Molly Sweeney graduated with a journalism degree and wanted to pursue a career as a reporter. Finding jobs -- any job -- was difficult. She barely subsisted on freelance writing gigs.
She finally landed a full-time job at a website that specialized in reporting stories that drew clicks. While that's a goal for any website, this one decided to follow the "sex sells" business plan. Reporters concentrated on relationships, sexual wellness and other stories that would be classified as "soft porn."
After three years, Molly was amazed that the website remained viable. She was 29 and single. Sex was one of her hobbies. She was happy with brief flings and one-night stands, with men or women. Her private motto was "sex is natural, and it's supposed to bring me pleasure." Writing about sexual topics didn't get her off but it did maintain her enthusiasm and curiosity for her work.
Molly had been pursuing a more serious story about sex trafficking, but her editor thought it was too dark for the website's readers. One day, a source she had been working with called her.
"You know, this is a bit off topic, but I thought I'd clue you in on a story you might want to write," the woman said. "There's this guy who runs a place... I guess you might call it a sex club. It's just for women who get off on the idea of being kidnapped and sold as a sex slave. They offer various lengths of 'stays' -- a day, a weekend, a week. The women get to experience whatever types of fetishes they like or want to explore.
"It's a very exclusive, underground, secret, word-of-mouth set up."
Molly was intrigued. Interviewing women who visited that club, using pseudonyms so they would remain anonymous, could be the kind of story her editor would greenlight.
"Wow. I would be interested in researching it -- and you know I'd be discreet with names, etc.," Molly said. "Do you have any contact info with any of these ladies."
The source was quiet for a few seconds. "Well, there's me...," she said softly. "And I know some of the other women. But I don't think anyone will talk to you until they're sure the guy in charge is OK with it. You need to talk to him."
That turned out to be challenging. Molly made several inquiries and was stonewalled. She finally spoke with a woman who called herself the boss' assistant. Her voice was altered electronically; Molly realized that this business was secret and paranoid.
After several back-and-forth calls with the woman, Molly had persuaded her that she was serious about reporting the story honestly and with discretion.
"OK, the boss said he'll meet with you to discuss terms and proposals," the woman said. A time and place were set where Molly would be picked up and driven to meet the boss. They selected an out-of-the way parking garage at noon on a Friday. Molly's brain flashed to scenes from "All The President's Men." The woman said she would be there with two other employees.
Molly was nervous and excited. She dressed professionally -- suit jacket, skirt, silk blouse, 3-inch heels. In her shoulder bag, she had a can of pepper spray just in case.
At the appointed hour, a black SUV pulled up. A black woman got out on the passenger's side. Molly had another movie pass through her brain -- the woman was tall, bald, confident, and strong, like one of the palace guards from "Wakanda."
"Molly? I'm Latifa," she said in a low, confident voice as she extended a hand for a firm handshake. "Thanks for being here and on time. Shall we go?"
Molly got in behind the driver and Latifa got in the opposite door. There was a man sitting behind Molly in the third row. When the doors closed, Latifa asked to inspect Molly's bag. "Oh, and we need you to be blindfolded. We can't let you see where we're going."
Those words brought a small surge of panic but then Molly took a deep breath. "Relax, silly. It'll be fine," she thought.
The man behind her put the blindfold over her eyes. Then, he grabbed one wrist and Latifa the other. They quickly pulled her hands up and back. The man slapped cuffs on her wrists and Molly heard them click shut. Her arms were pinned up and back, the cuffs secured by a hook.
"WHAT? WHY? WHAT'S GOING ON," she yelled, her voice quivering.
She could feel Latifa sliding closer. "There, there dear," she said quietly. "You'll find out soon enough."
Latifa's hand was moving over Molly's face, lightly caressing her skin.
"You are prettier than the mug shot with your stories. You want to write about our little organization? The boss figured you can't write about it until you've experienced it. And the women who sign up pay a lot of money. You're so lucky... you'll get the full treatment for free."
Molly was breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating. She was being kidnapped... like the women her source told her about... and "full treatment?"
Her thoughts were interrupted by Latifa's hand cupping Molly's breasts through her blouse. "Such nice full tits. Our crew will enjoy them." Her hand then slid up her skirt, between Molly's legs and pushed against the crotch of her panties. "And they'll enjoy this, too... mmmmm, I can feel that you're moist."
Molly knew she was telling the truth, and she blushed. Her brain was cluttered with dozens of thoughts, all coming with various levels of trepidation.
"I can assure you that during your time with us, you will not be harmed," Latifa said, reading Molly's thoughts. "Unless you consider it harmful having multiple orgasms, so many that you lose count."
Latifa then sat back. "That's all the conversation for now. Whatever questions you ask me will be ignored. It's pointless for me to try to provide answers because you'll be experiencing sex and sexual pleasure that I doubt you've ever experienced before."
Molly groaned/whimpered and tried to keep from crying. She fought back the tears, and her brain started to calm her jumbled thoughts. The blindfold and the silence in the vehicle allowed her to think and have a conversation with herself.
"Look, you're probably not in any real danger. Your source didn't say women were disappearing or dying; they were paying for this experience. Look, it's just sex, right? Being curious and wanting to find out about things is one of your strengths, it makes you a good reporter. Deep breaths, relax."
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After about 15 minutes, the SUV pulled down a ramp and into an underground parking garage. Molly's cuffs were unhooked but remained locked on her wrists. She was helped out of the vehicle and Latifa slowly led her through a door, down what she sensed was a long hallway, then through another door.
"Hello, Molly." A man's voice, deep and resonant. "I'm The Boss. You've met Latifa. She's really the reason you're here. She talked me into allowing someone to experience and write about our operation. My apologies for the nature of your trip. The blindfold and handcuffs were necessary. Our female clients sign contracts agreeing to confidentiality -- for them and for us."
After a few seconds, Molly spoke. "I'm here to gather information for my story. I'm not supposed to be part of the story."
The man chuckled. "That's a fair point. Latifa convinced me that having you experience what goes on here was the only way for you to understand what goes on here. Our clients certainly don't want to be watched or observed by a stranger. Let me stress that you're entirely safe. You won't be injured or hurt in any way. And I assure you that we've had zero -- zero -- complaints from our clients."
