Author's Note:This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to living or dead persons is coincidental. Warning: It contains scenes of bondage and violence.


In the South Pacific Ocean, 2002

In contrast to popular belief, diamonds are not a girl's best friends because compressed carbon is highly overrated. Not to mention that they are not as easily to cash as everybody thinks.

Neither are exceptionally large boobs requiring custom brassieres, even when they are natural with small areolas and big nipples.

Well, almost natural, since I went for a consistency enhancement three years ago.

They can provide good income but also get you in trouble.

Currently I'm in a very lucrative contract, six months of exotic dancing with perks in an expensive nightclub in Papeete on Tahiti. The money is better than most, and additional benefits consist of patrons that are able to pay extremely well for my additional services as high-end escort.

After my employer back then, the Soviet government, laid me off in 1991, if it can be called this way, I've led a very nomadic life, mostly drifting all over South America, Polynesia, and Southeast Asia while following the money.

My intention is to retire from this life latest at fifty, which means that I have fourteen years left to reach my monetary goal.

The nightclub's owner, who has three more outfits in other locations in the South Pacific, has already mentioned the possibility of a permanent contract.

If I'm a success. Now, if I could land one for eight more years, I could considerably move up my timeline. The clients from all over the Earth like me, a lot, especially my boobs, and it looks good.

So far.

I still hope for the best although somebody has thrown a serious wrench in my plans, and I guess I'm going to find out soon who.

Last night it got a little later than usual, or a lot earlier, dependent on one's view.

My clients frequently want me to stay to have breakfast together, but this oil millionaire from Texas expected his wife arriving in the morning and sent me away after some boring romping and a blowjob.

Fine with me. I didn't care for Ronald's extreme southern drawl and obnoxious disregard of English grammar anyway. That I had to coax him into taking a shower with me first didn't entice the guy to me either.

At least he paid cash without griping about my rate.

After a good night's rest, I got up around noon to have brunch in one of six different places I visit on a random base to be as unpredictable as possible.

Whatever that drug was, it didn't have a taste. Therefore I enjoyed the above-average meal and returned to my small hotel room that's paid for by the nightclub.

Still over four hours to go to my next flower dance as Hyacinth the Booby Miracle, I continued rereading Tom Clancy's Executive Decision, a rather good novel, which I can recommend despite not sharing his blatant disregard of environmental problems.

When I got drowsy, it was too late to induce vomiting.

After I barely managed to put a chair under the doorknob, as feeble and futile it has turned out, the world went blank.

I try to take account of my situation.

Due to the drug they've mixed in my brunch, my brain is initially sluggish but speeds up fast after some cobweb clearing. My eyesight is also fine, not blurred.

The complete lack of an aftermath common to knockout drugs shows me that they didn't use some cheap concoction, homemade or from the street.

I wonder what they want me alert for right away.

I start the assessment of my predicament without moving more than necessary.

The temperature seems pleasant, telling me that I'm not back home in winter in Siberia, where I spent the first sixteen years of my life.

The windowless cell I'm in is roughly two by two meters and empty except for the hard cot I'm lying on, a stainless steel toilet, and a sink of the same material. The floor and three of the walls are concrete, the fourth consists of iron bars with a closed, also barred, door. I can look across the hallway into an identical cell, which is empty.

I shake off the thin blanket.

Oh, oh.

That I'm naked doesn't surprise me because lack of clothes makes a victim feel more vulnerable although this mind game doesn't work with me.

But whoever abducted me is heavily into metal bondage, and a hunch tells me that this is only the tip of the iceberg.

This kidnapping is certainly about much more than just rape, which they could have done in my hotel room. However, they went to such lengths to take me, not even to mention the intricate designer drug.

It could be about BDSM, of course with emphasis on the 'S', but I don't think that's all of it, without really knowing why. But my intuitions have rarely failed me.

I've been in a few predicaments before, and there's always hope. No need to panic, which never does any good, but my all-stainless-steel restraints are well thought-out to render me subdued.

Meaning I'm trussed up pretty well.

My elbows are pulled backward and slightly sideways. One-centimeter-thick and five-centimeter-wide cuffs go tightly around my upper arms just above the elbow, and a solid bar connects them. Luckily the joints are articulated by the cuffs' and the bar's D-rings looped into each other, which leaves me a little movement and doesn't make the contraption completely uncomfortable.

At least not immediately, but it will get there, eventually.

An also stainless steel belt, one-centimeter-thick and five-centimeter-wide, goes around my waist with just enough give to breathe and features a D-ring on each side toward the front. Since my measurements are well known in the nightclub, it must have been easy to get it so tight.

My wrists are adorned with cuffs similar to the ones on my upper arms, but elliptical to account for the common shape of human wrists. Since they are so tight that I can't even rotate my wrists in them, there's no way of slipping out.

The D-ring on each of them loops directly through the corresponding one on my waist belt, which leaves my hands very little range of motion.

The cuffs around my ankles are rather loose but still secure because there's no way of slipping them beyond my heels. As with my elbow cuffs, they are connected by a solid bondage bar with articulated joints. Its shortness of about twenty centimeter will make small steps a necessity.

Except for my ankle cuffs', the tiny keyholes, as far as I can see them, are filled with superglue. This is a dead giveaway that they don't intend to remove at least my arm restraints anytime soon.

But it looks like I'll have some walking to do, I deduce.

I'm not gagged, but I am convinced that screaming won't do any good.

Still, until I know what they have in mind with me, I decide to go along with my looks and play the dumb blond bimbo with big boobs.

"Hello, is there anybody? Help," I yell.

My inner clock tells me I keep doing so for about fifteen minutes until a burly guy with small eyes set close together in his shaven head shows up in front of my cell. Heeding the temperature, he's dressed in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.

Since I have close to an eidetic memory, especially for people and all other things important to me, I recognize the creep right away. Of course, I don't tell him that I remember the baldhead as the bodyguard of a sup-posed owner of a large hotel chain all over French Polynesia who got introduced to me as Theodore Croix.

His boss called the goon GW.

This was over six weeks ago, and I wonder if they really planned my abduction for that long.

"Good that you're coming," I smile at GW. "Please, let me out of here. And get me out of these... things." I move my hands and arms as much, or little, as possible in my restraints to emphasize my point.

"I will on the first account, but not like you think, Kristina," Croix's bodyguard sneers. "And you won't get out of our nice bondage device because it looks great with your boobs."

Baldhead is referring to the name fitting to the Austrian passport I use currently.

Since I enjoy making people think, I frequently choose an identity with the name of a celebrity from long ago out of my large stack.

Kristina Söderbaum was a German actress who became famous as the Reichswasserleiche during the Third Reich because she committed suicide by drowning in several of her movies. Didn't people know how to swim back then?

Another one of my passports uses the name of Marie Pickford, the Canadian actress who was America's Sweetheart and co-founded United Artists together with Charlie Chaplin, D.W. Griffith, and Douglas Fairbanks.

I sometimes go as Jacqueline Tourneur to honor the French director Jacques Tourneur who made one of my favorite horror movies, Rendezvous Avec La Peur from 1957.

Or as Maggie Sanger, in my opinion the grandmother of family planning, whom I adore.

Or what's about Georgina Washington?

Or Tóra Heyerdahl?

Or Jeanne Harlow, although my blond isn't as light as hers.

Or Sandra Botticelli? Rarely I get asked if I am related to the famous Italian Renaissance painter, whose The Birth Of Venus I consider as his masterpiece.

Or ...

Either way, that the goon addresses me with Kristina now tells me that they've dug a little beyond my stage name Hyacinth.

The question is how deep?

On the other hand, since nobody has ever found out about my life before the age of twenty-five, and very little since then, it's a safe assumption that some kidnappers hooked on my large boobs wouldn't either. Even if Croix's money from his hotel chain is behind it.

Baldhead unlocks the barred door of my cell and opens it.

"Get out, Kristina," he orders me.

I believably fake having problems getting up from my cot with my arms in the stainless-steel contraption.

"Hurry up, or I will use this." GW pulls a bullwhip out of the back of his belt and shows me. "It's a very efficient tool for lazy bimbos."

"Please, don't hurt me," I beg despite not being afraid. I can take pain and occasionally had a lot worse than being whipped. "I'll hurry."

I don't, but he seems satisfied with having delivered the threat.

With shorter steps than necessary, I make it out of the cell.

"This way," GW points to the left.

I slowly hobble along until I reach the bottom of a staircase leading up.

I turn around and look at the goon. "How-"

"Hop," he interrupts me, "but let me go ahead."

It's obvious why, I think fleetingly while he passes me.

I have to concentrate now so that my hopping action up the staircase looks a lot harder than it is, but I needn't have worried. A glimpse out of the corner of my eyes shows me that baldhead's look is fixated on my large female assets bouncing merrily.

Well, this is attractive to all guys between eight and a hundred, even gay ones, and helps me out here.

One floor higher, GW directs me toward a room at the end of the hallway, which I slowly approach with shorter steps than necessary and looking much more clumsy than I am.

Baldhead opens the door.

The room looks like an office with a big desk, an expensive chair behind it, plenty of file cabinets, and a low one with a coffeemaker on it.

The breathtaking view out of the floor-to-ceiling window that takes up one entire wall shows me that I'm on a tropical island that could be anywhere in French Polynesia. Or the South Pacific, that is. The adjoining wall features another large window and a glass door going outside.

I hobble in to meet three more guys, of which I've met only one before.

"How's our little flower doing?" Croix asks his goon, smirking.

The hotel mogul in his mid-forties with a lean body and short blond hair might be an attractive man for many women, but I have too much experience not to notice the cruelty and brutality in his dead eyes. He's used to getting what he wants and doesn't mind corpses to achieve this, figuratively and literally.

He's wearing cargo shorts and also a Hawaiian shirt.

"Hyacinth's dancing is a lot better than her moving in restraints," GW replies to his boss's question. "I really wonder if she's a good choice because she'll be too easy for you."

"We'll see. Fear speeds up all of them," Croix counters. He seems to do the talking because the other two guys remain silent.

I have a hunch now to what they're up. This will be extremely difficult if they don't take my leg restraints off, I know, but the lack of superglue in the locks indicate that they will do so.

"What..." I purposely let my voice trail off in accordance with my bimbo role. "Why..."

"Be quiet, and we're going to tell you what's in store for you, Kristina," Croix answers. "But if you're not quiet, GW will show you how that cool whip of his works on your big boobs."

I pretend that the threat keeps me quiet while, in reality, it's my curiosity to find out if I'm correct with my suspicion that seals my mouth. The more submissive they think I am, the easier it will be to get out of this. Not to mention that getting whipped for nothing would be a bad idea.

"Do you remember me?" Croix asks.

Successfully trying to look flustered, I shake my head. "No. Why are you-"

"Be quiet again, Kristina," Croix interrupts me as expected. "Remember the whip."

With faked big eyes, I obey fast and close my mouth like a fish.

"Doesn't matter," the hotelier continues. "What matters is that we're the hunters, and you're our prey."

I open my eyes to the size of the Kremlin but keep my mouth shut.

Croix elaborates that we're on his private island in French Polynesia. For the next week, he has sent every-body away except for GW and his two ''friends," whom he introduces as Donald and Mitt.

The latter is in his early fifties, tall, skinny, and looks like an accountant. He's the underdog of the three, I notice immediately from his body language.

Despite Croix's less-than-desirable, to say the least, qualities as a not-so-human being, I care for Donald even less because he reminds me of the archetype of an SS henchman. On the short side with an ugly face and small evil eyes, he's accompanied by a Rottweiler lying at his feet.

Besides the four breeds that make up pit bulls, there's no other that I despise more. In addition, that repulsive thing poses an extra challenge now, and I know that I need to get rid of it fast, probably before everything else.

The vile not-dog snarls at me, and I avoid looking in its eyes. Animals, even vicious ones like Rottweilers, sense when a human is superior, and I sure don't want to tip off its owner. Instead, I hobble as far away from it as possible in the room's limited space.

"Hector, settle," Donald addresses his for bullies all-too-common means of compensating for lack of self-esteem, and the Rottweiler stops snarling.

At least he seems to have it under control, I think while I keep pretending to be afraid of the thing even after it has settled.

Good to know that there's nobody else on the island, I think because Croix doesn't look as if he's lying about it. He needs privacy for his highly illegal private fun. If he got caught, all his money wouldn't buy him out of hard time in prison.

He tells me next that there are surveillance cameras all over the island and that I'll get a cuff with a locator chip on my ankle.

Two more complications, I think but, of course, don't say so.

On the other hand, there's one good thing. The ankle restraint will go away for the hunt, which is extremely important for me.

The hunt. That's how Croix calls it.

I know I should burst out crying now. I'm a decent actress, but I've never figured out how to do this on command.

Instead, I decide to drop to my knees, stare at the floor, and beg, well knowing that it won't change anything. "Please, please, don't hurt me."



"We won't hurt you, Kristina," Croix grins maliciously. "We just want to have some fun by hunting you with BB guns."

He fails to mention that these small air-propelled pellets can do substantial damage when fired at close range. The least the impact hurts...

"Please-"

"Be quiet, because there's more that you need to know. Some motivation for you."

I close my mouth fast, pretending that the whip threat still works.

"Now, we'll do this for a week, starting today. You're going to leave at nine, which gives you forty-five minutes for breakfast now. If we haven't been able to hit you with at least one pellet by dusk, you win this day. Whether you got hit or not will be easy to determine, so don't even try to pretend that we missed."

How likely is this for your average victim, I think.

"If you get hit, you lose this day. Once you win four days, you go free and back to dancing."

Of course, he also fails to mention that pain, or worse if the skin is broken, from former hits will make the fol-lowing days harder.

"But if you lose," Croix continues, "four or more out of the seven days, I will sell as a sex slave. I've already lined up a sheik in Libya who's offered a million bucks for a beautiful blonde with big boobs your size."

"We got to depilate her first."

Of course, when this creep Donald joins the conversation, it had to be disgusting.

He's referring to my pussy, which is not shaved but adorned by a thick soft jungle of pubic hair.

I get negative remarks now and then, although not as many as there would be in the United States where shaving is on the rampage.

I don't do it because it's futile. Hair always comes back with a vengeance, and I don't want to have a love tri-angle with a guy's hard stubbles. Waxing works better but hurts. I have a high pain threshold, but I don't volunteer to endure it.

Laser depilation is an option, admitted, but what for? Many of my clients actually enjoy digging through the soft treat to find the wet prize, both female and male customers.

Not that I think shaving makes sense for guys. Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo Buonarrotti had long beards, and so did Abraham Lincoln. I personally find them very attractive on men. All this clean-shaven non-sense is only made up by companies to boost sales of razors.

I don't show that I know perfectly that Croix is lying in almost every regard.

Of course, he plans to sell me eventually.

When he gets tired of me. Which could be in a week or three years down the road after countless of his 'hunts'. I also have a good idea what he intends to do with me in between. Some people just can't be called human, can they?

Theodore Croix certainly is not one of them. I'm not so sure about Mitt, who might be just a pervert opportunist, but I'd put Donald in the same category of evil as the hotel chain owner.

"Any questions?"

"Please, don't," I pretend begging again. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because you're here and we can," Croix sneers. "You better don't waste your time anymore, Kristina, and have some breakfast instead. Aren't you hungry after having not eaten since yesterday's lunch?"

I'm actually glad that I get a reprieve from having to pretend how scared I am and nod. "Yes, very, but how am I going to eat with this?"

I wriggle my arms and hands as much as possible.

"With your face in the bowl, like a good pet," the sadist grins, accompanied by an undertone in his voice that betrays his anticipation of my humiliation. "Get it ready, GW."

Well, pride is one thing that never does any good, and survival is the more important issue.

I remain quiet.

When baldhead returns with a tray in his hands, I watch the goon putting a big ceramic bowl on the desk and filling it with cereal, lots of almonds, walnuts, and pecans, and whole milk.

Looks like starving me to death is not the plan, I think, but that has already become clear. Just the opposite, they want me in good shape to heighten their 'hunting' fun.

Well, they can get that.

I awkwardly try to stand up, but Croix orders, "Stay on your knees, Kristina, because I have a hunch that's where you're going to spend a lot of time soon." He chuckles maliciously. "You can as well start practicing right now."

Thinking that his hunches might not be that good, I scoot over to the desk and start eating with my face deep in the bowl.

The food is good, and I savor it, but there's no way of keeping it off my face although I try my best.

While slowly chewing the much-needed nourishment, I furtively study the illustrated and very detailed map of the island behind the desk.

It's approximately five by three kilometers, indicated by the scale, roughly kidney-shaped in north-south direction and densely covered with vegetation. The single-story house with basement dungeon sits on the highest elevation almost in the middle of the island, and there's a helipad behind it. A road leads to a dock on the northern end.

A waterfall catches my attention while I'm surprised that the surveillance cameras are marked, too. I count thirty-six and memorize their locations.

I feel rather full after the meal, but I really hate what comes next.

"Your face is dirty, Kristina," Croix sneers. "Tell Hector to clean her up, will you, Donald?"

Despite having my reactions under control, usually, I don't have to fake flinching and scoot away at top speed from the repulsive dog that gives the rest of the species a bad reputation.

"Hold her in place, GW," Croix orders his goon, who obeys happily by grabbing my large boobs with both hands.

I put up an appropriate struggle to no avail and have to endure the beast's foul-smelling breath and filthy tongue all over my face.

Two resolves come out of this.

First, I will head straight for the creek that feeds the waterfall and take a plunge. Second, this disgusting thing's hours to live are already numbered.

Croix looks at the clock on the wall. "Ten minutes to nine. Time to get Kristina ready to run."

"But, Sir," I owe it to my role with them to try again. "I cannot-"

Easy to guess that I get interrupted again. "You have the choice. Either you get on the way for the fun on your own, or GW is going to whip you out of the door. Which is it going to be?"

"The first," I answer, faking compliance with appropriate meekness. "Please, don't."

I'm really glad that they are so full of themselves that it never occurs to them that crying desperately would be much more appropriate for my role.

The GW goon pulls a small key out of his pocket and unlocks my ankle restraints while I'm still kneeling.

"Stay on your knees," Croix orders.

Another cuff clicks shut around my right ankle, containing the locator chip. Since my head is bowed, I can look backward through my long legs to get a close peek at it without raising suspicion.

To my satisfaction, I find out that the housing is plastic except for the lock. My plan has just gotten another boost.

GW hangs a small black satchel on my waist belt, and Croix explains, "There are some power bars in case you get hungry. We don't want to hunt a starving deer."

Of course, I don't comment about being called a prey animal.

"Oh, one more thing before you get on the way, Kristina," the hotel owner adds. "You don't need to be afraid of poisonous animals because there aren't any. I made sure of that after I bought the island, and it's thoroughly swiped every three months. The last time was only two days ago."

The motivation for this is obvious. Not for my sake, really, but he doesn't want to lose his expensive prey to some venomous reptile. Neither does he want to get bitten or stung himself while he's 'having fun.'

Good to know, I think. I'm not exactly afraid of snakes and scorpions, but I don't like them because I consider them cowardly. Like these three perverts and the opportunistic goon.

I don't answer but make sure my body language tells I'm not ready.

"Stand up now, Kristina," Croix orders.

GW pulls the whip out of his belt, and I obey without giving away how athletic I really am.

"Go," Croix ushers me out, emphasized by pointing with his index finger.

With one last fake look of fear, I step out of the door into the morning sun.

The odds have vastly improved in my favor despite the limited use of my hands and arms due to the stainless-steel contraption I'm wearing.

Part of my training when I was sixteen was survival and combat in a jungle littered with hostiles. Exactly the scenario I'm facing now, although I doubt that any of the four had even military training.

GW is the common street thug used to get his way by bullying people, and nothing has indicated that he's even participating in the hunt.

Croix is in good shape and strong, but the way he carries himself tells me that he has no clue about martial arts of any sorts.

The same applies for Donald. He didn't move that much but his posture just doesn't indicate it.

And Mitt has no muscles on his body required for fighting.

They obviously assume that their victim just keeps headlessly running away from them as fast as she can move through the jungle.

I grin. Good luck with that, scumbags.

The position of the sun tells me that I have to circle the house to find the creek I need. Probably they get the first surprise when their intended victim doesn't head straight away to run like hell, I think.

Luckily they didn't get suspicious at the thick calluses on my soles that enable me to maintain a brisk pace, especially since I have no problem keeping balance without being able to use my arms.

I enter the dense forest.

I have to zigzag a few times until I find the creek running through and down toward the waterfall.

It takes a while to find a suitable pointed rock, but above all I need to get rid of the tracking device on my an-kle. I know the entire cuff won't come off, but there's a good possibility to render the chip useless.

I get comfortable on a patch of soft ground cover.

Holding the rock with the toes of my left foot, I awkwardly hammer on the ankle cuff with the locator chip until the housing breaks at one spot.

Then I step in the creek, which floods it and should suffice to shorten out the electronics. Unfortunately there's no way of telling immediately, but it won't take long to find out.

Either they come heading straight toward me, then it hasn't worked, or they won't.

I estimate a ninety percent chance of success and imagine them cussing now.

The water is colder than expected, but I use my knees and thighs to thoroughly wipe my face clean from the Rottweiler drool, which makes me feel a lot better.

Time to get on the way, I decide. While I'm changing direction multiple times, I'm always on the lookout for the surveillance cameras.

My eyes are trained to notice anomalies anywhere, but they are much easier to find than I was afraid off be-cause the vegetation is cleared around them to provide a better view.

They will be also a lot easier to take down because they are mounted less than three meters high, at least the first I encounter. Its base is nailed to the tree, not screwed.

I smile. Good.

I find a suitable vine, but it takes a while to disentangle it from the dense growth all around.

My hands cuffed to my waist belt just don't have enough range of motion, and, while lying on my back, I have to use my feet to throw the makeshift lasso to catch on the camera housing.

On the eighth attempt I'm successful.

To provide enough leverage, I tie one end around the closest tree and use all my strength at the other end wrapped around my thigh. The camera pulls loose from the nails and comes flying down.

It doesn't seem broken and probably is still working. Aiming it toward the ground, I carry it twenty meters away before I hide it underneath a pile of leaves. Even if they find it there, they still have to mount it again in a suitable location.

One down, I think, exhilarated although the actions really counting are still to come.

I keep looking for the spots I memorized from the map in Croix's office and discover the three closest camer-as, which I neutralize the same way.

Since there's a large area without surveillance now and the locator chip they put on me is gone, too, it's a safe assumption that Donald and the Rottweiler are trying to pursue me next.

I wonder what they are thinking now. The tracking device gone could be attributed to a technical malfunction, for instance a prematurely dead battery, but the cameras, too?

All four of them?

I'm reasonably sure that I stayed out of their viewing angle, but I can't be completely sure. If they saw me taking them down, what are they going to make out of it?

Even an idiot would come to the conclusion that Kristina Söderbaum is not as easy a target as they have expected.

She definitely won't drown herself on purpose like her namesake in movies...

It takes a while to find a good spot to set a trap for Donald and the not-dog.

Unfortunately, Rottweilers feature an equally good nose as other canines, but there are scents that set them off.

They are not hard to find in a tropical forest, and I pick a good supply of the strong-smelling leaves with my toes and put them in a neat pile. Then I lie on my side to pick them up with my hands.

I pass the tree I have in mind and keeping walking for another hundred meters before I stop to rub the leaves all over me as much as I'm able to with my elbows and wrists in the cunning restraint.

I backtrack and slowly and very carefully scoot up the thick tree, which trunk grows at an angle of about fifty degrees.

When I'm at a height of four meters just above the trail I left my scent on earlier, I settle down to wait.

Patience while staying alert is not a problem for me because I always recall the fond memories of my child-hood in the vast Siberian taiga.

Carefully not to drop anything, I munch on one of the power bars.

Hearing my target approaching is a little harder because there are plenty of birds that make noise. However, my ears are trained to filter and ignore non-pertaining sounds.

It takes longer than expected until Donald and his canine arrive, the guy with a BB gun in his hands.

I don't hear any talking, and it's a safe assumption that none of the other two 'hunters' is with him.

Of course, he assumes that I wouldn't be able to climb a tree with my arms out of commission and doesn't even think looking up. Instead he concentrates on his disgusting Rottweiler supposedly on the trail of his prey.

When they are directly underneath me, I jump.

Donald has heard me, but too late.

When he looks up, my right heel already hits his shoulder blade.

While the not-so-human roughly hits the ground, my left foot lands smack on the repulsive not-dog's back, which breaks with a crunching sound.

I go down, too, but am still a lot faster to get up than the completely surprised and dazed Donald.

Since there are three more, I don't take any chances and finish him off by punching his nose up into his rotten brain with a vicious kick of my left heel.

Because the human center of thoughts doesn't like strange objects, including noses, roughly shoved into it, Donald goes immediately to hell. Only that I don't believe in this mythical place, but he's taken care of one way or the other. Unfortunately he croaked way too fast, but there's nothing I can do about it.

The canine is out with its broken back. I despise the breed, yes, but it's still an animal that I put out of its mis-ery by wrapping my legs around its neck. A quick flexing of my strong muscles, and it breaks. I wish that it goes to the equivalent of Valhöll for animals, where its genetics won't get contaminated by evil humans. Only that I don't believe in this place from the Nordic mythology either.

I decide to rev it up when I see the walkie-talkie at Donald's belt.

I sit down and operate it with my feet. "Hi there."

Croix's voice answers so fast that I conclude he has waited for his buddy in crime to report in. "Who's this? Hello?"

"Hi, it's Kristina. I just want to advise you that your friend had an accident when a tree fell. You might want to check on him," I reply.

"What... How..." Croix stutters, but I don't divulge any more information because the more confused they are, the better for me.

I clip the walkie on my waist belt after I've turned it off.

Hard to tell what they are going to do now. My best guess is that they will look for Donald because he doesn't call in. It's unlikely that they'll conclude that I disposed of him, but you never know.

I don't really believe that this will work, but it's worth a try.

I bend down to be able to hold onto Donald's shirt collar with both hands and drag him to a nearby depression in the ground. I repeat the procedure with the Rottweiler, also by grabbing it by its collar.

I cover both dead bodies by raking up leaves and other ground debris with my feet, try to disguise my footiwork as well as possible, and look at the result.

Jeez, even a blind man could figure out what was going on here, I think, but there's not a lot else I can do.

I get on the way to check out the waterfall if it suits my needs.

I estimate the height close to forty meters, more than enough.

Hoping for GW to come next, I put the walkie at a convenient location, turn it on as a bait, and settle down to more waiting, well hidden behind a bush with beautiful red flowers.

The walkie-talkie keeps chirping away, and I can conveniently listen in to everything they're saying. Surprisingly they still haven't found Donald's corpse.

Are they really that blind or just haven't stumbled over the location yet?

I keep munching through the remainder of my power bar supply while I relive happy moments of my youth swimming and fishing in Lake Baikal.

I estimate that it's already late afternoon when I hear voices approaching. When they come closer, I identify them as GW's and Mitt's.

Perfect, I think while I notice that both of them hold a BB gun in their hands. Are they really still thinking they are 'hunting' a naked girl with her arms and wrists in a bondage device?

I can't believe it, but it's time for action.

When Croix's bodyguard bends down to pick up the walkie, I dart out from my hiding place and kick his ass as hard as possible.

Since he hasn't even heard me approaching, there's no reflex that would save him. The goon tumbles down the waterfall slightly to the side, exactly as I have intended. Instead of hitting the however shallow pool at the bottom, he winds up on much harder dry land.

The awkward angle GW is lying on the ground tells me that he's well taken care of with a broken neck.

Two down, two to go, I think while I'm looking at Mitt whom I've always observed out of the corner of my eye.

Not really necessary because the tall skinny wannabee hunter of a supposedly helpless girl is only able to stare at me with his mouth wide open and close to drooling. He doesn't even think of aiming his gun at me.

"You can close your trap," I tell him while my heel hits his left knee.

Hard, very hard, enough to break it.

Dropping his BB gun, Mitt goes to the ground, lying on his side, holding his knee, and screaming at the top of his lungs. A hard stomp on Mitt's solar plexus knocks him out and ends the ruckus.

What to do?

Somehow it doesn't feel right to kill him, but I can't risk him endangering me before I get off this island. For good measure, I break his right ankle, too, to make him crawl all the way back to the house.

Then I remember something that my old martial arts teacher from Tibet once showed me.

"There's a spot on the human neck that you can push for a certain time to keep somebody unconscious whom you don't want to kill for whatever reason," Yangchen said.

The old woman's lessons were brutal, torturous, challenging to my breaking point, worse than any others be-fore, but I learnt a lot of valuable fighting techniques from the Tibetan martial-arts lady-master I didn't know be-fore.

I'm very proud of her parting words after I 'graduated'. "You're the best student I've ever had. Use your skills wisely to do good, Heidemarie."

Back then, about two years after I got laid off by the Soviet government, I went by the name of the German actress Hatheyer who played the title role in Die Geierwally.

I've never tried the technique before because I usually don't take prisoners, but I perfectly recall where and how long to push to keep Mitt out through the night.

Even if it doesn't work, with two broken joints he won't be any danger to me. I strip him naked though and throw his clothes down the waterfall, where they partly land on GW's dead body.

Before I leave, I go over possible scenarios one more time.

Mitt would implicate himself to hard time in prison if he really told what happened, but what believable lies could he come up with that implicate me?

Still, looks like I won't return to the nightclub in Papeete, which will be a huge financial loss.

However, Croix is certainly loaded...

An idea takes shape in my mind that might make retirement even earlier possible.

Mulling the possibilities around in my always-active mind, I go to take care of the initiator of this evil scheme, the last 'hunter' left.

The conversation between them told me that Croix is still, or has never left, the house on the top of the mountain, his lair where he feels safe.

Not for much longer, I think, promise.

When I left earlier, I figured out that the cameras around the house have huge blank spots. I use these now to reach it unseen.

If Croix even thinks to check these, I think, but being careful never hurts. I furtively walk around to his office's window.

I peek in and observe him trying to raise his buddies on the walkie, probably for the umpteenth time. The desperate impression in his face after everybody went incommunicado gives me all the satisfaction in the world.

I go to the front door. As expected, it's not locked, and I enter.

Not expecting to encounter anybody else, I check one room after the other.

I use my left foot to open the doors that luckily have levers instead of knobs because they would be at an inconvenient height for my hands attached to my waist belt.

Finally I find GW's messy stay.

I enter and lock the door to be on the safe side although it's unlikely that Croix would come in.

Guessing that he keeps his stack of firearms in his dresser drawer, I go through it, using my hands where I can reach with my limited range, but mostly my feet to rummage through.

Bingo, in between socks and decidedly unsexy boxer underwear.

I pick a 9mm Sig Sauer, which is a very reliable handgun, load it, and put two more magazines in my waist cuff.

I also take two pairs of handcuffs while I wonder if the GW goon had his own girl-abuse operation on the side.

With the firearm in my left hand, I open the door to Croix's office with my right foot.

The hinges are well greased, and the hotel-chain owner and wannabee hunter of a naked girl in stainless-steel restraints doesn't even notice my entry because he's looking out of the window.

Probably not to enjoy the view, I grin inwardly.

"Hi there. Hands up and stay where you are," I address Croix.

He turns around like bitten by a rattlesnake and stares at me.

It's obvious from the expression in his eyes what he thinks. Despite everything that has happened, his male superiority complex sees a naked girl in bondage restraints and ignores the gun in my hand.

Before he can make any stupid move, I put a bullet in his left knee.

I have to yell because he screams like skewered alive. "Shut up. Now."

It gets through his ruckus, and he complies.

"Sit on the floor and put these handcuffs on your ankles and wrists behind your back. Don't forget that you have another knee and two elbows, Croix. You saw that I'm a very good aim."

I drop them to the floor and kick them over.

Grinding his teeth, not clear whether of rage or pain, probably both, he obeys. I fleetingly wonder if they are real. Probably not because they look way too white and regular.

"Tighter," I order.

If looks could kill, I'd be a smoldering heap of ashes now, but he ratchets them close enough to prevent him from slipping his wrists out.

"Since you prefer women helpless and obedient, I guess I'm not your type after all, Croix," I smile at him. "You messed with the wrong girl, which is backfiring badly for you now."

"Where are Donald, GW, and Mitt?" Croix wants to know.

"Fortunately expired in the case of the former two," I reply truthfully, "and unconscious with a broken knee and ankle in the forest in the latter case. Oh, and that disgusting dog of your psychopath buddy has also met its end," I add.

It seems as if he believes me. "How the hell..." His voice trails off.

I can understand his confusion.

How could I have done this seemingly so easily?

Naked, unarmed, with very limited use of my hands and none of my arms, going up against four grown men and a vicious Rottweiler and getting the better of them...

Justified question.

The answer is that I'm uniquely suited to pull off actions like this because I was trained by and worked for nine years for the arguably best Special Forces on Earth.

I know, I know, the Navy Seals would claim this title, but how many of them would have handled this situation that efficiently?

I'm sure that Israel's Mossad would boast the same, but I had a few encounters with their agents during my active time, and their performance didn't convince me.

The British SAS is pretty good, I admit. But I had a few serious altercations with them as well and always came out on top.

With one exception that I don't want to think about because it was my only failed mission and I almost got caught. There's some consolation in that I learnt later by coincidence that I was up against their legend, the best agent in any Special Force there was, is, and probably will be.

Required reading during base training were reports about the Totenkopfverbände of Heinrich Himmler's Waffen-SS, and I have to say that they were well organized, efficient, fast, and utterly ruthless.

But why not start at the beginning?

Thirty-six years and a few months ago, I was born as Zhenya Yatskaya in Irkutsk in Siberia at the shores of beautiful Lake Baikal.

Despite the Soviet Union's oppressive government, my mother's permanent lack of money, and being without a father, who took off even before my birth, I spent a happy childhood and youth in the vast wilderness of the Siberian taiga and on and in the Earth's deepest lake that holds a fifth of our planet's surface drinking water.

But there wasn't really a choice when Leonid called me when I was sixteen.

Always on the lookout for capable agents, especially pretty female ones, I caught their attention with my su-perior language skills, brilliant memory, permanently far-above-average athletic performances and martial art skills, long blond hair, and huge boobs that started growing when I was nine and never stopped until the age of twenty-six.

Needless to say that every girl, and teacher, in every school I went to was jealous.

I don't claim that I put up a fight, which wouldn't have gained anything besides endangering my mother's life.

The prospect appealed to my young girl's overblown sense for adventures despite the questionable ideology. Going to faraway countries that I'd never get to visit otherwise and honing my athletic skills, especially martial arts of all kind...

Did I already say that I still think that the title of the best Special Forces belongs to the GRU's Spetsnaz department where I wound up soon after I was recruited by the Soviet Union's infamous military intelligence ser-vice?

I trained hard, and I when I was ready, the GRU sent me in the field.

Due to my impeccable Oxford English, I worked first in London, where I had the encounter with the SAS leg-end, but also in Germany because I am very good at mimicking the different dialects there.

I acquired French and went to Paris, Italian followed, then Spanish, the gist is clear.

I'm fluent in nine languages now and can get by in eleven more, including Mandarin and Japanese, which has made it easy to drift all over the Earth after the GRU got downsized in 1991, following the events after the fall of the Iron Curtain and consequent dissolution of the Soviet Union.

I was let go despite my extraordinary skills because I was one of the least senior agents. Or was it because I was so successful during my eight-plus active years of service and attracted the envy of some superiors?

Who cares, it was a good thing.

In the beginning, I did plenty of odd jobs from interpreter to waitress and gas station attendant. Needless to say that the sales of fuel and add-on items went up a hundred per cent while I was there.

I went back to Irkutsk one time to see my mother, but she was killed in a car accident a year before. The drunk driver that murdered her died slower than she when he sank to the depths of Lake Baikal with a concrete block around his feet.

After my time with Yangchen, I went into exotic dancing, which turned out rather lucrative. My ability of mov-ing with cat-like grace in combination with a trim body and huge boobs has been a hit everywhere I went.

To keep my martial arts skills honed, I dress in black and prowl the cities and towns at night.

There are always drug dealers, corrupt cops, rapists, greedy slumlords, bad law twisters, or just plain old bullies that can't leave women alone. I want to think that I've made up for some of the, to say the least, ambiguous things I did for the GRU.

Most of the time, the police doesn't put a lot of effort to look into the death of the criminals I take care of although I'm wanted as unknown in many places.

None of Croix's business, and I tell him only, "You didn't really expect that Kristina Söderbaum would voluntarily drown herself, or did you?"

The blank look in his face tells me that he has no clue what I'm talking about.

"Doesn't matter," I state. "What matters is what I'm going to do with you now. Kill you slowly or fast, you rabid animal? Hmmm..."

Looking in my eyes must have told him that I'm dead-serious, and the impression in his changes slowly from concern to naked fear.

"Please, I can pay you," he tries the rich asshole's predictable approach. "A hundred large? American dollars?"

"Don't be ridiculous. How's about you add two zeroes?" I counter.

"Ten million?" Croix is shocked, and I can see that he really doesn't have that amount available in cash although I'm sure that he could easily get it by selling some real estate assets.

"What's your life worth to you?" I grin. "I consider mine a lot more valuable than that."

"I could give you two," he tries. "Million American dollars."

Looks like I could get five out of him, I think, but don't comment. Instead, I say, "I'll think about it. Let's change topics now. How many women were there before me? And don't try to lie, Croix, because you wouldn't like the repercussions."

For good measure, a quick kick to his nose breaks it.

"Quiet," I yell through his consequent screaming. "That was only the beginning. How many?"

"Three..." His answer is more wailing than speaking.

I have done a lot of hard interrogations and know well when somebody is lying.

Looks like he needs better motivation, I decide. I step closer, raise my left leg and stomp on his right knee, the one without a bullet in it, but not hard enough to break it although it might feel so to him. "Think again, Croix. At your next lie, it will crack."

"Six, six, not counting you," he hurries to tell.

I look at him, and he manages to hold my stare.

"Okay, what happened to the others? Did you kill or sell them?"

"I sold all except for one," he replies fast when I raise my leg again.

"To whom?"

"I don't remember," he tries.

This time, his right elbow gives way with a crunching sound, and he screams at the top of his lungs.

"Shut up, now, or it's your neck next time," I warn this asshole that's so brave against a naked girl in restraints when there are three more bullies like him.

He grinds his expensive dental inserts and gets quiet because he's gotten that I don't mess around.

"Again, to whom? Where are they now?"

"I really don't recall, but the details are on my computer," he replies, compliant because he remembers my threat to break his neck very well.

Finally I have him where I want.

Since my hands have restricted reach, I stand in front of his desk and use my left foot to pull mouse and key-board to the front so that I can reach them.

I move the former, and the screensaver showing naked girls tortured in medieval devices disappears. I don't comment on this choice.

The computer asks for a password.

I look at him. "What's it, Croix?"

"I can show you," he offers.

How dumb does this jerk think I am? I return to the spot he's sitting on the floor and tell him to remain quiet before I stomp on his knee with the bullet in it.

"The password?"

Grinding his teeth to the breaking point of his expensive inserts, he complies because he doesn't really have a viable choice that doesn't hurt badly. "9876croix. Lower case."

"Seriously?" I don't trust my ears because I could have guessed that after a few attempts. "Answer."

"Really," he nods vigorously. "Try it."

"If the computer crashes, I will slowly strangle you to death, Croix," I warn him, "which might take a few days. Do you still want me to try it?"

"Yes, it's the correct one," he reassures, and I believe him because the haunted impression in his otherwise so cruel eyes tells me that he's not trying anything now.

I type, and the next screen appears.

One of the menus is banking, and I just have to try although I can't imagine that he's so dumb. Or just so arrogant?

I hardly believe my luck when I get into his accounts using the same password.

There are five of them, with four different banks from Ecuador to the Philippines, and the total amount of his assets turns out just over six million dollars. American ones.

I'm not a hacker, but I took some advanced classes in computer technology from a rather good one.

However, to do this, I only need basic skills and the recollection of my own account numbers and the IBAN of the banks they're in.

I empty all of Croix's accounts, except for a buck in each.

"Thanks," I grin. "Kristina Söderbaum appreciates the generous reimbursement for her valuable time."

He gets what has happened, but there's nothing he can do.

I go through the menus and finally find the one about his sales of the women he abducted.

There are a lot of details I could but don't care for memorizing. Therefore I send an e-mail to myself with the files in question attached while the names and locations of the buyers are already etched in my brain.

"What happened to number six, Seike Möller?" I ask Croix.

"She's still here, in the basement," he replies, completely resigned. "There are interested people, but the negotiations are still pending."

"You repulsive bastard."

No other comment comes to my mind. I've met a lot of evil people and disposed of a good percentage of them, but Theodore Croix easily makes it into the top twenty.

What am I going to do with him? I know that he has to suffer before he croaks, but how?

I inwardly grin when I remember my threat from earlier.

A kick with my left heel to his chin knocks him out.

I sit behind the disgusting kidnapper, abuser, and slave trader and wrap my strong legs around his neck in the appropriate way.

"Wake up, asshole," I yell in his ear, and he opens his eyes.

Panic hits him hard when the position he's in seeps into his rotten brain. He starts squirming, but my hold on him is solid.

I spit in his face. "Listen, Croix. I'm going to make sure that your days of hunting naked girls are over. There-fore I will break your neck, and you're going to spend the rest of your life as a quadriplegic pissing and shitting in bags."

I increase the pressure, and he screams, "No. No. No. Please, don't."

"I begged, too," I remind him, "and it didn't do me any good. Did it?"

No answer comes forth because he's already beyond the ability of talking.

More pressure, and I feel the vertebrae at the verge of giving way.

A little bit more, careful in tiny increments, completes the job.

Croix passes out, and I slowly and carefully lower his head to the floor because I don't want to disintegrate the vertebrae, which would kill him right away.

Instead, I want him to wake up and realize what has happened because this hideous bastard deserves the last moments of his life to be as horrible as possible.

Like the pressure points to keep somebody knocked out for a set amount of time, I've never done this before either, but Yangchen demonstrated it once on a corrupt Chinese politician that consequently disappeared for-ever.

Time to release Seike Möller now, I think, because Croix will be out for at least an hour, if not two.

There's a problem.

Unfortunately it's a safe assumption that GW had the key to the dungeon cells still in his pocket when I kicked him down the waterfall. But there can't be only one, right?

I return to the goon's room, start searching, and get lucky fast.

Probably, because there's a whole bunch of keys on a ring in his nightstand.

I take it and walk down to the basement, where I find Seike in the very last cell at the end of the hallway, an identical one to mine earlier today.

Her slow regular breathing indicates that she's sound asleep despite her uncomfortable position, which leads me to think that she's had more than enough time to practice.

She doesn't hear me approaching barefoot and silent like a cat.

Unlike me, they have forced her to sit on the cold floor and didn't even give her a blanket, which enables me to evaluate the girl I'm going to rescue. I need to get a feeling how tough she is to figure out how to deal with her.

Seike is a pretty young woman of, estimated, twenty or twenty-one. Caught on each side with a rubber band and free in the back, her long black hair is falling down to her chest.

Her legs are long and muscular, and her arms look as if they know physical work. Her boobs are generously sized but no competition for mine.

She can barely move because her neck, wrists, and ankles are restrained in the cruelest stocks I've ever seen, shaped like an upside-down T. They are made of flat stainless-steel bars welded together, and I have to admire the craftsmanship because there's no visible seam.

The horizontal bottom bar is longer than necessary to trap Seike's wrists and ankles and features a hole to-ward each end. Stuck through these and screwed into threaded inserts in the concrete floor, stainless-steel bolts with heads with big integrated washers make it impossible to lift the extremely incapacitating device up more than at most fifteen centimeter, and the right-left and back-forward give is zilch.

The shackles for wrists and ankles are not screwed on, but separate and hinged with a concealed lock, which is located in between. I assume that this setup is meant to make it possible to release her ankles without having to unshackle her wrists at the same time. I also notice that her wrist shackles are elliptical as mine, which leads me to believe that the same, I hate to say this but they are really well done, artist made Seike's restraints.

The vertical bar has a hole at its end, through which the D-ring at the front of her also stainless-steel neck collar is looped. There's a little movement for her head, but not much.

The young woman is also wearing a gag of a kind I've never seen before. The four-centimeter-wide stainless-steel ring around her head must be extremely uncomfortable because it's ungiving hard metal and doesn't seem to have any padding. The curved tongue going underneath her chin surely doesn't help either although her mouth doesn't seem to be pried extremely wide open.



Time to release her from these restraints, I think, but I should have known that Murphy's Law is prevalent everywhere.

I go through the bunch of keys and have to try three until I find the one to open the door to her cell. I start wondering if she's drugged because she still doesn't even stir.

The girl raises her head only when I address her, "Hi there. Wake up, Seike."

She opens her eyes, which turn out big and gray. "Rrrgh?"

I frown.

I heard gag-talk before when I starred in some bondage movies and usually could kind of understand it, but I've never encountered such garbled nonsense.

I can only hope these rabid animals didn't cut Seike's tongue out, I think. Unlikely though, because Croix said that he hasn't sold her yet. Not all slave holders prefer their victims mute, and doing so prematurely would decrease his options to sell her.

So what?

She repeats, "Rrrgh," and points with her thumbs toward her gag.

Finally I get that it must be so restrictive that it doesn't even allow 'normal' gag-talk.

I check the back and find a padlock, which keyhole luckily isn't filled with superglue. I go through the bunch of keys again and find the correct one at the fourth attempt.

When I take the contraption out of her mouth, it becomes clear why it's so bad. The cylinder reaching inside her mouth roughly three centimeter pries it moderately wide open, but the long spoon-like device welded to it is the culprit.

"A tongue depressor?" I asks incredulously. "These bastards!"

"Yes," she says softly after she's gotten the kinks out of her jaws, and I like her sweet voice immediately. "That goon that gets called GW told me that the design derives from a scold's bridle, which they used in the Medieval Ages on women who, supposedly, talked too much."

"That's bullshit," I comment. "It was obviously just another male means to dominate and torture us."

"I agree," Seike nods. "This brank, that's the other term for it, at least doesn't have teeth on the bottom that dig in your tongue, but it sure makes any speech resembling something human impossible. I had to wear it for most of the year I've been here because they took it off only for eating."

"Sometimes, I'd love to go back in time on a killing spree," I state, barely able to control my rage at Croix. I'm really, really happy now that I didn't just kill this bastard fast.

Yet.

"Are you Wonder Woman?" Seike asks.

Her comment is funny, and I laugh, "No, not really. I don't have the bulletproof cuffs and the lasso, and my name's not Diana, but Kristina Söderbaum."

"But you must have taken care of GW and the boss, which name I never got to know," she concludes. "Or are they going to show up with guns soon?"

Fear creeps up in her cute face.

"No, no, no danger anymore," I shake my head. "They are all taken care of, including Theodore Croix, that's the main bastard's name, and his two hunting buddies Donald and Mitt. And the repulsive Rottweiler."

Since I don't want to elaborate, I ask, "How did they get you?"

"I was ambushed on the way home from work as a waitress at L'Auveigne's, and there were two of them, the jerk GW and the boss that you call Croix," she replies and adds because she realizes that I don't necessarily know this establishment, "That's the best and most expensive restaurant on Bora Bora, and I was there only for three weeks. What's about you, Kristina? Probably drugs because you'd have known how to defend yourself."

I nod. "Correct. Drugs. And yes, they'd have met their demise a lot earlier if they had tried that. But let's get you out of the rest of your restraints, will we?"

I start unscrewing the long bolts holding her stocks to the floor. Luckily they are only fingertight, probably because GW didn't want to use a tool every time, and there's no way that she could have reached them herself.

Now comes another glitch.

As the locks on my elbow and wrists cuffs, Seike's wrist shackles' and her neck collar's are also superglued shut.

Unlike her ankle restraints, which come off with another key on GW's bunch. At least she can move around now although her arms are still trapped similar to in fiddle cuffs.

"Nice couple we are, naked and without arms," she chuckles first, then bursts out laughing until she's almost out of breath.

Her hilarity is so contagious that I can't help myself and join her.

Her reaction to being set free, well, mostly, shows me that Croix and his goon haven't been able to break her.

Meaning, Seike might be the right woman to help with carrying out my plans for the near future.

I never wanted to have kids, and the GRU happily paid for having my tubes tied before I went in the field be-cause it made my assignments easier. Just the thought of having to deal with stinky diapers, snot-nosed brats, and fucked-up teenagers gives me the creeps. Not to mention that pregnancy and giving birth badly screws up a woman's body, and my lifestyle doesn't support the concept either.

However, even without all these reasons against it, I still wouldn't have children of my own because I don't think that this planet can take the overpopulation a lot longer and something will give sooner or later. Either a Third World War, or an environmental catastrophe of cataclysmic proportions, for instance the destruction of the ozone layer not only above the poles, but all over.

There are warnings out there, especially from a couple of seeresses in New Zealand, but, as with Global Climate Change, nothing ever happens.

There's also a saying. You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family. However, I have a re-ally good feeling that Seike could be the daughter I might have if all the above reasons didn't apply.

And if I could clone her.

Time to find out, I think.

I'm usually a good judge of age, but I'm surprised to find out that Seike is twenty-four.

Without her noticing where I'm heading, I ask about her background and how she managed to stay sane and herself during her year of captivity and torture.

She's originally from Germany. But she hasn't been back home in six years and has only an aunt left whom she hasn't talked with in five years either.

Her lifestyle is very similar to mine. Nomadic, going wherever comes to her mind.

I finally ask her the crucial question. "What would you do if I told you that Croix is still alive, although barely?"

Her beautiful gray eyes are blazing. "I'd ask you to let me kill that rabid animal."

"That can be accommodated," I smile. "Follow me."

"But what's with these?" Seike asks, raising the stocks still attached to her wrist and neck.

"Well, the locks are superglued shut, and we can't take them off right now because we need tools for this. But don't worry, to finish Croix, you won't need your arms or your hands."

She shrugs. "Fine with me. Let's get out of here."

While we're walking upstairs, I tell her what I did to the bastard.

I love the question she asks immediately. "Can you teach me how to do things like this? Actually, could I stay with you when we're out of here?"

"Yes on both accounts, but before I can show you incredibly advanced techniques like this, you will have to learn the basics first."

"I'm ready," my just-recruited student insists. "I don't want to become a defenseless victim ever again."

Since she is able to lift her hands higher, I send Seike to the kitchen to fill a glass with water to wake Croix up. I don't want to slap him hard enough because this might kill him too fast without him even knowing.

He's still out, and she has fun pouring the cold liquid over his face after she's spit in it.

"Remember me, asshole?" Seike addresses him after I've nodded my okay. "Instead of selling me, you're going to die like a dog."

Then she looks at me. "How, actually?"

"Easy. Cover his mouth with one foot and use the toes of the other to pinch his nose." I have the ulterior motive to find out how dexterous they are.

Very.

She follows my suggestion, and Croix is in a huge dilemma. If he moves his head, he might break his neck, and if he doesn't he'll suffocate.

Short before he croaks, I tell Seike, "Leave him around for a while, will you? There's always another opportunity later."

She chuckles, "I agree," and the evil monster gets a while longer to live.

We go looking for a tool room or workshop because a saw, manual like a hacksaw or electric like a Sawzall, seems the only way to remove our arm restraints.

No luck though.

We agree that the room in the basement with a keypad is it, but the bastard stubbornly refuses to tell us the combination because he's gotten some guts back. "You're going to kill me anyway, so why should I help you?"

Croix has a point, and we've plain run out of means to blackmail or torture him.

"Doesn't matter," I tell Seike. "I already have another idea because I know a guy on Rotoava who owes me a favor because I saved his wife from getting raped. I hope that it's within range of Croix's helicopter."

She ignores the issue of exactly how to get away from here and asks instead, curious. "What happened to the asshole rapist?"

"He will regret his evil deed for the rest of his life that he's spending without balls and dick," I tell her. "Since I caught him in the act, it was just one quick cut for both."

Seike looks at me and says softly, "Thank you for taking me in. I promise to be a good student because I want to be able to help innocent people. Like you."

Be careful what you wish for because you might get it, I think but don't say it.

While we are collecting household items to build a bomb and I teach her how as her first lesson as my apprentice, Seike almost kills Croix three more times. When I tell her that this evil thing already sold five young women into slavery, her motivation to punish him gets another boost.

"Do you still want to finish him off yourself?" I ask nevertheless. "The fire after the explosion would take care of him anyway. The bomb is large enough to blow up a lot, but the kitchen is opposite of his office, and he won't get killed in the blast."

She answers the same way I would in her shoes. "I'd love to, but dying more slowly in the fire is much better punishment. But can we stick around long enough to make sure that he went to hell? Not that I believe in this place," she adds.

"Of course, the helipad is far enough away from the house."

"And I want to tell that monster what's going to happen to him in detail while he's lying helplessly on the floor," Seike continues. "He deserves everything we can throw at him, and I want Croix to know that the woman he tortured so cruelly helped to do him in."

"That's my girl," I praise her.

I find out from the helicopter's GPS where we really are, not that far from Tahiti.

I calculate that the Augusta Westland 109's superior reach is plenty to take us to Rotoava and make sure there's enough fuel. Then I go through the preflight checklist, which takes some time due to the restricted range of my hands though my feet can fill in where necessary.

However, my toes are dexterous, but they lack the speed of my fingers.

After we've got the bomb ready that is supposed to start the fire in the kitchen, Seike tells Croix in every detail how burning to death feels.

Since he's on the floor, paralyzed, it's a good assumption that he won't quickly suffocate from the smoke, especially not since I open the large door and the windows to provide plenty of draft.

After Seike has spit in his ugly mug for the last time, I set the timer to five minutes.

Looking in his once evil eyes now showing nothing but utter terror makes me feel good. Sometimes there is justice for all the violence against women, I think.

We leisurely walk out and get in the Westland. The space is limited, and Seike has to fumble a little with her awkward stocks to get comfortable, but she manages.

Our bomb explodes, and we stick around to watch the house burning to the ground rather fast due to all the accelerant we've generously spread all over, especially in his office.

"Go to hell where you belong, Croix," Seike says softly.

"Let's get out of here," I state. "You have a lot to learn, and we have five girls to save and dispose of more repulsive slave holders."

Seike gives thumbs-up in her stocks.

Of course, she is apprehensive how I would fly our escape helicopter with my hands partially and my arms completely rendered useless, but I show her that my feet and toes can fill in well.

"I'm also familiar with this model, an Augusta Westland 109, which has a superior reach and will take us in one swoop to Rotoava," I tell her.

We are still on the ground when one of the questions I'd have expected earlier finally surfaces, though not in the anticipated order.

"What happened to you left pinky, Kristina?" Seike asks. "Ax?"

I chuckle. "No. When I was six, I got lost in the taiga and couldn't find my way home for a week. It was summer and on the warm side, there was enough water, there were berries and other things to eat, but back then I didn't know what herbs or bark would prevent infection. I found out fast after that, believe me. To make a long story short, the deep wound from a thorn got gangrenous, and the rest is history. Usually I wear a cosmetic prosthesis curled inward, and hardly anybody even notices. It's in my room in Papeete, where I can't go back, and I need to get another one. No hurry though."

I twist my left wrist to show her the small nub. "Do you like it? I think it's cute."

She grins. "It actually is, but who are you really? Kristina Söderbaum, the name of an actress in the Third Reich, doesn't sound right even if your German is impeccable. Not to mention that you're the most resourceful human being I've ever met, just how you disposed of that scum and freed us. Well, kind of." She slightly lifts her stocks to emphasize her point.

"Would you prefer Heidemarie Hatheyer?" I grin, and Seike smirks.

She's German and familiar with the movie. "No. I can see that you love animals but not necessarily birds and vultures in particular."

"What's about Jeanne Harlow?"

She also knows about old American movies and the grandmother of all platinum blond vamps. "Your hair's not light enough."

"Do you like Claudine Cardinale?"

Of course, the Italian actress is well known, and Seike keeps going for the game, countering immediately, "Your boobs are much bigger than hers, although she is by no means malnourished."

"I could be Zarah Leander," I continue in the singer and actress's deep voice.

Seike chuckles. "Nope, although I just love your voice imitation. But are you going to tell me eventually who you really are, Kristina? Shouldn't we get out of here?"

I look at the smoldering remnants of the house and nod.

"Yes to the latter. And about the former, well, I was born in Irkutsk in Siberia as Zhenya Yatskaya, but I haven't used this name in twenty years, since I was recruited by the GRU," I reply before I start the helicopter's engines again.

Which eliminates further conversation because I have to concentrate now.

I guess this is a first.

A naked woman flying a helicopter across French Polynesia with her arms rendered useless and the range of motion of her hands severely limited by wrist and elbow restraints.

Not to mention that my incompetent copilot is equally naked and trussed up in stainless-steel stocks similar to fiddle cuffs.

No, diamonds certainly are not a girl's best friends.

Her wits, her discipline to keep calm in difficult situations, her determination not to get put under by male assholes, her survival skills, and a certain amount of physical preparedness are.


Afterword

Dear reader,

I'm aware of that this fourth fictional story of mine on Utopiastories.com is different from most others in this forum because the girls win in the end. Which suits me because I try to write what I can't find, especially not in reality.

I just cannot subscribe to violence against innocent women, not even fictional one. With the emphasis on innocent because I don't want to say that the female gender is per se better than the male. I'm sure there are many evil women out there, there sure are some CEOs qualifying, although I doubt that the majority of them has it as easy to live their psychopathic tendencies out due to the uneven distribution of wealth and physical strength.

Not to mention the suppression by major religions, which are all misogynistic. This doesn't mean that minor ones are better. I can only encourage the readers who don't believe this to check the Net for information about it.

I find bondage very appealing AS LONG AS IT IS CONSENSUAL. Human trafficking is the worst crime I can imagine, and it was satisfying to give Croix and the other criminals what they deserved.

Will there be a story about Zhenya and Seike rescuing the girls this monster sold?

I don't know, although I have a few ideas.

Either way, I hope I was able to put some twists in the story and that you enjoyed reading it as well as the drawings of two pretty women in metal bondage. I sure like Zhenya's huge female assets and think she'd be good for another drawing.

Take care,

Joe Wood