The Taker had been watching little Aimee grow up with pleasure. She was always the sweetest little girl, always so happy and innocent. Imagine his delight then, when in her twelfth year, she suddenly took after her mother and sprouted incredible legs - long, smooth, shapely and unblemished. Imagine, too, her quiet pleasure in the rich, thick sheen of her brown hair and the pert, pointed bumps high on her chest.

She was obviously as pleased as he was, since, even at the winter party, the teen wore a tight, brown, ribbed, short-sleeved mock-turtleneck sweater and soft black "mini-shorts," that, from almost every angle, looked like a frilly miniskirt, or perhaps a rippled belt. He could imagine the firm, strong, tight buttocks nestled just inside.

He had been surveying her cousin, Katrina, before Aimee had come in from upstairs. Katrina was eighteen and tall for her age. She was rapidly developing his second favourite type of look: a curly little mouth, long nose, big eyes of an odd colour just a tad too close together and a killer body: long legs encased in skin-tight brown pants which moulded her round, firm rear; a narrow waist and large, round beasts bulging in a overmatched bra beneath a silky, skin-tight black t-shirt (his favourite type being a short, shapely brunette with a sweet face and killer tits).

He was imagining what it might be like to grab her in the shadow of her parked car; clamp a drug-sodden wad over her nose, mouth and chin; drag her to the ground on the far side; and feel her body writhe beneath his, hearing her muffled shrieks, as she slowly stilled; when her cousin appeared.

From that moment, his stalking of Katrina was put on hold. Oh, he watched her, of course, slowly building up his knowledge of her schedule, behaviour and habits - and, naturally, thought about what it would be like with his cock as far up her as he could shove it, his hands crushing her boobs, as she was so completely gagged and bound that she could do nothing about it - but first things first.

He didn't want to be raping her while thinking of her cousin. So he waited ... waited until Aimee's breasts grew to be water-balloon-sized beneath her frilly-strapped, deep-u-necked cotton t-shirts, her lips became pouty, her face triangular, her shoulder-length hair parted on the side and her body smoothing and firming into an incredible sex-kitten package.

It was only a few weeks after her eighteenth birthday when he took her.

* * *

Her parents worked. Her older brother was out somewhere. She left the school bus, walked down the street to her house, and went inside. She changed from her school uniform into jeans, t-shirt and sneakers, then went downstairs and out the back to throw her garbage out.

He slammed the big sodden cloth over her face, clamping down on her mouth. He grabbed her little body with his other arm, trapping her two arms and held her writhing, kicking, squealing form to him. She couldn't have been more than 5'3".

He leaned back against the corner of the back porch enclosure in ecstasy, knowing that her wonderful little cries could not be heard outside the steps and feeling her perfect, young female shape writhing against his. Her pert ass rubbing against his crotch made his wand as hard as a redwood. He looked down and caught his breath.

He could see right down her shirt and her breasts were amazing. She wasn't wearing a bra and the teardrops were shifting in the cotton, her aureoles looking like eyes desperate to find a way out. And her mound skin was so wonderfully smooth and sweetly packed that he almost let go of her arms.

But not quite. It was over in fifteen seconds. She blinked beneath the blinding, gagging cloth and sagged. Only then did he reach down and hold her up by her face and right tit.

Feeling its buoyancy and succulence in his fingers, he immediately slipped the cloth into her shirt and laid her down carefully on her back. He took a split second to gaze at her sweet, sleeping face, almost came again, then slid the olive-drab duffel bag over her. With a tug, she was inside. Then he moved it to his back. She couldn't have been more than a 101 pounds.

He carried the bag to the house's small, one-car garage. As he already knew, it was dark, cobwebbed and filled with junk: old furniture, broken lawnmower, rusted bike, unused wheelbarrow and the like. The light bulb had long since burned out and was left unreplaced. He carefully made his way to the back and lay the duffel in a patch of dirt near the rear wall.

He only took a second to return to the house before carefully sealing it as if he, and she, had never been there. Even if the cops took fingerprints, they wouldn't find any of his, or any evidence she had made it home from school.

Then he returned to the garage, where now two bags of his were waiting.