Henry Morgan - The drivers

"Don't forget your hair."

When she was fully washed and her skin positively glowing from her waxing and hot shower, H handed her some warm towels. White and fluffy, they felt wonderful against her tingling skin, especially when she rubbed herself down below.

"In the chair."

She did as he said and he pushed her across in front of a mirror, where she was surprised at her own reflection. Her body looked really good, healthy and bright. She looked like fitness itself. While she admired herself, the black man began running his fingers through her blonde shoulder length hair. In the mirror she could see his large cock twitching just near her shoulder.

"I thought spikes," he said. "What about that? Do you fancy spikes?"

"Whatever you say," answered Susan. "I'm in your hands."

H massaged a great quantity of setting gel into her hair.

"Quite so. In my hands." He chuckled, a slightly shrill edge to it. "Oh yes, quite definitely so."

He began shaping and teasing her hair into sharp spikes, drying it stiff and spraying it hard with lots of heavy hair spray.

"How's that?" he said with a flourish.

"Lovely," Susan replied, not entirely lying. She had never seen her hair so outrageous, her normal style was so demure.

"I call it the 'porcupine bob'. Now, make up." He leant forward and pulled out a drawer. "Black I think. I always like black on blonde." He paused for a while considering his words, then added. "As you'll find out."

She had no reason to doubt him. In fact she was bemused that it hadn't already happened.

"Don't move," he warned, looming close with the eye shadow brush. "I'm not too good at this." She closed each eye as he applied the powder, then gripped the arms of the chair as he reached for the eye liner.

"Wide eyes," he grinned.

Her fears were unfounded, even when the mascara was added. To finish the effect he used black lip liner and lipstick, then told Susan to go through to her living quarters.

"When you're not in the wagon with me," he told her, "you will live down here. If I want you, I will come and get you."

Still naked, he marched her along an adjoining corridor to a room she expected to be nothing more than a cell. She was to be pleasantly surprised. Like the beauty salon, it was bright with large ceiling to floor mirrors and wide patio windows that, like the others, looked out over rolling countryside. On the one side of the room stood a shower and toilet. It was not in a separate room, but open and totally non-private.

The main surprise was the quality of the furnishings, black leather chairs and a huge television which, he told her, were for her use, when he was away. If it wasn't for the metal hoop in the centre of the room and the long chain attached to a belt, it would have been a veritable home from home.

"Let's try it on," he said, pointing to the belt. It had a link at the back to connect it to the chain, while at the front the ends were terminated in metal clasps that slipped one inside the other and could only be undone with the key. H slipped the contraption around her waist and fastened the clasps.

Not too tight, if she wanted to move it around or up her waist a bit she could. The only thing she couldn't do was remove it. Once it was fitted he left her alone to walk around her apartment while he fetched some underwear. She went straight towards the windows, although the chain stopped her about three feet away from them.

It all looked so beautiful. Just three feet in front of her were fields and grass, yet she remained naked and chained inside the house. She didn't know which was worse, a windowless cell, or the constant reminder of freedom.

"Put these on," said H, bringing in a tiny leather thong and black strapless bra. "You can take them off when I'm not here, but I want them back on when I arrive."

Susan acknowledged his demand and stepped into the panties.

"There's some depilatory creams in the shower cabinet,so don't let me catch you with any stubble on your cunt."

He threw her the remote control for the television and made to leave, stopping near the doorway that led into the corridor and then to the salon.

"I've got a job from a defence base," he told her. "So I can't take you. They check inside all the lorries. Food is in the fridge and I'll be back later, so be ready."

She had a good idea what he meant by that, but there was no point worrying about it. As she watched him leave she went across to the settee and flopped down in the cool leather, picking up the remote control handset. She hit the on button and the screen flickered, but no picture appeared. The other channels were all the same, none of them were tuned in, and when she tried to tune them herself, she discovered the facility had been taken off the set.

On the shelf beneath the television was a video player and a wide selection of tapes. There were no labels on any of them, so she picked one at random and loaded the machine. The screen cleared of snow and she sat back to watch whatever had been recorded.

The first frames jumped and appeared jumbled before settling down to show a windswept garage forecourt sporting two Land Rovers, half a plough and a decrepit bus missing a back wheel. The camera panned back to rest on old, green painted doors, that juddered open as the camera zoomed in. As the lens struggled with the poor light, the amateur cameraman walked unsteadily inside the garage workshop to concentrate on a heavy metal plate that covered the engineering pit.

In the sudden glare of bright arc lamps an invisible force pulled the plate slowly away, and in the background could be heard the ominous thump of doors closing.

This was no prerecorded film, nor was it the run of the mill home made video. Her rapidly unsettled stomach told her to switch it off, her curiosity said otherwise. Through an emotional cocktail of fear and excitement, she felt compelled to watch.

The pit gave up its secret in the form of two young women who blinked gratefully up into the beams of bright camera lights. There was a look of hope on the girls faces, a sort of grateful thanks as if they'd finally been discovered in the jungle, rescued from the pot as the hungry natives polished the cutlery. When their eyes had grown accustomed to the glare the look fell away suddenly, to be replaced by alarm.

"Please," whined the girl with the long coal black hair. "I have to go home. Let me go home."

She pushed herself into the corner of the pit, forcing the other girl in front of her.

"Get the cry baby up," ordered a voice from behind the camera. "We'll do her first."

A black hand reached down and grabbed the girl's arm, pulling her sobbing out of the pit. As the other girl looked out in panic the metal plate again slid across the hole. Her face followed the closing light as if she was gasping her last breath of air.

They tied the chosen girl's hands with bungee rope then took her across to the far wall where several nails and hooks protruded from the brick work.

"Nail her up H," said a voice Susan thought was familiar.

The black man turned the girl to face the camera then lifted her arms up to tie her wrists on a hook in the wall.

"Let's have a look at the cry baby's cunt," said the cameraman, who Susan now recognised to be Jack, the man who had kidnapped her. The girl began shaking her head from side to side and pleading to be released, but the black man laughed and lifted up her clothes. She wore a flimsy floral patterned dress, very short and shiny, made out of satin or something similar, and a pair of knee length black suede boots. Her friend in the pit was dressed much the same, except her short shoestring strapped dress was electric orange.

"Get her flaps out," laughed Jack, enjoying the situation immensely. "I think this one needs a lesson in growing up."