Authors note: - This is a follow on to the previous episodes of Becca XXX Double Trouble. Please read them before reading this or you will not understand the plot or characters
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Becca XXX. Double Trouble.
Ch 05
It had been an unforgettable evening with the twins but our jubilation was cut short. Natalie and I had stopped dead in the corridor and we were now staring at the paper-tell which was lying on the floor in front of our apartment door.
We'd been so careful; how could anyone have known who we were or where we lived?
I looked at Nat and she looked at me in silence and disbelief. Someone had tracked us down and I knew without a shadow of doubt that they were now in our apartment.
This was now literally a fight-or-flight response as we made a snap decision whether to face whoever was inside or make a run for it. I was pretty sure it was the Meatheads from the black Range Rover who'd tracked us down and I was intrigued to know who they were and what they wanted. The only downside was that we didn't know what we were up against and we certainly didn't want them to have the upper hand.
I was about to ask Natalie what she thought, when suddenly the decision was made for us. Two thick-set men wearing jeans and leather jackets appeared at either end of the corridor, blocking our escape. Two of the Meatheads had their pistols drawn and were pointing them directly at us.
We put our hands up clutching our hand bags as though we were being mugged.
"Take whatever you want," I said, holding my handbag out to them in submission. "There's money in here."
They both moved in closer, unflinching and expressionless.
"Take the money and go," I said again.
"Nyet," said the one nearest to me.
His accent was heavy and sounded Russian. He flicked the pistol in the direction of our door, gesturing that we should go inside. We knew we had no choice but to do as he instructed. They looked well trained and were keeping just enough distance between us and them to prevent us from making a grab for their weapons.
The pistols were dull-black, stubby semiautomatics. I guessed they were Makarov's which were standard issue for Russian police and military. It was a reliable and robust weapon at close range and fired nine-millimetre rounds from an eight-round magazine. At this distance they'd only need one.
The scariest part about it was that the guns weren't fitted with suppressors. Whoever these fuckers were, they weren't worried about making a noise, which meant they either didn't care or they knew they were untouchable. My mind flashed back to the diplomatic plates on their vehicle as I pushed the door open and walked slowly inside, making no sudden movements that might spook them into shooting us. I kept my handbag in my hand and moved into the open-plan living area.
Two more men in identical clothing were waiting at the breakfast bar. The door closed behind us and we were pushed further into the room.
"Who are you? What do you want with us?" asked Natalie, in a frightened voice.
She got a slap on the back of her head for her trouble.
No one spoke.
The silence was deafening.
My mind raced at a thousand miles an hour wondering how we were going to overpower and subdue four armed men the size of grizzly bears. Their heads were shaved and perched on top of their neck-less shoulders and they were as wide as the door frame. Everything about them looked mean and dangerous. I glanced at the kitchen counter and saw the rolling pin which I'd left out in case of a scenario such as the this one. Unfortunately, it was too far away and would be useless against them anyway. No one in their right minds takes a knife to a gun fight so a rolling pin would have been suicidal.
One of the guys at the breakfast bar stood up and came towards us. His gaze flashed between the two of us, one by one. He appeared to the one in charge and was looking for the alpha female.
As he got level with me, he jabbed me in the stomach just once, knocking the wind out of me and doubling me over. As I fought to draw breath in, he did the same to Natalie. He hadn't even asked who we were and the violence had already started. He wanted to soften us up and make sure we knew who was in charge and I knew this was about to get a whole lot worse.
"Strip," he said in a Russian accent.
"What?" I gasped in shock.
He jabbed me again, a little harder.
"Strip," he repeated. "Clothes off."
I looked at Nat and she shrugged and pulled her boob tube over her head and unzipped her skirt. I slipped my shoulder straps down and allowed my dress to fall to the floor. We both folded our arms over our breasts to give us some cover and bowed our heads to look intimidated. It didn't take a lot of acting on my part, I was terrified. My heart raced and my mouth was dry with fear. We were now standing in front of the sofa wearing only our panties, which didn't seem to please the boss very much.
He looked at my yellow thong and then back into my eyes. He didn't need to tell me to take them off it was all in his facial expressions. He wanted us to be naked, but didn't want to waste his precious words by asking us to strip again. I got the message loud and clear and didn't fancy another punch in the stomach.
I kept one arm across my chest to cover my breasts and used my spare hand to take my knickers off and throw them on the floor. My hand then dropped to my pubic bone and loosely covered my pussy from view. Natalie copied me.
Meathead two smirked from the breakfast bar as he looked us up and down. He licked his lips and said something in Russian to the two we'd met in the corridor. They all laughed like idiots, sharing some private joke.
"What's this all about?" I asked. "Just take anything you want and leave us alone... please."
The boss grabbed me by the wrists and pulled my arms down by my side so my breasts and vagina were no longer covered. The chill in the room made my nipples hard and my instinct was to cover myself back up but I thought better of it.
He glared at Natalie who uncovered herself without being told. This was all part of them trying to frighten us and it was working. Making us get naked made us feel vulnerable and exposed, without the imaginary protection of clothing. Wearing clothes made people feel secure, so making us remove them had the opposite effect.
"What is your interest in the Kingsleys?" asked the boss.
"Who?" I asked.
"Stupid bitch. You don't even know their family name," he spat. "The twins who you met with last night. What is your interest in them?"
"We just wanted to get friendly with them," said Nat.
"You are prostitutes? Da?"
"Why does everyone keep asking us that? No, we're not," I replied.
"You must be high-class prostitutes looking at the motor cycles you were riding," he said. "You take money for sex? Da?"
"No. We're street racers," I said. "We wanted to race last night for money but they wouldn't let us."
I was sticking to our cover story. They didn't seem to know who we were, any more than we knew who they were.
"You're street racers?" he laughed.
He said something in Russian again and the others laughed.
Two sexy young girls being street racers seemed to be an international joke.
"Look... if you want the bikes just take them," said Natalie. "The keys are near the door."
He ignored her and stared into my eyes. All his attention was on me as the dominant female.
"You tell lies," he said. "You are not racers. Who are you?"
He must have seen a glimmer of a tell from me but I wasn't going to give up. I was trained in interrogation and knew what was coming next. The biggest threat a woman can get from a group of four male assailants was being raped. I could cope with that and strangely accepted my fate with open arms.
"Isn't it polite to tell me who you are first?" I said.
He smirked at me and picked up my handbag, emptying the contents of it onto the coffee table. Everything spilled out in a clatter and he picked up my wallet and opened it looking for some form of identification.
"Rebecca Swanson," he said holding up my fake driver's license. "Twenty-four years old."
He repeated the process with Natalie's bag and found her driver's license.
"Natalie Rogers. Same age. More Lies."
He routed around on the table looking to see what else he could use to identify us. He was obviously from some military background or police and he knew a Tactical-pen when he saw one. He picked up the six-inch black steel object and twiddled it in his fingers like a magician.
"What's this?" he asked.
"A pen. You can write words with it," I said sarcastically.
He smirked at my back chat.
"English girls.... always so full off attitude," he said, his voice was constant but his accent made it menacing. "It's for writing? Da?"
"That's the general idea."
He twisted the top to make the nib protrude out and examined it as though he'd never seen a pen before. He positioned his hand above my breasts and wrote something onto my chest. I craned my neck to see the word 'SLUT' written on my skin in black writing.
I didn't react, but I could see where this was heading.
He picked up Natalie's pen and repeated the process with her. This time he wrote the word 'WHORE'.
"Your names are fake. These are your names now," he said. "Slut... and whore," he pointed at each of us in turn.
We ignored his crew's laughter.
"What sort of girls carry pens like these?" he asked holding them up.
