Girls' Nightmare Out Pt. 01

"Oh, God," Melissa mumbled, aware that her friend was corroborating what she had learned.

"That's not all," Kathy took a deep breath, "We said we wanted 'permanent closures'."

"What?"

"Permanent closures. Had you noticed the clear stuff on the thick part of the rings?" Melissa nodded. "That's epoxy; it's like Super Glue. It fused the ring so it can only be cut off." She looked around again, and shivered.

"And we also made a down payment for tattoos. The guy with us said we 'hadn't decided yet' and that we'd come back in some other time."

"That's unbelievable."

"I know. I told this guy at the shop that neither of us remembered a thing. He just shrugged and said we had 'seemed fine' to him. The pig. He laughed that 'our lover' wanted us to get the piercings on opposite sides so he could 'tell us apart in the dark.' He said the guy wanted to be sure we'd still be able to fuck that night, and went so far as to tell me that based on what was leaking out of us when he 'pinned' us, he figured we had already 'been a round or two'." There was a mix of humiliation and defiance in her expression.

"I asked him how he wasn't surprised that we didn't remember what we'd done, and he just shrugged and told me that in his line of work, nothing I could tell him would surprise him anymore. Then he added that 'at least we had taken it outside' before we were all over the guy we were with. And of course he refused to refund the money; told me to come back whenever we decide what we want and where."

Melissa broke the subsequent silence, relating what she had learned—the mention of oral sex and condoms—though Kathy's words had effectively dashed any hope that had been all they did; or that they had stayed protected.

The women were silent through much of lunch, each trying to come to grips with what had happened. How could mothers and devoted wives get in such trouble by going out for a couple drinks. Melissa tried not to think about what could happen if her husband learned of what had really happened. Or her employer.

Kathy was in no better position. Her husband was less tolerant of anything he considered 'liberal' and her job as a legal secretary would be in as much danger if people thought she behaved like that routinely. Looking at her friend, Melissa could see how the bartenders—or any man—might be interested in a tryst. They regularly turned down offers to dance, as well as outright propositions. Her friend had the graceful lines of an athlete, standing 5'10" but weighing only 140#, a willowy figure who still managed enough bust to attract attention, and whose legs and ass even Melissa found attractive.

Melissa was no less fit. Both women played tennis and golf in the summer and swam at the Y in the winter. She was shorter, standing only 5'5", weighing 115#. In contrast to her friend's jet black bob and appraising clear grey eyes, Melissa's blonde hair reached the small of her back, and her bright green eyes were more guarded. Melissa had the larger chest, though neither was top-heavy by any standard. Melissa tanned, while her friend avoided the sun whenever possible. A dusting of freckles was faintly visible on her nose.

Uncharacteristically, each opted for dessert lingering over their time before they had to return home to their lives and the unknown of the night before. Melissa reluctantly returned to that topic as she nursed a cup of lukewarm coffee while awaiting the bill.

"I can't believe it. I mean, if I could at least remember something."

Kathy nodded, "But then I tell myself I don't want to remember. I mean, ignorance is bliss, right? We aren't sure we did anything." Melissa eyed her friend.

"I had dried cum in my crotch this morning, Kathy. If it wasn't Jeff." she swallowed suddenly, unable to finish, then took a breath, "God. I don't know what he'll do when he finds out."

"Why should he find out?" Kathy challenged. "We didn't try to do anything. We certainly didn't enjoy it! Don't punish yourself."

"But I."

"You made a mistake. So did I. Just don't let it happen again," she paused, "But I agree, I wish I knew how it happened. Did we try something someone gave us? We had to be drugged somehow, unless it was aliens," she snorted. Melissa nodded.

"But that's rule 1: no drinks from strangers. We never do that!" Kathy nodded, then shrugged. "So what do we do, now?" Melissa asked her friend. Though Kathy was only four months older (both women were 28, Melissa twice, Kathy four times), she was the decision maker.

"Well, we don't stop our girls' night out."

"But..."

"Look, Mel, if we stop, we won't get to start again later. And our husbands might get suspicious if we suddenly stop after coming home like..." she glanced down at her blouse as if she expected the ring to be visible, "This. So we'll go to a different bar or to the movies or to Barnes and Noble. I don't care, but I still need some time away from home." Melissa nodded; as usual her friend was making sense. "Just think of the rings and the tattoo payment as a lesson in why we have to be careful." The women paid the outrageous bill, then spent a blissful hour shopping before returning home to their families and the rest of the weekend.

Over the rest of the weekend, Melissa was almost able to forget what had undoubtedly happened, at least at times. She adapted to the strange sensations of the jewelry rubbing against her clothes, though underwear remained a no-no. The time she did spend considering the lost night, she was aware of a nagging suspicion that she and Kathy were missing something; or forgetting something. But nothing ever surfaced in her mind.

By mutual agreement, they went to the movies the next week, and then sat in a coffee shop relating the week's trials. The next week it was dinner and the library. Kathy insisted on 'paint therapy' the next week, and finally they tried the bar scene again—a different bar. Both women visited their gynecologist to make sure there was no problem that could be transmitted to their husbands, using the piercinigs to delay sex until the results were in. And both were relieved to get a clean bill of health. It seemed like a potential nightmare they had managed mostly to avoid.

Chapter II

The man moved easily through the crowd, attracting no undue attention. He was a partier among partiers to anyone observing. Bigger than most, certainly, but even that he minimized, hunching slightly, 'thinking' small as it was. He kept a fresh Ginger Ale in hand at all times, sizing up the crowd, looking for his opportunities.

Or to follow up on past successes, as he had been waiting to do for more than a month. Tom was a recruiter of sorts. He found dancers for the clubs downtown, and even for out of state-and occasionally out of country-clients. For nearly 15 years he had been finding willing young women to go on stage and expose themselves for dollar tips, and in the last 5 years he had developed a more specialized, if unadvertised, service.

He was a man who could 'get' a woman for a buyer. He needed only a list of desired traits, in not time he would find the woman who fit the bill. And the woman's willingness to participate in whatever his customer wanted was completely optional, thanks to his little friends.

He had used the 'roofies' increasingly as he carved out his niche and refined his methods for the local clubs. At first it had been merely to procure otherwise inaccessible women for his own pleasure. But seeing how well it worked, he had expanded the use to his business, as well. Amazingly coeds seeing themselves dancing on stage, shaking their ass and flashing tits somehow rationalized... no sublimated what they had done, so that continuing as an employee felt natural. His little helpers did so well he had graduated from being a small time hustler. He was making bank big time, albeit in a hidden way.

He smiled, considering that in the past two years he had established a premiere 'escort service' in one city after another. Most of the girls working for him were housewives—women who had fallen into his subtle but so far inescapable trap. Their behavior was amazingly consistent, which made his work easier and less risky than it would seem to an outsider.

After a night with him, during which he made sure they did outrageous things, the women invariably tried to ignore whatever had happened to them. None ever seemed to consider that he had their names and addresses, their credit card numbers and house keys, their grocery lists and day planners-or at least copies thereof. None seemed to consider that he might have done things to... encourage their future cooperation.

Of course, he seldom needed to use the Polaroids anymore, it was not really instant photos, thanks to miniaturized cameras and his smart phone. He never passed up a chance to snap some incriminating (to the women... never to himself) pictures, another of his inviolate rules. He was also determined to reinforce just how total was his control over 'his girls.' At his most recent 'home base' the cheap airfares allowed a more convincing and profitable means of guaranteeing women's cooperation.

Those fares had also made it easier to keep tabs on the operations he had left behind. In the last two years he had spread his 'service' beyond whatever city he called home at a given time. He had several wives in his stable flying to service out of town customers each week.

He eyed the crowd in the bar, but not searching for new victims. He was ready instead to reel in a pair he had previously tagged, and so was looking for potential trouble. He knew it was the first time they had returned since that night, and he smiled again, remembering the evening's events with a rare fondness—the women were truly talented, if somewhat uninspired.

He fingered the vials of crushed tablets in his pocket as he considered his options. He could let them have their evening uninterrupted, or proceed immediately. His smile returned—no sense wasting time. He stepped forward and caught the bartender's attention.

"What's tonight's special?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Blue Hawaii," the bartender answered. Tom nodded and held up 2 fingers and a $10 spot. A minute later, he sauntered to the table where his women—he already thought of them that way—were sitting, nearly empty cosmopolitans before them on the table.

"Hello, ladies," he had pinched a tray from the server's station, and uncovered a pin approximating that worn by the waiters and waitresses, and using a circuitous route to reach them and to give him time to add healthy doses of the crushed Rohypnol to each glass, "The bartender says you're regulars," the spiel was easy so long as no real waiter or waitress happened by, "And this is tonight's special: the Blue Hawaii. Compliments of the bar," he waved in the direction of the bar, confident the bartender was busy and having waited until their waitress was busy elsewhere.

"That's OK," the brunette began, clearly intent on refusing. He waved her off.

"Seriously. Please. You're the prettiest women here. And the folks who ordered this left. Rick and I can't drink them..." he forced a smile as he used the bartender's name to prove his position. He was ready to go to plan B if there was a problem; the glossy photos were tucked in his jacket-2 envelopes with the women's names, addresses, and other pertinent information hand written on the outside.

Instead, the blonde shrugged, taking 1 of the drinks from the tray as she told him thanks. Her friend—Kathy—followed, and waving farewell at them, Tom turned, ostensibly to return to the bar. He circled near the bar but away from the bartender, hiding the poached tray at his side and flipping his jacket to hide the nametag at the same time. From the far side of the bar, in a shadowed corner, he watched as the ladies sipped at their drinks.

This was the risky part—if another man hit on them after the drug was working, but before he could get there, they might give someone else a freebie. He waited, willing himself to be patient while the women finished their drinks.

The brunette was first, and Tom took the opportunity to swing by, again posing as their waiter—the lack of a visible nametag would not alert either woman any longer. The first night was always harder; he usually had to trail a waitress, adding the drug to their drinks when she paused to serve another group in the crowded bar.

That was the sort of thing that took timing not to get caught and to get the marks dosed in good time. But he had lots of practice, and that night it had been especially easy, when their waitress had paused to jabber with a friend leaving her tray on the bar. Then it had been a simple matter of watching until the time was right to sweep in and take control of the helpless women.

His smile broadened as he remembered how much fun the evening had been, and anticipating more such enjoyment. Reaching their table, he checked that their waitress was not nearby or interested and said, 'Want another Blue Hawaii.' The brunette paused for a moment, as if she was having difficulty understanding the question, which had not really been a question at all.

She nodded slowly, and he smiled and turned away, hurrying to the bar, where he purchased 3 more drinks, dosing each as he circled the bar and avoiding the real wait staff. He had popped a pair of Romazicon tabs—an 'antidote' of sorts for the Rohypnol—while he was waiting for the drinks. There was not so much he could get loopy from the drinks, but he wanted to remain clear headed, and he had to get the ladies a little higher to really obey him.

Instead of leaving their drinks at the table as he had done before, Tom sat down beside the blonde and slid the drinks in front of each before leaning back to look at them. "Damn, but you 2 are something," he said appreciatively. The blonde leaned away from him slightly.

"Look, thanks, but we don't take drinks from other people." The blonde's words were slurred slightly, as if she had downed several drinks. Tom knew better; some people were extremely susceptible to the drug. He shrugged.

"What? You think I drugged these or something? Here," he took a healthy drink from each glass then sat back, "Besides, I already brought you drinks, remember?" Panic sparked behind the blonde's eyes, but he went on smoothly, leading her off track, "I was your 'waiter' a minute ago? I figured you would at least let me sit here during my break for a minute or two." The brunette eyed him warily but did not speak.

"Look, I saw you 2 in here the other day... maybe a month ago. You didn't have a problem leaving with a black guy that night," he dangled the bait, wondering how they wouldd react. The women looked at each other before the brunette spoke.

"You saw us with another black guy?"

"Sure did. I remember thinking what a lucky guy he was." Tom took a drink of the Blue Hawaii in front of him, willing the women to do the same. The blonde seemed terribly thirsty, suddenly. Her friend considered him for a moment.

"You know him? The guy we were with?"

"Nah... I mean not specifically. I've seen him around; he hangs on the club scene; I'd heard he deals in crank and some of the other illicit pharm, but I don't go for that stuff, man."

"Would you recognize him if you saw him?"

"You kidding? I mean yeah, but what's wrong? He stiff you or something?" The brunette did not answer, instead taking a healthy drink. He watched, trying to gauge their reactions, then looked around.

"He's been here off and on the last couple weeks. He'll swing through, like he's looking for someone, then leave. I dunno," he shrugged, "Maybe he's trying to pay you back if he owes you money." Neither woman spoke, but they didn't tell him to leave, either.

Tom nursed his drink, pretending to swallow any time the women were drinking. Soon their glasses were empty, and he insisted on sharing his with them. By that time, neither woman was saying much, spending their time staring blankly ahead of them for increasing stretches.

He smiled inwardly, then said, "Hey, I think he's been hanging out at that place downtown, the Edge. I mean I've seen him there more than here lately. You should look there. I'll even take you." As he spoke, he caught the blonde gently by the arm, lifting her out of her seat. She did not protest, letting him guide her out of the booth. The brunette followed docilely behind.

He checked to be sure the wait staff weren't paying them any attention, glad again that he worked with pairs of women. It made the people in a bar less suspicious when it was more than 1 woman leaving with him, as well as making the women interdependent—if one screwed up, they both had trouble. And it was a built in cover for the time spent working for him.

He maneuvered to the shadowed edge of the room, staying at least partially hidden from the main bar until they were safely outside. "Where's your car?" he asked. The brunette pointed at a late model Jeep Grand Cherokee. He asked for the keys, which were offered without question, then had them climb in and donning well-worn leather driving gloves, he slipped in behind the wheel, adjusted the seat and mirrors to his liking, and pulled out of the lot. In minutes they were on the highway, heading downtown. He exited, going not toward the Edge, but north to the Municipal Airport. The change raised no question from the passive women.

There was non-stop service from the International airports, of course, but Tom had found that using a charter service worked best for recruiting and for his customers. His latest acquisitions were now a part of his well oiled machine. With his quiet prompting each woman called home from the small terminal. He was pleased when they each got an answering machine—it was easier to simply direct the message they should leave rather than manage their end of an actual conversation. The women dutifully relayed to their homes that Melissa had 'won' a weekend spa getaway for two good that weekend only, and so they were flying out. And each promised their husband a 'boy's weekend' soon.

After that, it was a simple matter to get them aboard the small business jet. Already aboard were a few of Tom's 'friends'—his best regular customers. Each had paid handsomely to help in assuring that the housewives would soon be his willing, if not eager, whores.

He carefully plied both women with spiked drinks, keeping the level of drugs high enough in their system that they were docile and obedient, and adding a touch of E to keep them conscious and to prime their bodies for the coming action. When he told them to strip after take-off, they did so without hesitation. He already had the camcorder rolling, being careful not to let any of the men's faces be seen.

The women were soon standing naked in the narrow aisle, and he had them turn, showing themselves off, and getting nice close-ups of each woman in all her glory and behaving in a wanton more than teasing manner. With a few well practiced commands, it was not two minutes before he had both women masturbating in adjacent aisle seats, ankles waving in the aisle. Both women moaned that they were cumming, that they were horny at Tom's whispered demands. As he had noted was often the case, the women seemed more lucid while acting out sexually. At his urging—off camera thanks to the camera's 'mute' button—each woman then stood, and still fondling themselves, looked at the camera and around at the assembled spectators, parroting, "I want to join the mile high club."

That was the signal for his friends, the closest pair stepped up, opening their pants and each took one of the women by the hand, one turning Melissa to the plane's starboard seats, the second facing Kathy to the port two rows farther back. The women bent over when told, shaking their asses invitingly and again asking that the men fuck them. Of course, Tom's friends 'obliged' the drugged women, pushing into them while demanding the women beg for it. As the women obeyed, the men spanked their bare haunch and began to fuck into the blonde and brunette, taking them hard and fast, doggie style.