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From: (Thomas M Quin)
Subject: {ASS}SSK:Trick or Treat  -- Prolog By Quin 
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                                     STANDARD DISCLAIMER

The following piece of fiction is intended as ADULT entertainment and 
has been posted only to an appropriate group on the Internet. If it is
found in any other place this is not the responsibility of the author.

The author explicitly prohibits.

1) The posting of this story in an incomplete form. 

2) The use of this story in a larger work without his express 

3) The use of this story on any CD, BBS or Website without the
    written permission of the author.

This work is copyright TM Quin 1998. 

All characters in this story are fictitious, any similarity to 
persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The author does not
necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities detailed in this
story, some of which are dangerous or illegal.

Quin 1998

 Trick or Treat - The "Doc's Orders" Halloween Special By Quin

Prologue: The 13th Commandment

For Halloween this year, I thought I'd tell you a little morality tale
about the breaking of commandments. Oh, don't worry, old Charles
hasn't suddenly gone all religious or anything.  It's just that in
recent months I've been pondering the whole question of
"commandments."  It started when Doc sent me down south to pick up a
couple of new recruits that some freelancer had managed to saddle
himself with. Because this guy wasn't "one of us," Doc didn't want to
use one of our safe houses, so Kitten picked out a meeting place more
or less at random from a road map.

That was how I found myself marooned in a flea-bitten little roadside
motel in the ass-end of nowhere, waiting to be contacted.  The place
was so run down and dirty, even the roaches had moved out in disgust.
The TV looked like it had been an exhibit at the World's Fair, and the
reception was so bad you couldn't even tell if the program was in
English. One look at the bed told me that it had developed own little
ecosystem, so I decided against getting some shut eye.  Instead, I did
all the things you're supposed to do when you're a good little marine
and have time on your hands -- I stripped and cleaned my weapon,
checked my kit, and changed my socks.  After doing it for the fifth
time, though, it got a little wearing.  Another few hours of this, and
I was going to go crazy.

So I started to look around the room for a distraction.  The bad motel
room art took up a minute or two.  Then I spotted it, this little
brown book being used to prop up one edge of the bedside table.  The
book turned out to be a bible, placed there God knows how many years
ago by some well-meaning member of the Gideon Society.  To me, it was
a lifeline.  At first I read chapters at random, then I flicked to the
back to where they have the lists and the index of  "useful passages."
You know the sort of thing -- you look up your current problem in an
index, and it points you to a meaningful passage.  Problem was, there
didn't seem to be anything useful for my particular situation.  I
mean, they covered such things as "death of a close relative," but try
as I might, I couldn't find a single entry for "Bored shitless while
waiting for a shithead to deliver two bound and gagged, kidnapped
girls to you in a filthy motel room."  In the end, I settled on
reading the original top ten list -- the Ten Commandments.

Now, I don't think that the Gideon people had ever intended the
Commandments to be used as a checklist, but I have to admit it was
interesting to see just how many of the things I'd actually broken.
If kidnapping your neighbor's wife, brainwashing her, and getting her
to give you the blowjob of the century counts as "thou shalt not
commit adultery," then it seemed the only one I hadn't broken was
"thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's ox."  I was pleased about that.
It's one thing you can say about me -- I may kidnap my neighbor's
wife, I may sell his daughter into sexual slavery, but his livestock
is completely safe with me.

Anyway, it gave me something to think about while I waited for the
delivery.  Later, as I headed back towards Boston with two healthy
nineteen-year-old farm girls umpphing and struggling in the back of my
van, I continued to ponder those commandments.  When you're a kid you
have them hammered into your head almost as soon as you can think, but
these days they're getting more than a little dated and ten seems
rather a low number.  Of course we all know about the unofficial
commandments, such as the eleventh commandment  -- "Thou shall not get
caught."  That one should be the mantra of any presidential hopeful.
Twelve is a good one, too, but the commandment that our little story
tonight refers to is the dreaded thirteenth commandment, the one only
a really unlucky bastard breaks.  In fact, the thirteenth commandment
is so important, and the consequences of breaking it so dire, that
perhaps it should be promoted into the top ten.  That way, all the
kids in school would be taught it, and a lot of pain and suffering
(not to mention humiliation) could be avoided.

The thirteenth commandment?  It reads:  "Thou shalt not fuck with

Of course, fuck in this context means doing something that makes her
pissed with you.  I for one have fucked her the other way and found it
most enjoyable.  But I digress.  

Some Italian guy back in the Renaissance called vengeance "that most
Sicilian art."  If it is indeed an art form, then Kitten is its
mistress; you can wrong her and nothing immediate might happen, but
much later when you least expect it, yea, her wrath will descend upon
you with the fury of thrones and dominions.  Yep, you're right, I've
been reading too much bible recently.  So sue me.

Anyhow, on to our tale. . .


It started at the end of August.  I was back at Doc's, recovering from
the "Devils and Disciples Affair," and my shoulder was healing nicely
under Kitten's expert care.  To be honest, though, I was still in a
bad way -- I didn't think I'd be able to go back to recruiting any
time soon, and Doc didn't seem inclined to push me on it.  As stock
went out to customers and nothing new turned up, however, Doc's little
complex rapidly turned into a ghost town.  In the end, he had Ken and
Evie come over from England to cover for me.  Just seeing them again
made me feel a whole lot better, and once they started work I could
afford to relax and recuperate.  It was the first real rest I'd had
for quite a while.

Unfortunately, I was the only one enjoying the down time.  Doc wasn't
doing that well; I could tell that the new wheelchair was bothering
him more than he was willing to let on.  I suppose he'd always been
such an active son of a bitch that the idea of taking it steady really
gnawed at him.  Carole-Anne clucked around him, of course, using her
recently imprinted medical knowledge as well as everything she'd
learned about passenger care over at Britannic Airways.  Still, he
wasn't an easy patient, and she had my sympathy.

Bad as we were, though, we had come out of it in one piece.  Others
hadn't been so lucky.  Red was dead, and Sandra Fisher was floating in
one of the conditioning tubes downstairs while Doc's machines fought
to restore her sanity.  The whole affair had been extremely costly,
both in lives and money, and it seemed to have been the latest in a
long string of disasters that had hit us that year.  The thing I
couldn't forget was that, with Sam's death and the unexpected demise
of Red, the organization had lost its two most senior recruiters.  All
of a sudden, I was Doc's number one hand, and the responsibility
scared me. 

In any case, Red's death had forced us to reorganize the whole
southwestern operation.  As my strength returned, I had expected to be
sent down there to sort things out.  Instead, Doc dropped his
bombshell over one of Kitten's breakfasts -- I was to go to LA and
supervise the set-up of a new regional office. 

I was so surprised that I nearly choked on my coffee.  If they knew
about us in the first place, most people would expect an outfit like
ours to keep an office in LA, since Hollywood acts as a magnet for all
the pretty girls in the world -- you only have to walk around the
place to know you've hit pussy motherlode.  Hell, even the girls
working at McDonalds tend to be knockouts.  For a white slavery ring
to have an office near Hollywood would seem obvious, like a hunter
staking out a waterhole.  Yet we didn't.  Why is a little complicated,
but I do know that in the early days it was hard to get recruits back
to Boston for processing.  I also think there was some other outfit
operating in LA at the time, and we'd decided to keep our distance.
Whatever the reason, it had denied us access to a rich feeding ground
for far too long.

That isn't to say that we didn't take from tinsel town.  Teresa, our
agent in San Francisco, has a number of casting and modeling agencies
among her legitimate businesses. Over the years she's become quite
adept at spotting those actresses whose careers were about to spiral
into freefall, or the sweet little wannabes whose acting peak would be
one line on "Baywatch."  Hollywood is so competitive and the girls
hungry for success that Teresa didn't even need to snatch them; she
simply arranged a "secret modeling assignment" and the girls delivered
themselves.  I think Teresa secretly liked to get the girls to help
arrange their own abductions.  Difficult boyfriends, the ones most
likely to ask questions, could be dealt with simply by hinting to the
girl that unattached women were preferred.  Troublesome parents could
be kept believing that their daughters were safe in LA, especially
once Teresa had gotten the girls to prewrite some letters home.  Best
of all, relationships in the movie industry are so superficial that no
one really noticed when the girls disappeared.  Even if someone did
notice, the porn and prostitution businesses were a much better
explanation -- or final destination, depending on your point of view
-- than white slavers.

Yes, over the years we had done well out of Teresa's little sideline.
Sometimes she would luck out and get some fading TV actress whom Doc
could sell on to the Arabs at greatly inflated prices.  It was ironic,
but doing one episode of  "Magnum PI" back in the eighties could
guarantee more money for a forty-year-old than we could get for her
nubile younger sister.  There's just something about fame that acts as
a status thing with some Arabs, and Doc was quick to seize on it.  And
if you bought yourself a starlet from Doc, then a collection of her
work on video was included in the package.  Just imagine -- you could
watch an old episode of  "The Hardy Boys" while the female lead was
busy sucking your cock.

However, good as Teresa's operation was, it just skimmed the surface.
There were thousands of girls in LA who would never get their one
minute of fame, those who would spend years as waitresses or sales
girls.  In many ways, life as a sex slave was easier and more
rewarding.  For the girls selling their ass on the strip, the ones
caught between an abusive "boyfriend" and a drug habit, being grabbed
by us might actually mean living to see another birthday. 

So the new office made sense, though I still didn't know why Doc
wanted to do it now.  I was even more surprised when he suggested I
take Kitten with me and "show her a good time."  Doc never took
vacations and therefore never saw why we should.  The suggestion that
we go to California on some kind of company junket seemed somehow
alien to him.  Then it dawned on me that what he really needed was a
rest from Kitten's constant mothering.  In a way, it was his own fault
-- she was his own creation, after all -- but I could see how her
loyalty imperative would go into overdrive while he was injured, and
her battles with Carole-Anne over just who did what were becoming

So I agreed.  Hey, I'm not stupid -- the idea of spending some serious
time with the luscious Kitten while Doc picked up the tab was just
dandy with me. 

So we headed off to sunny California to found Doc's West.  Once we
arrived, we split work and play fifty-fifty and started to have a
really good time.  I bought a little red Mazda sports car for our
fledgling motor pool and gave it to Kitten to use, and while I was
busy scouting potential material and making contacts, she spent most
of her time out and about at fetish clothing stores and jewelers.  She
seemed a perfectly happy, if kinky, eighteen year old girl.  Needless
to say, the sex was absolutely incredible.

I had intended to do most of the work myself and let her get the most
from her vacation.  However, there was one area where her feminine eye
might prove invaluable; each regional office was supposed to include a
safe house tucked away somewhere in a quiet residential neighborhood
where we could go to ground if there was trouble.  And the quieter and
more conservative the neighborhood, the better; we didn't want to be
best buddies with the guy next door, we just needed somewhere to hide
out.  I thought house hunting would be the perfect job for Kitten
because she liked buying things and she understood our requirements,
and I agreed to rubber stamp her selection so she could literally buy
whatever she liked.  Armed with my guarantee, she headed out, full of
the joys of spring.  Unfortunately, she came back majorly pissed.

It took a lot of gentle massage and coaxing to get her to tell me the
story.  Seems that she'd decided to look at the middle-class suburbs
of LA, those sheltered little dormitory towns up in the less
fashionable hills east of the city.  It had seemed like a good idea at
the time.  The only problem was that to get there, she'd had to pass a
number of. . .er. . .interesting stores, and our Kitten was never one
to turn down good fetishwear.  Had she been wearing the little
semi-vanilla number she'd gone out in that morning, I doubt there
would have been a problem.  However, she'd stopped off at the Il
Bolero Dress Boutique on route, fallen in love with their merchandise,
and decided to wear one of their more, well, non-conventional
creations out of the store.

Kitten had turned up in the sheltered little community of Golden Peak
dressed in a tight, shiny, latex dress, black 4-inch-heeled patent
leather court shoes and a pair of Raybans.  To say that she freaked
the locals out of their tiny middle-class minds was an understatement.
The moment she walked into the Barrymore Real Estate office, open
warfare erupted; it seems that the three women in the realtor's office
had decided Kitten wasn't going to become part of their little
community if they had anything to say about it.  I have no doubts that
one look at Kitten in all her kinky glory had convinced them she was
some bimbo porn starlet, and they probably saw their property prices
falling then and there.  

Of course, they could have handled it more subtly and told her they
had nothing suitable, the SOP for realtors faced with undesirable
clients.  Instead, for reasons of their own they decided to ridicule
her.  I don't know why they did it -- maybe it was simple jealousy
that they didn't look as good as she did, or the petty
small-mindedness common to small communities, or maybe they just
figured that since they'd never see her again they could have some

Whatever the reason, it was a big mistake.

But Kitten came first.  In order to calm her down, we made love right
then and there, with Kitten's rubber dress hiked up to give me access.
As usual, it was mind-stunning, and I drifted into that warm feeling
of apre-sex bliss with a smile on my face.  It took me a minute to
realize that little Kitten wasn't sharing in the feeling -- in fact,
she was looking up at me, tears in those beautiful eyes.

"M....master Charlie, would you me get my own back with those
women?" she asked, snuggling deeper into my arms.  For a moment, she
was a kid again; I've never been able to deny her anything when she
turned on the cuteness factor, and this time was no exception.

"Of course, sweetie," I said, smiling at her. I imagined that we would
snatch the little cunts and sell them as service girls to a Chinese

 It turned out that what she had in mind was a little more devious.


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