Chapter One

Cheryl, Captured

 

Cheryl was standing in the living room of her apartment gazing out at the lights of the city. The noises from the street, ten floors below, were faint but persistent reminders of the world outside. A distant siren, the rev of the random motorcycle, an occasional car horn, all floated faintly up from the street. On most nights these sounds comforted her, making the world seem a little less lonely.

Tonight the symphony of sounds of the street life outside her window made Cheryl feel more alone and abandoned than she had ever felt before. Rather than connecting her to the busy lives of the millions who crisscrossed the busy streets, the sounds now epitomized for Cheryl her isolation and her fears. If only she could reach out to those noises, the people who made them, call to them, speak of the unspeakable which faced her now.

But that was not possible. For tonight Cheryl stood alone in the middle of her living room floor, naked but for a pair of sheer black stockings which reached to the middle of her thighs. Her arms were manacled behind her, her legs hobbled by a leather leash. And she was gagged.

Normally, Cheryl was proud of her pleasant curves and generous breasts. She chose her clothes carefully so as to discreetly highlight her charms. Her skirts were stylish if somewhat demure. But stylish in a studied manner. Carefully bunched at the hips, the peasant style skirts, reminiscent of the hippie days she liked to emulate, flowed around her as she walked, and made clear the gentle curve of her hips, the flatness of her belly. In her blouses, she liked to display some bit of the cleavage of which she was so proud, just enough to tantalize.

But now, Cheryl had reason to regret her physical attractiveness. If she could have, she would have tucked away the breasts, which now swayed gently free as she shuddered in fear, disguised the delicate but well-muscled thighs, which were accentuated by the lacey tops of the nylons she had unwillingly donned. She would have gladly chopped off the delicate, light brown hair that cascaded down her shoulders to the middle of her back. She would certainly have hidden away the soft furrow between her thighs. But, although she could close her thighs, she could not hide the furry triangle between them.

Cheryl was afraid, exhausted by the tension and strain of the past few hours. She was hungry too. She had skipped lunch that day, except for a small salad from the cafeteria. She liked to watch her weight, although if you saw her you would never think she had a reason to. She was of average height, about 5'6", 118 lbs. Her face was narrow, with small features that preserved a child-like quality, in spite of her 24 years. Her breasts, although not large, were certainly ample in relation to her slender frame.

Cheryl's good looks and cheerful manner had been an asset in her efforts to find a rewarding career. Employers and personnel managers took an instant liking to her. It had helped her land a job in publishing. She worked uptown for a mid-level publishing house, specializing in the spy thrillers and bodice rippers you could find at the newsstand, drug store or supermarket. Cheryl wasn't an editor yet, but she had her dreams.

In addition to her role as eye candy, Cheryl's job was to read, or rather reread, manuscripts submitted to her boss. They had a system. Once her boss decided a manuscript had interest, Cheryl would actually read the thing and construct a four or five page summary of the plot, sprinkled liberally with quotes from the text to exemplify the writer's style or lack thereof. Her editor, a long legged, tall, elegant Radcliff gal, initially only read the two or three paragraph agent's summary and four or five pages of the first and last chapters. With her entertaining and stroking of the firm's established authors, the entertainment and stroking of her seniors in the publishing house and the demands of her upbeat lifestyle, Cheryl's boss had little time to actually read.

So Cheryl often plodded through the dreariest mysteries, the drabbest romances, and the most improbable of plots. In spite of her boss's elementary screening process, more than 90% of the stuff that landed on her desk was just crap. But the other 10% was different. Cheryl lived for the gems she found. Daring adventures, hair-raising escapades, deep emotional bonding and unbonding, these all allowed Cheryl to live on a plane higher than her mostly pedestrian life. Pedestrian, yes, but she had hopes. Hopes that someone upstairs would notice her work, that someday she would sit in the corner office, windows on New York, beautiful men flocking to her beck and call. Oh yes, she had hopes.

But what she didn't know was that she had in fact been noticed. But not by the people she wanted to notice her. She was unaware of the dark stranger leering at her from across Mott Street one day a month ago. She was dressed in a flowing, yellow, short sleeved shirtwaist dress, bedecked with white and orange flowers, her hair pulled back, the sun glancing off of her face. She didn't notice as the man followed her the few blocks to her apartment building, making close note of her slight sashay as she strolled along the sidewalks, the merest sway of her hips, the slight bounce to her breasts.

Oh yes, she had been watched. Almost daily, the dark stranger monitored her movements. She had been watched again as she left for work the next Monday, followed uptown. That evening, as she left, the man was waiting across the street from her office building and followed her back downtown to her health club. He watched her there, a nonchalant visitor, as she worked the step machine and later the aerobic exercises. A few days later, she was seen lunching with friends, laughing, talking, enjoying her day.

The man who followed her was well experienced. He was known as Turk or the Turk to those who knew his trade. He was a patient man. He had to be. Anyone could stalk a girl. But to do so regularly, without detection, that was another matter entirely. To choose the day, time and circumstance of the ultimate meeting between stalker and prey was the real trick.

Each day the Turk noted Cheryl's movements. Surreptitiously he took her picture, walking, talking, leaning over to fix her shoe. Each nuance of her movements was recorded.

Of course, over the past month, Turk had stalked a few different women. He rejected them as subjects either because their physical attributes were revealed not to be up to snuff or because the women concerned had just not caught his fancy. He had bright hopes that first day he had spied Cheryl. At first his monitoring of her movements was casual. But as he saw her more and more, he became sure. This was the one.

When the Turk was certain that Cheryl was a worthy target, a prize worth the risk and his time, he began the final phase of his work. On a bright, cloudless Thursday morning, he sat at a table in a sidewalk café across the street from Cheryl's building. He waited for Cheryl to emerge and followed her as she made her way to her office building fifteen blocks uptown. Cheryl liked to walk the fifteen blocks when weather and time permitted. The exercise seemed to energize her morning's work.

When she reached her building, Turk followed her inside the foyer of the steel and glass fortress that was her workplace and into the elevator. On the next Monday, he was in the hallway on the seventeenth floor when she got off and entered the business suite of Harper & Sons, Publishers. Dressed that day in the uniform of an exterminator, he was able to access the suite, marching boldly through the cubby holed office until he found Cheryl's stall. Cheryl barely noticed Turk's hulking presence. He lingered briefly, spraying into this corner and that to quell the imaginary onslaught of six legged pests.

New York, at times, seemed the cockroach capital of the world and even these sterile office buildings had their share, feeding on glue, cookie crumbs and leftover pizza boxes. No one thought it unusual that this hulking man in a dark green worker's outfit was sauntering through the office suite. He was practically invisible.

The stall where Cheryl labored was connected to a series of stalls, all separated by the ubiquitous divider panels common to the modern office environment. They were tall enough to bar the inquisitive glances of coworkers except if you stood right next to one and peered over. Keeping workers isolated cut down on non-productive office chatter. It was impossible to see into Cheryl's stall unless you stood up right next to it or were able to peer in through the narrow "doorway" left open between the panels.

Turk was well versed in making himself seem part of the background, and it was a simple thing to do to seem otherwise occupied until he got his chance. Cheryl went for coffee, as she usually did around 10:30. Her handbag was left, as usual, draped over her chair. It took less than twenty seconds to wander over, press the nozzle to his exterminator's can with one hand and reach the other into the purse. As expected, her wallet was on top and from there it took only a moment to gaze quickly at the license: 1675 Ninth Ave., Apt. 1007, Cheryl Purnell. He had, of course, known her address. But now he had her apartment number. That was all he needed.

But of course Cheryl was oblivious to all of this. When she returned, she did not even notice that the exterminator had moved on. Her purse was where she left it. All was normal and right.

It was several weeks later, on a balmy Friday late afternoon, when the Turk's patience bore fruit. Cheryl had left work, strolled her way downtown, and shopped for a few morsels to make up her dinner. Having zipped up the elevator to her apartment on the 10^th floor, she pressed her key into her door and waltzed in. She was dressed in the type of casual formality proper to a business office in New York. Slacks, high heels, not too high though, and a pleasant white blouse with small lace fringes on the bottom of the sleeves and on its hem. It had been a sunny, warm day and Cheryl felt upbeat as she laid her pocketbook on the chair near the doorway and kicked off her shoes. She tossed the mail she had collected as she entered the building on a little table in the foyer and glided into the kitchen to put down the small bag of groceries she had bought.

"Time to get out of these clothes," she thought. "Have a glass of wine."

Cheryl was not a big drinker, but she wasn't a schoolgirl either. When younger, she had walked a bit on the wild side, as a small tattoo on her left ankle demonstrated. Growing up in a small Pennsylvania town was no comparison for the fast city life she knew now, but there had been a few boyfriends, a few one-night stands, here and there. Two years of community college had been enough and, when she had earned enough waitressing at the local burger and beer joint, she had left for her grand adventure in the Big Apple.

Life had been tough at 21 in the city. Her bankroll didn't go as far as she thought it would. Her first three jobs had been dead enders. But she had hung in there and now was secure, a real New Yorker. She was proud of her three room digs. No more roommates, no more scrounging. Her pay was good, her prospects improving.

When she first arrived, she was quickly picked out as the naïve small town girl that she was. She had learned a few difficult lessons from those hardened city boys. But there was no boyfriend now. She had friends and they had friends. She was naïve no longer and carefully weighed her physical encounters. Only now was she becoming confident enough to consider "involvement." Consider it, yes, but she had not come to New York to saddle herself with any man who would rein her in. She liked her independence and the adventure of new relationships and encounters, on her own terms of course.

But here it was, the beginning of the weekend, and who knows what can happen on a Friday night in New York. It had been some time since she had raised her heels for anyone and she was just a little bit itchy to get some loving. Of the right type, of course. No drunken sloppy fucks. Those days were over. But someone nice, manly, someone who would appreciate the gift of her sexual favors. Someone who might call the next day.

Cheryl's evening plans didn't get very far. The Turk had done his homework well. As far as getting into the apartment was concerned, the deadbolt and other security precautions, the standard two deadbolts and a door handle key, were easily overcome, no match for his expertise. Standing quietly in Cheryl's bedroom doorway, he listened for her key. He knew she would be there at about 6:25. He had clocked her several times. He knew that she never worked out at the gym on a Friday night, but rather, came straight home and either stayed in, or left an hour or two later to join her friends. He waited patiently.

As Cheryl's keys clicked in the locks, he retreated to the bedroom closet. He heard her open the door and heard her keys jingle as they were dropped back into her purse. He heard the soft thud of her shoes as they hit the carpet in the foyer, heard the rustling in the kitchen, the opening and closing of the refrigerator door and the distinctive clink of a glass and bottle as Cheryl poured herself some wine.

He was well equipped for his endeavor. Bindings of several sorts, the accouterments of submission: a gag, handcuffs, a blindfold, and a very large knife. No firearms. They were noisy and attracted too much attention. If things went awry, a simple slit across the throat was more than enough. And there was nothing like the feel of a well honed blade across the throat to instill the most sincere acquiescence.

The young woman made her way to the bedroom to effect her wardrobe change. "A nice skirt," she thought, "not too short, that new designer blouse, my sandals. Maybe a shower first." It was a little after 6:30 and she had told her friends that she would meet them at 8 over at Armondo's Café. Not a promise really, just a possibility. When she had talked to Julie earlier she had not been sure whether she would go out tonight. Julie and her other friends, Carly and Sue, would wait until nine or so and then, if Cheryl didn't show, move on to other entertainment. There was always a great jazz band at Morton's or maybe the comedy club tonight. They always played it by ear. So no one was counting on her presence, and, if she wanted to join the crew out alley-catting tonight, she couldn't dilly-dally.

Moving into the bedroom, Cheryl set her wine glass down on the dresser and began to unbutton her blouse. Tossing the blouse on the wide double bed, she circled to her closet to find what she needed. She paused before opening the louvered double doors and scooted out of her slacks. They joined their companion on the bed behind her. Just when Cheryl was about to turn and open the closet door, she had the surprise of her life.

The Turk had been closely watching through a crack in the closet doors as Cheryl promenaded into the bedroom. He saw her remove the blouse and got his first close up look at Cheryl's endowments. The bra was a pretty lacy thing, white, and just large enough for functionality. Cheryl's breasts didn't spill over the tops of the dainty garment, but there was enough left bare to provide a confirmation of Turk's prior surmise of a more than adequate pulchritude. Turk planned to let Cheryl continue her disrobement long enough to lose her slacks before he made his move. Stripping a girl of her bra and panties was child's play, but slacks were always a pain in the neck. Especially tight ones. Now Cheryl was not the type to wear skin tight slacks to work. Her professional aspirations barred dressing as the office slut. But the world belonged to attractive people and her slacks were always judiciously form-fitting enough to display a hint of her charms.

And so Turk was pleased that Cheryl paused before the closet door to remove her pants. Turk watched her somewhat jerky movements as she balanced on one foot and then the other to get the slacks over her feet. She leaned against the closet doors, one arm outstretched, as she pulled the slacks free with the other. Her tawny hair swayed gently as she struggled, her breasts bobbing slightly. Of course, Turk could only catch a slim glance through the tiny aperture between the closet doors, but what he saw was enough to spark his delight and growing anticipation of the night's events.

So when he saw Cheryl turn toward the bed to toss her slacks aside, he made his move. He quickly, but quietly, pushed the closet doors apart his knife already in his hand. When Cheryl turned back, sensing movement, it was the gleam of the blade that she saw first, then the dark nondescript clothes, and then the dark, angry, grizzled, fearsome face of the Turk.

But there was no time to react. Turk gracefully moved towards the startled woman, his left hand curling quickly behind her head grabbing a fistful of hair. His right hand moved towards her throat, pinning the seven-inch blade to her throat. Cheryl's eyes popped open wide as she drew a panicked breath, prefatory to a scream or shout. Turk was well prepared for this quite normal reaction and he spun Cheryl around and banged her head sharply against the closet door. A well-placed knee then found its way to Cheryl's stomach, landing a smart, but not damaging blow just above her sex.

It happened so fast that Cheryl had no time to really think. Most young female New Yorkers harbored secret dreads of rape and mayhem. This justified the double and triple locks on their doors, traveling in groups, avoiding the entranceways to dark alleys. But few believed that it would really happen to them.

Even so, Cheryl's mind quickly grasped the severity of her situation. But reacting was another matter. She had taken a self-defense course at the "Y" last year, but training with a bunch of ladies and fighting off a friendly instructor was no preparation for the real thing.

The collision of her head with the closet door was not severe, but was enough to stun her briefly and cause her to see stars. But the knee to her groin, that was another matter. She had never been hit there before and the dull thud of the knee brought her an entirely new sensation. A circle of pain seemed to spread out from the blow as she tried to double over. But all she could really do was to try and draw up her knees since Turk was pulling her upwards with her hair. A low moan escaped her lips.

Turk now pressed his advantage. Pushing the blade tightly under Cheryl's chin he spoke softly into her ear, softly but harshly, in a low guttural tone.

"One more sound and I'll slit your throat from ear to ear," he told her menacingly.

Cheryl noted the statement by whimpering mildly, the blade preventing her from nodding her affirmation and too afraid to vocalize the simple response of "yes". The Turk pulled Cheryl sharply from the closet door and dragged her over to the bed, shoving her down on top of the bright yellow bedspread, jamming her face into the mattress.

He quickly pressed in Cheryl's arms to her sides with his legs while sliding the blade into its sheath at his hip. The gag was first, of course. He could easily subdue any effort on Cheryl's part to escape his grasp, but if she suddenly got the courage to scream, or realized, as she should, that her only hope was to call for help, it could present a problem. So the gag was always first.

Turk pulled the gag from his pocket. He always wore pants with large and ample pockets on a job like this. You needed to access your tools quickly and you couldn't very well go around wearing them on your belt. The object he withdrew was a large red ball with a single continuous strap, made of tough elastic. With enough experience, which Turk had in surfeit, the gag could be administered with one hand by shoving the red ball into the mouth of the victim and then pulling back until the elastic slipped over and around the head. Now, removing it was even simpler than placing it, but you did need at least one hand to do it and Cheryl shortly would be deprived of that asset.

Leaning over his victim, Turk lowered his body onto the frantic, but still shocked Cheryl. If she had not been otherwise distracted, she would have noticed his now steel-hard manhood pressed into her back. Turk noticed it. He also noticed the gentle but firm mounds of Cheryl's derriere, which were covered only by the light white cotton panties she had adorned herself with that morning. No doubt sexier lingerie was lying neatly in the nearby dresser drawers, and Cheryl would certainly have contemplated donning something to match her somewhat ambient randiness before she went out on the prowl that night. But why waste what had to be either hand laundered or sent out to the cleaners on a mere workday?

Turk had only a moment to enjoy the sight of the struggling white clad posterior. It was important to get the job done right and right away. After impressing Cheryl's form with his bulk lying atop of her, he pulled Cheryl's hair back to lift her face from the bed. The effect of having her face smashed against the mattress had deprived the young lady of air. Her natural reaction to the uplift of her head was to open her mouth wide to take a deep breath. Without ceremony, Turk plopped in the red ball and expertly expanded the elastic band to encircle Cheryl's head. In a trice, she was capable of no more than a murmur, even with the most energetic scream.

The ball was quite large for Cheryl's somewhat dainty mouth and now pressed behind her teeth. Realizing that her future was dimming, she struggled to free her hands from her sides. Turk, of course, anticipated her next move and had already dropped his hands to grab her arms. His hands were large and strong and it was a simple thing to join Cheryl's wrists in one while extracting the handcuffs from his pocket with the other. Two clicks and they were on, their glimmering silver a stark contrast to the pale flesh they imprisoned.

Cheryl now had only her legs with which to flail, and naturally she attempted to do so. But the remedy for this was also rather simple. Turk merely pivoted his body on top of Cheryl's and grabbed her right ankle. Another set of cuffs, this slightly larger than the first, was lifted from his pocket and snapped into place. Getting the second leg in hand was a bit more difficult. He didn't want to let go of the right leg in order to get the left and Cheryl insisted on waving the left one around. But training and expertise will always tell. All Turk needed was to close his own legs around Cheryl's knees and the left ankle was brought immediately into his arm's range. Click, the deed was done.

On realizing that her limbs were irremediably secured, Cheryl's thoughts now turned to her assailant's intent. Rape, of course, was her first supposition. At this her stomach whirled and her mind darkened. She had often imagined what it would be liked to be raped and had always feared it desperately. But then her thoughts went to murder and her mind darkened further. She had seen his face, although only for an instant. Even the stupidest New York rapist, and especially one bright enough to get into her apartment, would have hidden his face to minimize the possibility of identification. Oh God, she thought, she was going to be raped and murdered.

Our friend Turk was not a murderer, at least not tonight. He had murdered before but mostly only when the profit was clear. And occasionally out of anger or revenge. And once he had killed a pathetic mealy mouthed bastard just for fun. But that was many years ago and now he took these things more seriously. No, he had plans for Cheryl, but killing her was not one of them.