A Second Visit from Saint Michael - A Halloween Story

In this sequel to "A Visit From Saint Michael," a reporter is recruited by Saint Michael to help rescue six young women from sexual slavery. He agrees to do so because his actions will also rescue his girlfriend who was taken by the same slavers as she was trying to investigate the first girls' disappearance.

A few of the references in this sequel will make more sense if you have read "A Visit From Saint Michael," but it does stand totally on its own and can be enjoyed even if you have never read the first story.

This story centers around non-consensual pain, humiliation and slavery. If such a premise disturbs you, then I would advise you to skip this story. Or you can skim past those sections and read a very interesting tale involving one of the "old gods" of Mexico and much of South America.

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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2016 by The Technician.

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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I was sitting at my desk staring at my computer monitor. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. I was supposed to be writing an article for the paper's website, but my mind was blank. All I could think of was Maria. She had been missing now for almost a week. The fact that tomorrow was Halloween and we had planned to go to a major party together downtown didn't help.

Our costumes were delivered last week. We ordered them on-line and had them sent to the office. When they arrived, I hung them on the coat rack against the back wall. I was going to be The Grim Reaper, complete with a fake scythe. She had ordered an angel costume... It wasn't exactly a slutty angel, but I didn't think she would be sending pictures of her costume to her mother.

The paper officially has a policy against "intra-office fraternization." That's actually the wording they use in the employee guidelines we all have to read and sign once a year. But the reality is that as long as it doesn't cause any delays in meeting deadlines, they really don't care who sleeps with whom.

Maria and I are at that stage in our relationship where we aren't really living together, but before either of us decides what we are going to wear for the day, we have to remember whose apartment it's in.

Ultimately I'm the one responsible for Maria being missing. Part of the reason we met was that she was fascinated with my Halloween Story, "A Visit From Saint Michael." When it came out, she asked me how much of it was true. I stalled and made a few jokes, but she persisted. Finally, I broke down and told her, "All of it."

I was afraid she would think I was some kind of nut, but to my surprise, she didn't question Saint Michael or as the Mexican girls had called him, Santa Muerte or Mictlantecuhtli. Instead, what she wanted to know was whether or not it was true that perverts and deviants-- those were her words-- still made it a practice of enticing young girls from the hills of southern Mexico to come to the bigger cities of Mexico or the United States so they could use them as sex slaves.

I told her I didn't know for sure. She exploded at me, "Do you mean you call yourself an investigative reporter and you didn't follow up on what might still be happening today in southern Mexico?' She put her hands on her hips and yelled in my face, "Why the hell not?!?!"

I looked down at the floor. I couldn't face her. I was ashamed of my answer. Finally I sputtered out, "I was afraid. I didn't want to risk meeting up with Santa Muerte again."

The anger and frustration with myself exploded out of me. "I knew I should have. But one meeting with Mictlantecuhtli was enough! I didn't sleep for a month when I first wrote that story. I kept dreaming that he wasn't satisfied with what I wrote and was coming back for me."

At last, I looked her in the eye and said, "I really don't want another visit from Saint Michael."

She looked back at me in shock. Her eyes widened. "My God!" she said. "It is all true. Saint Michael, the girls, the mansion, everything. It's all true."

"I told you it was," I replied softly. We decided to talk more about it over dinner. One thing led to another, and we ended up in bed at her place. We've been together ever since.

Then about two months ago, Maria laid a printout on my desk. "Did you see this?" she asked.

"It's in Spanish," I replied. "I'm not Hispanic like you are. The only Spanish words I know are cerveza, frío, and baño. That gets me a cold beer and a place to piss."

She ignored my attempt at humor and picked up the printout and held it out for me as though I could actually read it. Then she said, "It's from a website that keeps track of abductions in Mexico-- there are a lot of them. This particular article caught my eye. It says that every year for the past five years, six young women from rural southern Mexican villages have disappeared in the week before Halloween. All of the women were between eighteen and twenty years of age and all had talked about going north to Estados Unidos to get jobs as maids. They were never seen or heard from again."

She slammed the paper back down and said, "My sources say that the girls end up being sold as sex slaves... or worse. It's Marvin Summerfield all over again. I'm going down there, track these bastards down, and expose them for what they are."

That was the last time I saw her.

She texted me regularly when she first arrived in southern Mexico. She also sent in several lead up articles to be published once she had her big story. But six days ago, the texts stopped. I checked with the hotel where she was staying and was told that she had abandoned her room. They informed me that they would keep her belongings in storage for one year before disposing of them.

I contacted the Mexican Federal Police, but as soon as I explained what Maria had been up to, the officer said, "I am sorry, Señor, but if she went down into the hill country, there is nothing we can do." There was a short silence on the phone and then he said softly, "I am very, very sorry, Señor, there really is nothing I can do. If she went up into the hills, she is most likely dead already anyway."

I don't remember if he hung up on me or I hung up on him. I haven't really been able to work since then. Now I was supposed to be writing an article about the strange coalition of folks who have come together to protest the latest police and political corruption scandals in our country.

I sighed one last time as I stared at Maria's empty desk and tried to get back to the story that was due before the weekend. I knew that there was a saying that I had once heard that would make the perfect headline for the story I wanted to write. Strangely, when I am suffering from writer's block, if I can put the right title to a story or the right headline to an article, I find that the words begin to flow.

"What is that saying?" I said aloud to myself.

A soft voice answered me from across the room. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," the voice said.

"Yes! That's it," I exclaimed. And then I froze-- literally. Fear poured over me like an icy waterfall. My fear was not from the fact that I had thought that I was alone, but obviously someone was in the room with me. My fear did not come from the fact that whoever it was had answered my question without having any way of knowing what it was I was actually asking. What poured deep, soul-freezing fear into the very depths of my being was the fact that I recognized that voice. I knew who was in the room with me. Mictlantecuhtli had found me again.

A very handsome young man stepped up to my desk. "I believe we have met before," he said in that smooth voice that is impossible to forget once you have heard it.

"What do you want?" I asked. I tried to sound sure of myself, but I know that my voice shook with fear.

"We now have a common enemy, my friend," he said softly. "And as you know, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. We friends have the opportunity to do a favor for each other that will result in the destruction of our common enemy."

"What do you mean?" I asked. My fear was starting to ebb... slightly.

"We have always had much in common," he answered in his smooth, reassuring voice-- a voice that continued to scare me senseless whenever I heard it. "For example," he continued, "your first name is also 'Michael.'"

I have always used my initials, "MH" in my byline, but yes, my first name is "Michael."

"Why is that important?" I asked.

He answered with a question of his own. "What was the last thing you told Maria before she left? What were your exact words?"

"I told her," I answered shakily, "that if she should run into trouble down there, just to call on me and I would come down and save her."

My body shook from sobs I could not cry. My eyes burned from tears that would not fall. "But she is dead!" I wailed. "I never heard from her. I don't know where she is. I never had a chance to save her. She's dead!"

"No, she isn't," he answered firmly.

He paused as I struggled to make sense of what he had just said. "Maria isn't dead," he said loudly. "She is still alive!" Then in a much softer voice he added, "And I am giving you the chance to save her and six other young women."

My fear evaporated. "What do I have to do?" I asked.

"There is a very special Halloween party tomorrow night at a ranch on the Mexican - U.S. border. You need to attend that party. That is all you need to do. I will do the rest."

"How will I get in?" I asked. "I'm sure it's by invitation only."

He touched my desk with his finger. When I looked down, beneath his finger was a very expensive-looking envelope. "You already have an invitation," he said with a smile. "And your expenses are paid in advance"

He touched his finger to the desk again and a ticket and boarding pass appeared beneath it along with a significant stack of money. He slid the ticket and boarding pass across the desk toward me as he said, "You have been booked on an overnight flight to San Antonio. A limo will meet you at the airport and drive you south to the ranch. It is about a five-hour drive."

My voice was again somewhat shaky as I said, "I'll do it. If it will get Maria back, I'll do it."

"There is only one thing I must ask of you," he said. His voice had lost some of its smoothness. There was an edge of anger-- no urgency-- to his voice as he said, "No matter what you see, you can do nothing until after midnight. No matter what happens... no matter what is done... no matter who you see... or what is done to them... you must do NOTHING until the clock has struck the midnight hour. Do you understand that?"

I nodded my head yes. He then explained to me exactly what I would have to do.

I have traveled first class only once in my life. And I have never had an express bypass through security... ever. I thought carrying a large scythe-- even one with an obviously fake, plastic blade-- would be a problem, but it had all been arranged. In no time I was on the plane. My costume robe and mask was packed in my carry-on bag above my seat. My scythe was safely stored in a closet at the front of the first class area.

When we got to San Antonio, I scanned the crowd looking for the limo driver. I wasn't sure how I was supposed to find him, but luckily he found me. I guess carrying a six-foot scythe through the airport sort of made me stand out.

I'm not really sure how long the drive actually was. I was asleep for most of it. I woke up briefly when the driver went into the drive-through of a fast food place in some small town and got us lunch.

Then around five, he pulled over at a truck stop just outside a nowhere town near the border. "We still have a few hours to kill," the driver said. "May I suggest someplace where you may eat a leisurely early supper?"

"Why not?" I replied, expecting to sample Texas truck stop cuisine. He pulled out of the truck stop, however, and drove me to what appeared to be an upscale restaurant on a hill overlooking the ranches of the area.

"You have a reservation," he said as he dropped me at the door. I will pick you up back here at exactly 7:30.

When I stepped inside, I discovered that it was a very upscale restaurant. I also discovered that my meal-- including a generous gratuity-- had been paid for in advance. "The only limit," the waiter explained, "is that you are allowed only one alcoholic drink."

I ordered the steak which the waiter suggested and also a glass of the wine he recommended. Since I was never given a menu or a bill, I have no idea what the meal would have cost if I were paying for it. I was pretty sure that it was way beyond what I could afford.

Since I had the time, I ate very slowly and savored each exquisitely-prepared bite. I then relaxed with a cup of coffee or two and watched the local couples and families come and go. For being in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere, they did an amazing amount of business.

Finally, after a sweet dessert whose name I would never be able to pronounce, I left. It was exactly 7:30. My driver pulled up as I stepped outside. I reached for the door handle, but somehow he was able to race around the long stretch limo before I could do so and open the door for me.

"You had best put your costume on in the car," he said in a very clipped, almost English voice as I slid into the back seat.

My carry-on was on the rear-facing seat and there was plenty of room for me to slip the loose-fitting robe over my suit. A voice through the intercom speaker from the front said, "You can wait with the mask until just before we arrive. We will be there in about an hour."

A little after 8:30 we pulled up in front of what looked like a plantation house from the old South. It had huge, white pillars and a large light hanging from the ceiling of the portico and everything. A doorman dressed in full, red livery opened the door and stood stiffly at attention as I stepped out of the limo.

At first I had a little trouble seeing through the skull mask which covered the upper portion of my face, but once I adjusted it a little, everything was fine. I was escorted to a huge ballroom where a large number of small, round tables had been set up.

Most tables had two or three people sitting at them. Everyone was in costume, or at least their faces were concealed behind masks. I was seated at a table by myself. A waiter offered me a glass of wine, but I answered-- as instructed, "I'm bidding tonight. I need to keep a clear head."

The waiter returned a few minutes later with a tray of soft drinks. I selected something from the tray that looked like 7Up and set it on the table in front of me. I then dropped a twenty on the tray... also as I had been instructed. I was supposed to look like one of the rich buyers for whom twenty, or even a hundred dollars was pocket change.

I then settled back to watch and observe.

As my eyes got used to the darkness of the room, I was able to make out more details of the people sitting at the other tables. Everyone in the room, with the exception of the wait staff and a rather rough-looking gentleman standing on stage, was masked. Most were wearing costumes of some sort.

At first I thought that many of the women present were Star Wars fans because there were over two dozen Princess Leia slave outfits. At least there were over two dozen young women in chains sitting or kneeling on the floor at the feet of masked men at the tables.

When my vision cleared further, however, I realized that none of the Princess Leias were wearing a metal bikini. In fact, none of the young women were wearing anything. And the collars and manacles and chains looked very real. They were obviously much sturdier than some cheap costume accessory. These were not make-believe Princess Leias. They were real slaves at the feet of their Masters.

I heard the rattle of chains and my attention was drawn to one female slave whose Master was pulling on the chain which was attached to her collar. He was using the chain to draw her head between his legs. His manhood protruded from his trousers and was already erect. As her head drew closer and closer to his throbbing shaft, he reached out with his other hand and grabbed her hair. He transferred the first hand from the chain to her hair on the other side of her head and pulled her tightly to his crotch.

I could hear her gagging slightly as he used her head like a living Fleshlight and masturbated himself to climax. He grunted softly as he came, but otherwise remained totally quiet. After the grunts, he continued to thrust her head up and down his shaft for a few moments before pulling her back to arm's length and letting her drop. She crumpled into a ball at his feet.

The shaking of her body told me that the girl was sobbing deeply, but I heard nothing. The chains rattled as the man straightened them out and lifted slightly. The slave returned to a kneeling position facing outward toward the crowd. The lower portion of her face was wet and slimy. It reflected the stage lighting as it grew brighter.

With the room growing brighter, I looked to see how many naked slaves were present in the room. I'm not sure I was able to see all of them, but I had counted at least twenty-eight before a loud voice drew my attention back to the stage.

The rough-looking man on stage was standing in the center of a spotlight, holding a microphone to his mouth. "Gentlemen," he began, "each of you has been invited to this special Halloween party tonight because Señor Cortez has some special property which he wishes to sell. Our auction will begin right after midnight, but in these few minutes we have left before then, I want to preview the merchandise for you."

The lights on the rest of the stage came up revealing a line of seven women chained to what at first appeared to be a shoulder-high fence made of six by six or larger lumber. The thick, coarse wood was almost the size and shape of a railroad tie. Maybe that's what they were. The point where the chains were bolted through the wood corresponded approximately to the width of a railroad track.

Looking closer, I realized that it was not a fence. Instead, each girl was chained to an individual frame of some sort which was sitting on a wooden base. There were two upright posts about four feet high which were firmly attached to the base. The crosspiece was then apparently bolted into the top of the upright.

The girls were facing away from the frame so that they were facing the audience. Six of them were wearing homespun peasant dresses. The seventh was wearing jeans and a thin tank top of some sort. Both the jeans and the top were covered with grime and appeared to have been slept in more than once. All had black cloth bags over their heads.

The man walked up to the first girl and said, "This is Lot Number One." He reached out and stroked her breast through the rough fabric. She frantically thrashed her body attempting to get away from his touch. From the sounds coming from beneath the hood, it was obvious she was gagged in some fashion.