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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age
Eighteen, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
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Archive name: Thai1.txt
Authors name: Marlissa (an225040@anon.penet.fi)
Story Title : A Bangkok Slaver Story
1/4 -- (m/f, f/f, b&d, forced incest, white slavery)
NOTE: Parker characters used with the permission of the
author.
========================================================
This story contains sexual situations and should be read
only by consenting adults. Thank you.
================== Kristen's collection ================
The Stewardess And Her Daughter
-------------------------------
By Marlissa
Candyland as crowded as ever at five minutes of
eleven -- the hottest go-go bar in Joytown, which was
Bangkok's most depraved sex-bar complex. Vopat, the
proprietor, gave me that fat, oily grin of his as he
raced backstage to prepare for the next act. A minute
later, a gorgeous seventeen year old Thai bargirl
appeared. I thought her name was Chani, but wasn't
sure. Not that it mattered. Her marvelously tight
and trim little body was clad only in a red, white and
blue bikini and heels slid underneathe my table and
began to do what she did best. A gift from Vopat --
in appreciation for my recent services.
The show didn't begin for a few minutes, so I
pulled out the mail I had picked up from my club a
couple of days ago. Setting the bills aside, I scanned
through the remainder. After pulling out the junk
mail, there was only one letter of interest -- post-
dated some six months or older. Mail took so long to
reach me and if it wasn't for the club, I'd be com-
pletely isolated. I opened it, recognizing the return
address at once. Donald Linsky, Cosmopolitan Fire
Surety, Boston, Massachussetts. A polaroid fell from
the folded corporate letterhead.
"Dear Mr. Jackson,
As you can see from the enclosed, I am enjoying
the 'merchandise' I purchased from you some time ago.
I am thoroughly satisfied and wished to thank you again
for your services."
I looked at the photo. It was a picture of
Meganne Ryan, the pretty blonde newlywed I had trans-
formed into a bar whore/sex act for Vopat and then
sold her back to her husband for a tidy profit --
after enjoying her myself for six months. By that
time, the 'husband' -- who had married her under the
false assumption she was pregnant -- had covered up
the elopement. He was happy to take charge of the
young woman now, though she would not be experiencing
the marital bliss she originally had in mind. The
photograph was evidence of that. The former Boston
College career gal's blonde hair, formerly smartly
cut and on the short side, was down to her ass and
teased to the heavens. The expression on her face
was one of pure bliss, but I was sure this was for
the camera only. How comfortable could she have really
been in that pair of latex panties -- they were so
tight you could make out the mounds of the lips be-
tween her legs. And the matching bra looked fairly
unplesant too -- the thick rubber straps were pulled
up as far as the metal buckle would allow.
"I am also interested in determining if you
would be interested in some referrals. I have several
colleagues who would be interested in your services..."
I pulled out a pen, made a note at the bottom
of the letter. It was a name and a number -- Dr.
Jaqueline Astor. I couldn't be sure the number was
right, but I'd give it a shot and fax her the letter
tomorrow. If she wanted the business, she'd respond
herself. Jackie and I had an understanding that any
Stateside biz of this nature was her's and I wasn't
anxious to cross her. The one time we had wasn't
pleasant for any of the parties concerned -- especially
me. The customer, a millionaire with a hard-on for
heavy s&m, wound up with the merchandise he had re-
quested and I had delivered -- an up and coming singer
he had seen on some dipshit teevee talent show called
Star Search that he had developed the hots for. Had
her for all of five minutes. Til Jackie showed up at
the pick-up point, snagged the doped up singer. The
moneyman wound up with his little pet five days later
-- lobotomized. The money had to be returned and the
damaged goods disposed of. It was messy -- very messy
indeed. And the message was clear -- stay out of her
neighborhood. You didn't screw with Dr. Jaqueline
Astor. Yes, I'd fax her the referral. Maybe one of
these days, she'd exchange the courtesy.
"Hey Joe!" A thick, calloused hand appeared
which I shook. Strucker normally wasn't in the bar
this early, but I could guess why he was here now.
"Showing off a new toy, Hans?" I crooked a
thumb at the leashed woman that trailed behind him.
Hans was German, reputed to be some kind of Neo-Nazi
merc with big-time ties to the drug boys upcountry.
He wasn't a bad guy until he drank -- which was all
the time when he wasn't working.
"Ja - look at her. She is..." after a second,
he settled on "unusual...ja?"
Ja, I nodded. It was an understatement. Every-
time you think you've seen all the insanity Bangkok
has to offer, another piece of evidence is exhibited
to the contrary. Strucker yanked the nude woman for-
ward and she demurely offered herself up for inspec-
tion. She was attractive, if not pretty, in an
angular way -- the lips thin and the deep-set eyes
half-opened and resentful. Her figure was boyish, the
chest small and the hips trim and lean, anmd her hair
a matching spiky cut. I was surprised at her age --
she was in her late thirties, which was ancient by
Bangkok standards -- and at the fact that she was a
clearly a Westerner. But that wasn't the most sur-
prisingly thing about her. No -- that had the be the
fact that she was red. I don't mean she was blushing.
She was red.
"So, how...?"
Hans smirked. "Frang Thot," that was his cur-
rent druglord employer, "took possession of her at
Phuoc." That was a well- known rape camp the Thai
army had set up far north past Chang Mai. "Don't ask
me how a white woman wound up there! Said she was
Amanda Cross, a college professor!" He chuckled
cynically and waved his hand. "Don't ask -- I didn't.
Nor do I care! Anyway, Frang took her for a while and
decided he wanted a whole collection of girls in dif-
ferent colors. This one," he pinched the woman's ass,
"looked red to him -- so he had her dyed red in a vat
of carnadine berries for three days! It is permanent
now I think."
"So how did you...?"
Hans slapped the woman's ass appreciatively.
"Won her in a poker game! My three jacks over Frang's
two pair - and I won myself Red here! Can you imagine?"
The woman, know known simply as Red now, kept
her head bowed. I wondered how long she would make it
-- Hans was known as a bad actor who liked his sex
rough. There was a story here, but I was distracted by
some movement near teh stage and when I looked back
Hans and his 'Red" had disappeared. I shook my head
and fixed my attention back on the stage.
There was rustling from behind the stage cur-
tain, then, Tam took the stage -- Vopat's right-hand
and bargirl manager. I was a bit surprised at her
appearence. The Joytown whoretrainer was gone. In
her place was a young professional middle-class Thai
woman. Her hair was combed back into a bun and was
wearing a large over-sized pair of horned rim glasses.
Instead of her usual black hotpants and bikini bra,
she was dressed in a rather conservative skirt and
white blouse. She took her seat at the large desk
and waited.
Two girls walked in and seated themselves in
the student desks, their eyes averting Tam and each
other. They were wearing schoolgirl uniforms --
spotless white blouses, plaid skirts, blue knee socks,
and black three inch heels. The taller of the two had
once had short styled parted dirty blonde hair. Now
she, just like the slightly shorter girl, had long,
lank platinum-dyed hair down to her shoulders. It
suited her better and it was general opinion that she
look as much like her playmate as possible. They
looked quite similar -- the same china blue eyes, the
small, upturned nose, the high cheekbones, the same
stubborn elfin chin.
There were differences. The slightly shorter
girl's face was a little longer in proportion and her
eyes not so deep-set, with fuller eyebrows. The older
girl's mouth was bigger, the lips fuller than the
other girl's. The taller girl obviously was older,
with a more defined figure. I guessed a C cup under
her blouse, about 120 pounds, five feet five inches,
and a 34-29-35 figure that asked for a man's hands on
it. The shorter girl was just ripening, with promising
pert definable buds still in a training bra. Her five
feet three inch, hundred pound frame was leggy already
and, while more willowly than her fellow student,
equally invited male interest. The shorter girl also
wore braces on her teeth, unnecessary on the perfect
white shining teeth of the older girl.
But despite the differences, the resemblance
was definately the first thing that struck you -- down
to the pained expressions on each of their pretty, sad
faces. As well it should. They were mother and
daughter.
*************
I smiled, remembering the abduction of the
Bodwell ladies some six months earlier. It was one of
the most difficult assigments I had ever faced, far
harder than a simple pick-up job at the airport. Vopat
had been specific and after an earlier incident with
flawed merchandise (a flat girl who had been wearing
falsies) , I had no intention of losing face with him
again. The correct strategy was everything, so when I
eventually hit on the idea of hacking into the Bangkok
hotel database I knew I would find what I needed.
Before Bangkok, if there ever was such a time
for me, I had been involved with certain...organiza-
tions where hacking was a favored way of getting things
done. I put that skill to use now, using certain codes
I had picked up over the years. Scanning the reser-
vation systems of a dozen hotels, I hit the jackpot --
the Bodwells, one room , a mother traveling with her
daughter. Using the mother's credit card number, I
hacked into the Visa database and pulled up a customer
profile, complete with a scanned picture used on the
card itself.
The pretty blonde in the id photo was Roxanne
Bodwell, thirty-six, residence London, England. Her
occupation was that of stewardess, with British
Airways, with an income of twenty-five thousand pounds
a year. From there, I broke into the BA database and
within an hour had her confidential employee evalu-
ation. No immediate family. Never been married, though
had a daughter out of wedlock when she was at univer-
sity when she was only twenty-one. Took job as a
stewardess to earn money to send daughter to Saint
Agatha's Acedmy for Girls in Scotland, where said
daughter resided most of the year. Daughter's name
was Sarah and she was fifteen years old--bingo. Rox-
anne's work evaluation was glowing -- she was efficient
and volunteered for the longest, toughest flights --
those from Heathrow to Asian destinations -- in order
to make bonus pay. Unlike many of the other pretty,
young stewardesses, she refrained from fraternizing
with passengers and the rest of the flight crew, which
was to her favor, the report indicated. The recent
evaluation said she was taking a much-deserved vacation
with her daughter, taking advantage of free mileage to
travel to Bangkok. She was arriving in two days and
was now in the air.
How touching. A mother-daughter reunion.
I cracked back into the Visa database and in-
serted huge charges against it, on the order of a
hundred thousand pounds -- well over her limit. In
addition, I posted an electronic red flag with British
immigration from a fictitious Interpol official with
no return address, notifying them that she was sus-
pected of drug smuggling and credit card fraud, with a
request to deny her entry back into the UK and cancel-
lation of her passport. I appended the altered credit
record to it, along with an equally false criminal re-
cord listing numerous charges of drug possession and
prostitution. I forwarded a copy to her supervisor at
British Airways, recommending immediate termination,
timed to be e-mailed in twenty-four hours. Finally, I
cancelled her reservation at the Oriental. Other than
the cash in her wallet, she would be without resources
of any kind.
I thought of her and her daughter talking
excitedly about all the things they would do and see
in Bangkok as I sat there ruining her career, taking
away her nationality and depriving her of her own
money. Unless she was able to straighten out the
tortuous mess I had made of her affairs, it would be
assumed that she had simply disappeared -- one step
ahead of the law before they caught up with her. I
could see the friends, superiors, acquaintances shake
their heads in amazement and then forget. In three
hours, I had leveled Roxanne Bodwell's life -- made
her a non-person -- and she hadn't even gotten off the
plane yet.
All I had to do now was pick up my packages. I
threw on my dark suit and made up a sign that read
"Roxanne and Sarah Bodwell, British Airways." And
there I stood at Arrivals, holding the sign, looking
bored as the p.
"Mum -- look! Brilliant -- a car for us!" A
cute blonde teenager in jeans and a Hard Rock Cafe t-
shirt pointed at me. Good. The daughter was pretty in
a thin, waif-like way, a blonde Kate Moss. Her mother
looked up in surprise -- she was also attractive, with
a body that must have brought a smile to many male BA
passengers. It was all coming together.
"Excuse me -- we're the Bodwells. I don't be-
lieve I ordered a limo though." Her clipped English
accent was pleasant, accomodating.
I looked slightly annoyed and looked down at my
pad. "Says here a Connie from BA ordered you a car --
compliments of the airline for your vacation. Want me
to check?" I asked, intentionally a little rude.
She nodded at the name of her supervisor -- the
one that would be firing her tomorrow. "Oh God -- did
she? Wonderful, wonderful! Come on Sarah, let's get
our bags and get to the hotel! Isn't it smashing to
be here? Wait till you tell your friends what you did
during your break!"
I trailed behind them, secured their luggage
and then led them out and around the long length of
the airport. The air was humid and the airport was
teeming with arrivals. Finally after pointlessly
leading them in circles for a half-hour, I brought
them out to the stretch limo I had rented in the far
back lot of Central Parking.
"Sorry about that -- the police are strict about
towing and I had to go in to meet you," I apologized.
Roxanne nodded, her white face misty with per-
spiration. "Mum, can we get a Coke or something? I'm
positively parched!" Sarah asked, whisking away the
beads of sweat on her high forehead.
"There's sparkling water waiting for both of
you in the car, ladies" I offerred, opening the back
door for them. They smiled gratefully as they got in.
I turned the ignition and listened as they gulped down
the two 'mickied' bottles of Perrier I had on ice for
them. Within five minutes, they were out cold and I
was on my way to Candyland.
Continued in part 2. . .
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