Chapter 1: Welcome Home
Author's note - this story series is a fantasy of non-consent, including rape and kidnapping of a woman by many men and in many orifices. Stay away if these are triggers for you, and enter joyously if these are your turnons. Luckily, a thorough embrace and enjoyment of these fantasies doesn't in any way endorse or imply approval of them in reality. If, after a wank to the happily crafted and entirely imaginary perversions below, you feel like doing some good in the world to alleviate such shitty realities, throw a couple bucks towards rainn.org and/or endhumantrafficking.org. Regardless, please enjoy!
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It doesn't matter where exactly the house is, or how it came to serve its current purpose. It only matters that it exists, and it serves. As does one of its seven inhabitants, at any given time, in just about any given way.
It's a beautiful old house, three stories tall, in a quiet neighborhood, surrounded completely by a tall, wrought iron fence that's lined by a nearly opaque, impeccably maintained boxwood hedge. The fence and hedge even line the driveway, with only a single gate penetrating the perimeter. Several graceful old trees - willow, birch, oak - loom their stately heads from the front and back yards, though their branches are kept carefully pruned well up the trunks. A practiced eye might infer that the owners are both energy and security conscience, as the windows have all been replaced with brand-new, double-pane affairs - most of which are kept covered with heavy blinds almost all the time. Signs for a state of the art security system are posted unobtrusively but obviously near the driveway and the gate, which itself has not one but two locks. Less visibly, all the exterior walls have been carefully, heavily insulated, and a set of cameras and motion sensors keep watch on the perimeter of the property.
The six nice young men who appear to be the houses' entire number of occupants come and go, on different but normal enough schedules - some clearly work weekdays, some work evenings, some weekends, and one occasionally works graveyard shifts, though all seem to be home on Tuesday and Friday evenings. All six are unfailingly friendly and polite to their neighbors - waving and exchanging amiable conversation when they encounter someone while retrieving mail (the locking mailbox is just outside the front gate), driving carefully and slowly for children and pets in the road, and generally following all the rules of propriety expected by their community. At least a couple of them are sure to attend the regular neighborhood barbeques, meetings, and so on. The town is not a large one, but it's not small enough to find the idea of a group of unrelated young people living together particularly odd; when any of the housemates are asked about their relation to one another, they simply smile and relate that they are good friends, and have been for years. Parties seem to be held in the house from time to time, in that additional cars will park nearby - always legally and carefully - and disgorge additional respectful, handsome young men who enter the house in the early evening and leave at some point after all the neighbors have gone to bed, but these affairs never give cause for complaint - no booming music or loud shouting, no drunken antics in the street, no revving engines in the middle of the night. The house and its grounds - what little can be seen of them - are kept in excellent condition. The only thing that could possibly be noted as odd - other than the utter lack of oddity from a house inhabited by half a dozen men in their mid to late twenties - is the fact that none of the neighbors, if asked, would ever be able to recall seeing a woman enter or leave the house at any time.
Which is not to say that there are no such comings and goings. Only that they aren't visible.
About every six months, and always on a Tuesday, an unseen pick-up takes place, followed by a similarly unseen delivery. One of the two cars shared by the group of young men - eco-friendly, indeed! - will arrive home, at a perfectly normal time such as 5:30 in the evening. The car pulls into the garage. Fifteen minutes later, that car will depart - must run to the store for milk, perhaps? Another thirty minutes go by, and that car returns, followed shortly thereafter by the other vehicle. Both pull into the garage. The garage door closes.
Both drivers emerge from their cars. Almost inevitably, the driver of the second car is Evan - medium height, powerfully built - he lifts, probably?, with lovely, pale hair that speaks of Scandinavian ancestry. He likes to joke that his ancestors must have been Vikings. He's nicely dressed, clean jeans, a tastefully patterned button-up shirt - looks like he came straight from work, though today that isn't the case - he made a stop on the way home. He opens his trunk.
The driver of the other car - the first car home, which has returned twice now - is usually Eric, whose graceful frame and almost delicate features - half Japanese, it looks like? - bely a powerful set of muscles, built over years of playing soccer and basketball. He may still be sweaty from practice, still clad in jersey and shorts. He steps up to the other side of the open trunk, and with Evan, helps lift a long, heavily wrapped bundle from the trunk. Carefully, carefully, they carry the bundle together to the back door - which is opened from the inside.
The bundle is carried into the living room and placed in the center of the floor. All the blinds are up. Some classic rock is playing a a moderate volume - not anywhere near enough to annoy the neighbors, or to make conversation in the room particularly difficult, but enough to cause any sounds made in the room to blend together with the music into an inaudible blur from the outside. Not that many sounds would make it past the insulation, extra thick windows and double-weight blinds, the yard, and the hedge. But there's always a little extra risk, right at this time.
The other inhabitants of the house are already here, waiting. Jacob, whose round, olive complected face and soft brown curls have regularly been called "adorable" by neighbor women in their thirties, is reclining on the couch, a beer in hand and a smile on his face. He's still a little sweaty from work, his jeans and his shirt a little dirty from the site he works at. Drew, on the other hand, has not sweated all day, having spent most of it in his office upstairs online, banging out code for a variety of freelance security projects. His ebony-dark face is expressionless, as it often is, but he's cleaning his glasses - the rest of the boys know he wants to see what happens next as clearly as possible.
Leon is the picture of corporate culture, still in suit and tie, his dark hair only a little mussed - since he's gotten home and settled in the recliner with his own brew, he's allowed himself to indulge his eager/nervous habit of fussing with it. And it's brown-skinned, brown-haired Michael who pulls the knife out of the pocket of his khakis, grinning as he crouches down and slits through three layers of canvas to reveal their new prize.
"Oh, nice tits!" is the first thing out of his mouth. Evan nods and gestures for Michael to step back as he kneels down in front of the girl. Her breasts are, in fact, quite large - probably triple-D. The last girl was a B cup, and the girl before an A, so everyone had decided it was time to have something more substantial to play with.
Her face is twisted with panic - breath coming sharply through her nose. Shoulder length red hair - someone had requested red hair, too, and Drew had found a match - tumbles around her face, sweaty and tangled. She's no doubt been struggling inside the canvas, especially as the air got worse inside the layers of cloth, crammed in the trunk. But not one of the girls had passed out from the journey, yet, though everyone agreed that might present its own set of fun. Duct tape, of course, covered her mouth, and behind it a perforated ball was stuffed inside, forcing her jaw wide (while preventing her from choking on her own tongue - fainting was one thing, death would certainly spoil the game). Her hands are tied behind her back - which makes her boobs even more prominent - and her feet are tied together too. She's wearing a cute top - a green thing that shows some nice cleavage - and a knee length black skirt, with tights underneath. She struggles, manages to flip herself onto her stomach, and now her butt is up in the air, skirt slipping. Eric's staring at it, grinning. "Nice ass, too."
"Just hold the fuck on, asshole." Evan retorts, grabbing her shoulder and shoving her back over so she's face up. He gives her left cheek a hard slap, just to make sure she's looking at him. Time for the spiel.
"Welcome to our house. You're going to be our fucktoy for the next six months, as well as our housecleaner, cook, and whatever the fuck else we tell you to do. No one is going to look for you. Drew -" and Eric gestured to the slender black man, who makes no visible acknowledgement - "has done a lot of research on you and we know for sure not a soul is going to notice you're missing." The panic in her eyes jumps an order of magnitude - how can they know enough about her to know this?
