. He crossed his arms, the muscles rippling under the fabric of his shirt, and he stared at her.
Then his hands moved out toward her, tracing the outlines of her trembling face. They brushed against her moist cheeks, the lines of her dimpled chin, over her thick, pouty lips, pushing them back to inspect the teeth, which were small, even and perfectly white. The hands then moved quickly over her body, assessing it, gripping her suddenly and firmly by the shoulder as she made a half-heartened attempt to flee.
The man wagged a finger at her as his grip tightened, warning her not to move. He was such an imposing, threatening figure that the girl dared not do anything but comply.
When he felt her shivering frame relax he continued his inspection. His hands moved around her narrow shoulders, over the swelling outlines of her breasts, weighing each separately, then down to the smooth flat of her belly, squeezing her waist, measuring the hips, then cupping her rump firmly, issuing mild pressure to test the resistance of her buttocks. Satisfied with this intial assessment, the man gripped her hard at the wrist and drew her wordlessly into the house.
It was only once they were inside that the girl, out of dread and necessity ventured to speak. They were standing in the salon, which, despite what the exterior of the house might have led one to believe was plush and exquisitely furnished. There were black velvet-cushioned stools, oak divans, hand-carved and waxed to a shine, a game table topped in Breccia marble, a chest of drawers with gilded bronze finishings and curved wood marquetry, above it a large Rococo mirror and hanging from the ceiling, like the mythical Sword of Damocles, an extravagantly large crystal chandelier.
"W....who are you?" the girl asked, trying to hide the fear in her voice. "Why am I here?"
The masked dandy put a strong finger to her lips, sealing them. In response to her question he clapped his hands twice, and from the opposite side of the salon a woman appeared.
She was tall and stately, in her prime, of perhaps forty years of age, with a stern and savage mouth, lush and dark Medusa-like hair coiled atop her head in a Fontage, gray eyes at once shrewd and wicked, a figure graceful as a swan, and yet appearing forged of iron. She was attired as one might expect from a Marquise, with a low-necked gown, bodice open in front, filled in with an intricately designed stomacher, lace ruffles and underneath a tight, silk chemise. In one hand she gripped a black leather leash and as she entered the salon she gave it a distinct pull.
Into the salon came another female, this one perhaps twenty years younger, yoked to the leash by a diamond-studded collar set around her slender neck. The new girl gave a gasp in surprise when she saw that the girl captive was utterly and unabashedly naked.
She was perhaps twenty years of age, with a reddish-blonde mane, a pretty, freckled face and fiery eyes. She stood, in the center of the room, directly opposite the newcomer, chained to her mistress. The girl blushed and looked away.
The Marquise spoke. "Your name." Her voice had a sharp and cruel inflection to it.
The girl cleared her throat, still shy of the naked figure before her. "Zhenya." She mumbled.
"What was that? Speak up, impudent little brat!" The Marquise commanded. She gave a sharp tug on the leash, as if to express her dissatisfaction and the chained girl took two paces forward. She was now very close to Zhenya, her magnificent bosom high and peaked, her small hands dangling daintily in front of her vulva, which was as hairless as a young girl's. She had the most luxurious peach-teinted skin, and a sweet cherry aroma to her breath.
"Now then, repeat your name to me," The Marquise ordered, glaring hard at the newcomer.
"Zhenya. My name is Zhenya.... please will you tell me what..."
"Silence!" The Marquise snapped angrily. "If I wanted to know more I would ask you. That is enough for now. If you want to know who I am, that will be revealed in due time. If," and here her voice became sweeter, "If you desire to know why it is that you have been brought here, well," and her hand crept to the exposed bosom of the girl yoked to her, lightly pinching it. "That should be most obvious."
"Now then," the Marquise said, purring almost as a feline. "Please allow me to make the necessary introductions. This man you see here before you is Dominique, he is not my husband, but a servant of mine. This lovely creature -" and the Marquise gave a vicious tug to the leash that caused the girl with the collar to stumble and nearly fall, though when she regained her composure, she appeared perfectly undisturbed. "This creature here is named Enya. She is too from your native land, I suspect you two will have much in common and wish to be better acquainted. This is why I intend to leave you here, with my lovely Enya, under the strict supervision of Dominique. You are to do whatever she ordains, no questions asked. The punishment for refusing is....." she paused, as if searching for the correct word. "Severe. There, you will meet the others later."
And with that she undid the collar around Enya's neck, patting the reddened skin where the collar had been. "Be a good girl now," she whispered to her. Then she gathered up her dress and made to leave.
Zhenya dared to call after her, "There are others?"
The Marquise froze in her steps. She turned her cold gray eyes onto Zhenya. Her gaze was so penetrating Zhenya was forced to cower and look away.
Then the Marquise issued a wild, peal of laughter. "Yes there are others!" she clapped her hands together. "You will meet them later, you impudent strumpet. I sense rebellion in you, my little one. Never mind, you shall be tamed soon enough. And rightly so! Enya," she spoke sweetly to her female slave. "You will take extra care with this little one."
"Yes, Mistress," Enya responded, her tone neutral although her eyes flashed with passion.
"Good, I trust that you will. Well, I shall retire now to my quarters, and when I return I expect to be informed of the proceedings. Very well," she gave a gracious courtesy, worthy of a countess, and exited the salon.
No sooner had she disappeared then Enya spoke. She had a haughty voice and demeanour, but lacked the harshness of her Mistress.
