The young, hot, Hispanic-descended Vice President of Finance has traveled to a remote Rocky Mountain rental lake house to decompress. This seemingly generous reward from the company's Board of Directors soon turns into a nightmare, as Becca has been a naughty girl.
1
Becca Flores awoke on the sofa, askew on her back with a foot on the floor. She was still in the same clothes she had flown to Idaho in. A wine bottle sat uncorked on the coffee table next to her, its collar of celebratory ribbons still affixed to the neck. The Merlot Reserve was only depleted by a third, and a half glass sat abandoned within her reach. The woman had no headache, she realized, and actually felt well-rested as she stretched her limbs and arose to a sitting position. She didn’t recall lying down there; she must have been more tired than she realized last night. It usually took much more alcohol to knock her out like that.
Her commuter flight out of SEATAC to Lewiston had been delayed due to a computer glitch, and she drove south in the Idaho darkness through the forested hills, guided by her rental Lexus’ GPS, arriving about midnight. The congratulatory wine, the weekend vacation house, car rental, and plane tickets were all a clandestine gift from ‘The Board of Directors’, the email had said. It was one of the confidential perks that upper management bestowed on employees who had ‘executive potential’.
Becca knew that, despite her financial moves that lowered the corporation’s tax liability by several million, the gift of this remote vacation house on a cliffside was not without some type of trade off. It was likely her ‘executive potential’ would be determined by her willingness to open her legs for a board member. One of those members could arrive at the hideaway unannounced at any time. Instructed in the email specifically to ‘come solo and enjoy time alone to reinvigorate’ she had steeled herself for mercy sex with a gray-haired, fat old man, or maybe even a naked hot tub party with more than one. Her imagination didn’t exclude the three women board members, who luckily were younger and in good shape; all had been professional athletes. Closet bisexual Becca hadn’t been with a woman since a covert office affair a couple years ago.
Her phone sat next to the wine, but was lifeless, its screen black, even when prompted. No matter; she would let it recharge while she was on the webinar. She took in the scenic view of the lake below for a few moments; she had only seen the panoramic Rocky Mountain view in the moonlight briefly upon her arrival. By the height of the sun rising over the ridges of pointed conifers across the dark waters, Becca guessed she had just enough time to shower and make an energy shake before the video conference call. Despite technically being on vacation, as VP of Treasury, she had to log in today to present an update on the venture capital and brokerage firm’s first quarter earnings.
The young woman stripped bare and dug through her luggage before stepping into the bathroom and admiring herself in the mirror while the water heated. The backyard topless sunbather's petite, athletic build featured solid abs above a vague light-skinned triangle bordering her cloven, freshly waxed vulva. She had worked hard to reacquire and maintain her physique to counter the ‘freshman twenty’ she garnered in college. Becca’s tangerine-sized breasts held her brown nipples pointed slightly upward. Her golden skin and long, straight, jet black hair were a gift from her Puerto Rican-born mother, also a brown-eyed beauty. The old man or men of the Board of Directors were in for some of the hottest sex of their lives, Becca thought egotistically as she quickly washed and then applied a simple array of makeup.
While sliding into her clothes and partially drying her hair, she failed to find her phone charger, but resigned herself to a more in-depth search later, as the hour of the video conference was nearing. Hair still damp and pulled into a pony tail, the young woman sat in the small living room’s office chair, laptop signed in, power protein shake on the desk adjacent. Her presentation was first after the basic pleasantries as the CEO’s administrative assistant introduced her to the just over two thousand participants.
Becca greeted her coworkers with forced enthusiasm and began reading her report but paused, as it felt like the floor was reverberating. Someone, more than one person was in the house! Assuming it was housekeepers or maintenance staff, she hoped they would remain out of sight until she was logged off. Didn’t they see the rented black Lexus SUV parked outside? She tried to ignore the snaps and clicks in the next room as she read a summary of revenue growth. Couldn’t the idiotic intruders tell she was in the middle of a business presentation?
The screen stuttered, and she almost hoped the house’s wi-fi- or satellite internet was going out and she could skip giving the presentation, change and go for a run. Suddenly in the small upper corner window of her screen, the view that displayed what her audience was viewing, two dark figures appeared behind her.
2
“Is this a joke? Is it national workplace security day or something?” she said, smirking. She now realized ‘the board’ that had gifted her the vacation house was not the board of directors at all, but a group of unnamed practical jokers. Maybe this was a staged faux kidnapping for charity or something. Irritated, Becca was disappointed that she would not be teasing an older man into a frenzy before getting laid this weekend after all. A night or two of dick with no strings attached was just what she needed. The two male invaders, she assumed their gender, in black tactical outfits, ski masks and dark sunglasses, crouched on either side of her.
“Hey! Personal space!” Becca shouted as her lightweight ivory sweater was lifted above the waistline of her black yoga pants a few inches above a hip. She tried to push the man away, then saw the taser he was shoving into her side. There was clicking. a snap, and debilitating pain instantly radiated from the spot. The usually feisty woman, unable to resist, felt her hands pulled behind her and wrists cuffed to the chair, and then ankles cuffed but forced far apart, but again seemingly shackled to the chair, which was pushed backward so her entire upper half was framed in her laptop’s outgoing view. A creepy voice boomed from its speakers, low and warped in disguise. She realized the men had small microphones extending down their ski masks.
“Marcy Pham, do not change the presenter. We can see your entire network. Do not disconnect the meeting or the broadcast feed, or we will kill Rebecca with considerable pain. Also, we are glad to hear your daughter Morgan is back at Little Wonders daycare after her cold.”
“I don’t have any kids you morons!” Becca said weakly, reeling in pain.
“Marcy does,” the voice said ominously. The man pulled a blue metal bottle with a nozzle from a gym bag. A blowtorch. Those on the call that weren’t muted could be heard gasping and cursing aloud, many asking if this was ‘real’. The chat stream was suddenly scrolling rapidly with comments. The man, who knew that Marcy Pham was the CEO’s admin and was hosting the video, spoke again as the other man was busy with a whirring drill, bolting the chair to the floor. “Notifying law enforcement will be fruitless, as no one knows our location.”
Becca now knew that maybe the board of directors had sent her here after all. She had been set up. Angry at being suckered in with a free getaway, the effects of the taser waning, she began to shout. “Waha Lake Idaho! Waha Lake Ida…” she managed to reveal before being slapped hard and the booming voice demanded she shut up and the man stuffed part of a kitchen towel into her mouth. She felt a small victory at revealing where she was.
“This is of interest to all of you in the meeting,” the booming voice said. “This slut has stolen your 401k savings fund, including company matching. Now she will put it back. If any law enforcement interferes, you will all lose every cent of your money, and Rebecca will die quite painfully.”
Becca began shaking her head from side to side, screaming into the rag, her ponytail whipping around.
“Got something to say?” the voice asked, pulling the towel out.
“You’ve got the wrong girl! You stupid fuckers!” she screamed defiantly, her limbs now less painful and bucking and jolting against her restraints. Her breasts bounced inside her ivory sweater, grabbing the focus of many of those watching, all in disbelief.
“We need the passwords to the six offshore accounts you transferred the money to,” the other voice said stoically.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you assholes!” she screamed at them. “Let me go! My friends will call the cops!”
“We have plans for that. The photo of your charred, smoldering remains will make wonderful content for the company website.”
“Bullshit!” she said defiantly, but the seriousness of the situation began to sink in. After all, they had 479 million reasons to torture those passwords out of her.
“Passwords!” the voice loudly demanded.
“Fuck you!” she yelled, then spat at the man next to her as he searched his black gym bag, missing her target.
Becca was better at stealing than spitting. Her clandestine movement of the company employee savings plan funds through a few cyrpto transactions and some creative accounting in a poorly regulated bank on a Micronesian island resulted in the appearance of doubled funds. The true half was siphoned off to her private accounts in Hong Kong, Europe, and the Caribbean. The other account, set up in a U.S. shell corporation, was no more than a ghost. Becca was flying to South America soon, and planned to reappear with a new identity. She knew she had to endure whatever these men had planned for her to protect her ‘investment’.
As she sat restrained, she began to notice details about her situation. One man was bigger, and seemed to be in charge. She could also still hear a third person in the kitchen, probably the ‘tech support’ for their webinar-show assault on her.
“Passwords!” The smaller man said, waving her tablet and purse around, assuming they were contained within one or both.
“Eat shit! I’ll die first!” Her mouth was too dry to spit this time.
“Very well.” The larger man felt her left breast, while the other brandished a small set of shears and began cutting her right sleeve above her elbow, heading toward her neck.
The assailant’s fondling of course prompted a loud round of cursing and insults as her jolting resistance caused a jagged pattern as the shear blades reached her shoulder. He snipped through her lavender bra strap as well.
“What are you doing? Think I’ll cave if you threaten to show everyone my boobs? I don’t care! Cut away!”
In moments her sweater and bra had been cut on the other side and fell away, exposing her breasts to every viewer at the office and those at home and their roommates. When she was just an entry level broker, plenty of coworkers saw her bare chested as she feigned drunkenness at company pool or beach parties, letting her bikini ‘accidentally’ slip or even dancing topless on a table. As she climbed the corporate ladder, the chances decreased as did the size of the potential audience. In the vacation house, the men both fondled a side, then stretched her breasts outward by the nipple until she grunted.
“There! Happy?” she asked once they had let go, then swiveled her torso and bounced in the chair, causing her flesh to flail and quiver wildly. Becca felt a bit of power as she assumed that hundreds of geeky guys and old men from the company were stroking their dicks by now.
She wasn’t wrong. In the kitchen, four laptops, connected to a winking, softly whirring server by many wires, sat in view of the third assailant. One of the screens was the matrix of those that hadn’t disabled their laptop cameras, Most of the windows were cell phones held up and recording the unfolding events, but some displays were men and even a few women with arms steadily moving back and forth, massaging the genitals beneath their keyboards.
In the vacation house-turned-hell, the smaller man returned with an electric cord, snipped off a ginger jar lamp in the next room. He slapped the desk edge loudly with the cord.
“Passwords!”
“You’re gonna have to do better than that, assshole!” Becca said with gritted teeth, hiding her fear of the pain to come to her exposed, soft flesh. She kept thinking of her future life on the yacht she intended to buy, with an attractive, fit crew of men and women seeing to her every desire. She stared forward and stuck her chest out defiantly, inviting the abuse. “Do it!”
3
The switchboard of the Nez Perce County Sheriff’s Office had gone ‘psycho’, according to one 911 operator, who had expected a quiet Friday morning shift. Callers, most from the brokerage company’s San Francisco headquarters’ region, dialed en masse and some, unable to get a call through, even sent remotely hired Uber drivers to the Public Safety Building with the reports: A woman was being held hostage in a vacation house on Waha Lake, which was in their county, Google had told them. At least two men had restrained her and threatened to torture and kill her if she refused to cooperate. They had also threatened the child of another employee, and the grandparents and San Bruno, California police were en route to the daycare.
At first thought to be a hoax until the phone lines jammed, the department and state police had units fairly close and they began heading toward the lake at high speed, lights on but silent. They were familiar with the group of nearly identical dwellings, about a dozen cliffside cabins overlooking the lake. Once in a while a party got out of control up there, or an off season break-in was reported. Someone from the woman’s company had called in with the Rebecca’s full name and mobile number, which had last pinged the closest cell tower at 11:57 PM the night before. Law enforcement calls to the real estate agency revealed that seven of the cabins had been rented for the long May weekend. Checking flight records showed Miss Flores landing at 10:16 PM. The only rental car picked up that late last night at the small airport was a black Lexus 450. It was paid for under a different name, but that wasn’t unusual. It was law enforcement’s best lead. Live NSFW cell video of the restrained woman with a ripped open top and bare breasts was already on several of the ‘darker’ social media platforms.
Miss Flores was believed to be in the sixth cabin in the row along the slope of the lake. A drone pilot had spotted the black Lexus, but the house appeared quiet otherwise.
After gathering at the base of the hill to strategize, the patrol units had parked a couple cabins away to maintain the element of surprise. After a quick jog, nine deputies stealthily approached the house, all from different angles. If the assailants arrived by vehicle, they must have been dropped off or arrived by boat, they assumed. The Park Service was launching a Zodiac boat nearby in case there was an attempt at a water escape. The mountain air was cool, but the sun bright and sky a cloudless, brilliant blue.
The idea was to of course subdue the kidnappers, and separate the woman or other hostages from their captors. Moving toward the cabin, the officers treaded lightly on the pine needle-covered ground. The houses had no alarms, but the real estate agency had provided them with each keypad code to open the exterior doors.
With all the men and women officers in place, a deputy, in riot gear, with two more close behind, assault weapons at the ready, slowly opened the door and crept into the house. They split up, guns forward.
“Clear!” the deputies all said quietly into their microphones. The desk and office chair were empty. They walked around in a panic, including upstairs. There were no kidnappers, no hostages, no belongings in the house, aside from a bit of trash in the bathroom can and a used water bottle on the kitchen counter. “She’s been moved! Check all houses!” began the cries on the radio.
Uphill at the roadside, the deputies who were on their personal cell phones and watching the live feed with ear buds, all suddenly yanked them out at the loud, high pitched scream of bare-breasted Rebecca receiving a succession of many rapid strikes with the lamp cord.
4
“You better kill me, cause I’m gonna find you…” Her threat was interrupted by more yelps as the cord audibly contacted her chest, leaving another pink streak in its wake. Quaking as she jolted in response, her quivering breasts were crisscrossed with at least two dozen welts as she spoke through gritted teeth. Becca had expected a slow, teasing series of lashes, not the rapid fire strikes that left her flesh sizzling. “Gonna find you bastards and rip your cocks off!”
“Passwords, you stubborn bitch!” the smaller man said, but despite his verbiage, there was a hint of resignation, sadness, almost, discernable through the disguised voice.
“More! Asshole!” red-faced Becca hissed, tearful, snotty, breathing heavily and sweating at her hairline. She believed her pain had reached a plateau, and she could take more whipping. She was proud she hadn’t caved. That beautiful money was still hers. Then she heard several fast clicks behind her, and a swoosh of air, like a stove burner ignited. She had forgotten about the blowtorch. The larger man adjusted the flame to a brilliant blue, then lowered the torch toward her breast. “Let’s see if some permanent scarring will do the trick.”
****
Rebecca Carmelita Flores had been a typical Florida child from a somewhat affluent family. Both her parents were in real estate, but when the bubble burst, their transition into middle class life in a lesser neighborhood and lesser cars was not easy. Obsessed with money, Becca was day trading in high school, and began bankrolling her earnings and soon invested in Bitcoin. Perfect grades were easy for her, and her first year at Vassar was spent mostly in her apartment, laptops’ screens glowing with charts and market reports, bags of chips and fast food wrappers adjacent.
She kept up her market obsession, but was shocked when she was denied a summer Manhattan internship. Despite knowing more than most licensed brokers, she was ‘not the image’ the firm wanted to ‘project’. When pressed, the glamorous female recruiter was brutally honest. “Becca, you’re nerdy and pudgy. Lose the glasses and freshman weight. You’re dark and pretty but right now you like a fucking hotel maid. Use some damn makeup and get that acne under control. Once you’re in shape, wear tight outfits so you can show off your tits and ass. This is still a male dominated world and you have to use your assets to their advantage, ¿comprender chica?” The recruiter stretched her back, pushing out a substantial chest beneath her jacket.
When Becca returned the next spring, she was a confident, poised, fit, caliente chica. Strutting through the sea of low cubicles, heads turned as her braless tits bounced inside her crisp white linen camisole, a moving swath of which was visible between the lapels of her fitted jacket. Her short skirt clung to her shapely ass. Her bare, tanned legs and narrowed, smoldering brown eyes told the rest of the story, as did the mass of ebony hair twisted up behind her head.
The recruiter didn’t recognize her at first. “You were a total bitch,” Becca told the woman, who didn’t flinch. “Thank you for getting me off my ass.” Even after Becca’s re-creation of herself, the tall, blonde, gorgeous recruiter acted hesitant. Becca tugged her jacket completely open, revealing the circular dark extent and protrusion of her plump nipples through the sheer linen camisole. “Okay, who do I have to do to get this job?” Becca asked, expecting to be sent to a male managers’s office for a combination interview and blowjob. To her surprise, the recruiter’s eyes narrowed. She grinned and asked, “Do you like pussy?”
Eight minutes later, the two women were three floors away in a vacated office, skirts up, panties down, lipstick smeared, hair mussed, grunting and slamming each other against the walls, fingering violently while they kissed mouths and bit nipples.
Becca didn’t get the internship; she was offered a full time job instead and abandoned her remaining college. In the office twelve hours a day, nights she would spin class, or trade on her personal accounts when she wasn’t strap-on fucking the blonde recruiter, Cheryl, who found it easy to ditch her husband for a few hours a couple nights a week.
Cheryl found it so easy, in fact she began to talk about divorcing and having Becca move in. The next Monday Becca’s cubicle was cleaned out. Also empty was her Bronx apartment that evening, as tearful Cheryl, who had professed she was in love with Becca, entered with the key she had been given a few weeks before.
Now sitting captive in the vacation cabin, Becca thought about the blonde recruiter less frequently until today. Despite being the classic ‘skinny bitch’, Cheryl had a ‘Baywatch’ pair of swinging breasts with cookie-sized areolas. In bed, Becca spent quite a bit of time with smoke in her face as she tilted a fat candle over restrained Cheryl’s tits, then harshly slapped the cooled wax off before she mercilessly penetrated her. The bedroom floor was littered with purple wax shards that last night together.
“Wait!” Becca wailed as the blue flame neared her nipple. She began sobbing. The money, that beautiful future, was slipping away. Where the hell were the cops ?
5
The flame’s progress halted. “Maybe we can work something out?” Becca asked, tears running down her cheeks. “How ‘bout half?”
“No deals. Every cent.” The blowtorch resumed, inching closer.
“Okay!” she shrieked as the heat from the approaching torch became much worse than a candle. “Okayayayay!” she said through jolting sobs, frantically twisting her torso to avoid the flame. She winced from the pain in her jiggling breasts, then stuttered “Address…address book!” To her shock, the shorter man held up a paper towel for her to blow her nose into, then wiped her face with a damp second towel. He opened a water bottle and held it to her mouth. Rewards for cooperating, Becca realized as she sucked in the cold water like a baby animal being fed in a zoo. The man changed his grip on the bottle, spilling a little down her chin. He tipped the bottle away for a moment to stop the spillage.
“Careful, asshole!”
The smaller man responded by pouring the rest of the ice cold water onto her pink-streaked breasts. The remains of her ivory sweater became translucent and were plastered to her stomach.
“Fuuuck!” Becca wailed and shivered from the cold, and her dark nipples tightened into their ‘top hat’ form, peaked upward slightly and reinforcing the ‘coat hook’ nickname sometimes attributed to her breasts. The assailant gave one a yank and wiggle, causing her to cry out.
The next several minutes were filled with the sniffling, dark eyed woman deciphering her entries in the address book. Bank names, accounts and passwords derived from the fictitious contacts within. Fake friends for the fakest girl of all, Becca thought, in the midst of suddenly reappraising her life. A laptop from the other room was brought out by the larger man, and held behind Becca for touch screen fingerprints when necessary. She realized she was correct about at least one more assailant, a silent tech nerd in the kitchen. She would rip his cock off also, when the time came.
“Can I please have a shirt?” the shivering girl asked the shorter man “In my suitcase.” The man hesitated.
“I gave you what you wanted!” she pled, her quivering chest still at attention and bumpy with gooseflesh.
“Got all six accounts, it’s 22 million short, but most of the 401K is restored. No shirt. The meeting isn’t over.” The warped, booming voice of the larger man echoed through the room. He slipped a wide leather loop over her head and cinched it around her neck. The young woman pictured herself nude and hanging from a ceiling beam, lifeless and spinning slowly.
The men then both stood at either end of her body and lifted the tearful woman out of the office chair. The smaller man gripped the metal spreader bar between her ankles, and the large man used the leather loop, choking her for several seconds until she was on her back on the satin-finished hardwood floor of the room. Her weight was uncomfortably on her arms, still cuffed behind her at the wrists.
“No! No! Noooo!” she began a new round of sobbing. After attaching the leather collar to a metal loop bolted into the floor behind her head, the men teamed up to forcefully curl her legs and torso so the center of the spreader bar was hooked to the leather collar under her chin. Her bare feet were level with her face.
There was only one reason for this inverted froggy position with her vagina facing the ceiling: Rape. Becca decided to remain stoic, not giving them the satisfaction of begging them not to, and not crying like a virgin bride while the three of them each fucked her.
One of her assailants moved the laptop camera closer to her ass. Moments later, a black gloved hand yanked the waistband at her lower back and slid the panties and black leggings over her hips and up her light brown legs to her calves. Comments on the meeting’s chat began to scroll rapidly once more, referring to ‘part 2’ and wagers on whether the essentially naked woman would be whipped, fucked, strangled, or injected with poison. The shears appeared once more, and after several cuts up the middle, Becca’s waxed anus and vulva were visible to everyone on the call, the shreds of the thong and pants hanging from her ankles.
Company URLs, usernames and webinar passwords had been shared and even sold online, so the beautiful embezzler’s bare genitals were now being inspected by nearly 3500 client IP’s. After apologizing for disturbing vacation cabin occupants all over Idaho, law enforcement had expanded their search into four adjacent states, any locality with vacation rental houses high above a reservoir. Teams studied wall maps in a war room spun up by the FBI in Spokane. Efforts to find a street address for whatever house she was in was made nearly impossible due to the maze of satellites, VPNs and IP addresses used by the kidnappers to distribute their heinous content. Bulletins with Becca’s California driver’s license picture and de***********ion were distributed to official and media websites: 5’3”, 110 Pounds, Latino, Long Straight Black Hair, Brown Eyes, Age 25. Distinguishing features; 4” Tattoo on left deltoid of a heart and a rose with the in***********ion ‘Abuelita’. Last seen in vicinity of Lewiston, Idaho.
Becca’s physical facts were now being supplemented by the clear view of her puckered anus, flared, light brown labia, and protruding acorn-sized clitoris, all glistening and provided by the laptop hovering closely over her pelvic region. The computer was placed on the floor, offering a view of how her body jolted when the first electrical cord strike landed across her quivering buttocks.
“Again?” She screamed. “I gave you what you fucking wanted! You won! Now you’re just a couple of pathetic sick bastards!”
“You’re literally not in any position to insult anyone, cunt,” the warped, booming voice said.
The cord then sailed through the air, repeatedly recoiling and reappearing on the audience’s screens, whistling before a quick snap and another red line appeared on Becca’s flesh. Her labia, already moist from the breast torture, began to emit a trickle of fluid. The whipping was even more severe than Cheryl had once delivered to her naked cheeks when Becca was in a rare submissive mood.
Several minutes later, the young woman was sniffling and weeping softly, having survived her ordeal. Suddenly the smaller man stepped over her torso and straddled her. The lamp cord hit her inner thigh. Becca began to wail loudly as her torso jolted and tried to shift her genitals away from the rapid, sadistic, whistling strikes of the cord on her vulva. Her screams were the loudest yet as she tried to lie on her side, each time to no avail. Those watching could observe her vaginal lips contort as the stinging, improvised whip was flung across them at a shallow angle. Her ass jiggled wildly as she squirmed. Viewers remarked that her pussy now looked like it had been ‘laced up like a sneaker’.
As fast as the strikes had begun, they stopped. The young woman sobbed loudly and repeated that she had given them their fucking money back. The men were gone for a moment, but returned with large water mugs. She assumed they were hydrating before unzipping and shoving their dicks into her.
“You assholes better be using condoms!” she managed to yell.
“Don’t flatter yourself!” the booming voice replied.
She watched as brightly colored tubes emerged from the bottles. Each left a string of clear lube that stretched away from the bullet heads of the sex toys. The viewers and coworkers who had not signed off out of moral disgust or were simply fans of torture, watched the girl receive the first dildo, spreading her battered vaginal lips.
“I’m gonna get shit all over you!” Becca warned as the second dildo began to enter her asshole.
“No you won’t,” the booming voice said. “We watched you take a dump before you showered. The links to the videos of you in the bathroom and changing clothes are already posted on your Instagram.”
Moments later a smaller, white dildo appeared, and was twisted at the base until a buzzing quietly droned through the room, adding to the slurping noises her orifices were making. The tip of the third toy was then applied to her swollen red clitoris. Becca began to breathe faster, realizing her fantasy of being naked and fucking every nerd, hot shot and puffed up dad in the middle of all the office cubicles while everyone watched was essentially becoming true. She resolved to enjoy the string of orgasms that were barreling to the surface.
Still, Becca cursed the men in between moans that soon turned to guttural screams. She climaxed loudly several times with long arias, clear liquid blasting from her slit, arching out past the dildo and soaking the laptop. The smaller man lifted the computer off the floor, but not before blue screen errors scrolled down the display.
“Ha!” Becca said, her breath labored and voice rough, amused that she had ended the meeting, at least for her. A few moments later, she saw the larger man return to the room with a hypodermic needle.
“Adios,” Rebecca Flores said sadly to no one in particular after the jab in her neck, since her life, she assumed, was over.
6
Becca woke up, in bed, under a duvet, naked and free of wrist and ankle restraints. Her welted breasts, vagina, and rectum throbbed with pain. Her groggy mind filtered through recent events until she recalled the humiliating past day’s misery: stripped, whipped, dildo fucked, and the worst: relieved of the nearly half a billion dollars she had stolen. But, but, she was still alive; they hadn’t killed her!
The dark-eyed woman surveyed the bedroom and the view out of the open double doors; some of the lights were on in the vacation cabin, but she had no idea what time it was. The windows were all black; it was the middle of the night. Her bladder full, Becca got up to piss and called out ‘Hello?’ a few times into the adjacent rooms, although she doubted her assailants were still there. Her luggage and purse were present. Becca’s wallet was seemingly untouched, as her driver’s license, credit cards and cash were all there. Unfortunately, all of her electronics were gone. In the morning she would set out for home. Initially on foot, she realized, since the rental Lexus itself was also missing. She would have to buy a burner cell in town, and at least call her parents, and her lawyer. Becca knew she would be arrested for embezzlement upon her return to California. Still naked, she walked around the house despite the fact the blinds were open and she was visible to anyone in the woods watching the house, and checked all the doors, including those of the second floor balconies overlooking the water. Satisfied everything was locked and secure, she took four ibuprofen capsules from her purse with two glasses of kitchen tap water and went back to bed.
Awakening to a beautiful, sunny morning, Becca gingerly showered in cool water and carefully dressed ‘commando’ in her loosest clothes for the drive ‘of shame’ home, as a binding bra and thong panties were out of the question. She looked like a teen in the outfit she chose: Pink Hello Kitty pajama bottoms, black Converse high tops, a soft white t-shirt and a lightweight flannel button down shirt that had been her grandfather’s, all topped off by a lightweight neon green running jacket with wide reflective stripes. The simple thin white t-shirt, wet or dry, would have been part of her braless ‘cock tease’ arsenal if a horny board member showed up under her now-exquisitely disproven theory about a possible management orgy.
She then emerged into the morning from the fateful house, a silver suitcase, black gym bag, and colorful backpack purse bungee corded to her ‘airport’ rolling rack. The setting of the house reminded her of the Sierra Nevada, and Becca stood on the edge of the cliff to admire the view of the long lake and forested hills beyond, under the expanse of the clear blue sky.
The air was too warm for the jacket, and Becca let go of her luggage and slipped it off. She stepped a bit closer to the edge and reached down to fold the jacket and tuck it under the bungees.
Suddenly the cliff edge collapsed under the black-haired woman. City girl Becca didn’t know the rule about avoiding eroded dirt precipices, and she screamed as she lost her hold on the luggage and attempted to claw her way upwards. Instantly she was propelled down the steeply angled rock face, cursing constantly. In her periphery she saw the chrome glint of the luggage rack, spinning as it bounced downward, out of her reach. Sliding out of control on her stomach, she was forced into sharp outcroppings and dead tree branches, bruising and scraping her, ripping her pants and flannel shirt, in some cases leaving a red line of blood on her skin. Suddenly something grabbed her right ankle and momentum flipped Becca from upright and facing the cliff to upside down and on her back. Slammed against the rock face, the impact knocked the wind out of her.
Once she could breathe again, Becca screamed loudly from the pain as she heard bones cracking and saw blood begin to flow from inside her high-top sneaker. She looked around for something to grab, and happened to see her luggage out in the lake, sinking below the surface. The nearly dead tree branches that had captured her foot then split with a crack and released her, but falling once more, inverted and disoriented, Becca felt another searing pain after a loud thud in her skull. She passed out.
Moments later, Becca was shocked back into consciousness by the icy mountain water that she had been immersed in. Panicking and by instinct alone, she struggled toward the surface through green leafy underwater plants and using her one functioning leg, crawled up stones and forest debris until she was on a flat section of rock just inches above the water. Now soaking wet and chilled to the bone, Becca coughed the water out of her lungs and screamed for help in vain; no one was close enough to locate her, and in the earth toned flannel shirt, she was camouflaged by underbrush from all but the closest boaters. Her ankle was still bleeding, the high top sneaker bulging where the bone seemed to be severed. Becca removed her flannel shirt and the white t-shirt and wrung them out as best she could. Sitting on the rock nude from the waist up, she used a housekey-sized sharp stone to slice the edges of the t-shirt and rip it into bandages. She wrapped her ankle as best she could, using the entire damp shirt. Becca tried to determine if she needed to bandage her head above her right ear. Touching the wound, pain shot across her skull and her fingers were wet, red and sticky. She knew she had to get to an emergency room, she realized as she replaced ‘Abuelo’s’ damp flannel shirt. Imagined conversations with her deceased, kind grandfather ensued before Becca passed out on the flat rock.
Becca woke up, seemingly in another world. It was dim daylight, morning she guessed, and thick fog enshrouded the lake. Becca’s tangled hair and remaining clothes had essentially dried in yesterday’s sun, but taking in even a moderate breath caused a loud, rasping cough. She must have spent yesterday and all night on the rock in the cold air, she thought. She had remembered seeing a dock and staircase a hundred or so feet away at the base of a lower cliff. She hoped she hadn’t dreamt it, as it seemed the only way out of her predicament. The fog parted for a moment, and seemed to reveal part of a staircase on the face of the cliff. Dreading getting wet once more, Becca limped and hopped along the rocky shore, sometimes wading up to her neck.
After what seemed like an hour, Becca dragged herself up the muddy inclined concrete boat ramp adjacent to the public dock. She had been too weak to pull herself up onto the small pier’s worn boards. Becca sat on the concrete, removed her shirt, coughing topless as she wrung the muddy water out of it. She leaned against a small tree and did the same with her pajama pants, only removed as far as her ankles.
The wounded woman hopped around and found a branch to use as a makeshift crutch and began an exhausting negotiation of the creaking wooden stairs. She leaned over the railing at the waist for most of her journey, gripping it tightly, jumping sideways on her good leg, dragging the branch-crutch along with her. This stairwell was more work, but would get her to the main road sooner, as opposed to the long road that eventually joined the main highway out of sight around a bend.
Finally, she reached the well maintained but densely wooded main road after passing through an empty dirt parking lot on her crutch. The wooded area was devoid of anything but conifers and fog. Exhausted and coughing, Becca found a speed limit sign on a heavy wood post and leaned against it, hoping to flag down a car to either call 911 for her or drive her to a hospital.
Strangely, the speed limit read 80. This was different than the setting of the house she drove to Thursday night. Becca realized while she had been knocked out with something in the wine that first night and must have been moved to a similar house. She could be anywhere in Idaho or maybe another state. That’s why the cops never came. She attributed the bizarre sign to a potential fever, as she was chilled increasingly with every passing minute.
Becca nearly passed out and fell several times, but resettled herself against the signpost, shivering. Finally, headlights appeared uphill.
7
Dermott couldn’t believe his eyes. Was this a young girl hitchhiking alone up ahead under that sign? Here by the lake with no one around? He pumped the brakes on his mid-sixties maroon station wagon, a procedure necessary until he managed to find a replacement master cylinder in a junk yard. The Chevy, which had been his mother-in-law’s, was on borrowed time anyway. The wagon came to a grinding stop on the roadside, just beyond the injured young woman.
Dermott turned and watched the woman’s breasts jiggle inside the loose plaid shirt as she hopped toward the car. In a moment the passenger door opened. The woman had used a tree branch as a crutch, and she stood on one foot as she leaned into the opening. She looked like she had been beaten. Her clothes were ripped and she was filthy. Before he could try to sound concerned about her, she spoke.
“Can you call 911 for me please? I fell off the cliff and broke my ankle,” she said weakly, barely able to suppress a series of rasping coughs until after her request. Her hair was like a rat’s nest and her face was bruised and scraped.
“I don’t have a mobile,” he answered in a slightly Scottish brogue, as he felt the weight of his current burner phone in his jacket pocket. “But I can take you to hospital. Hop in.”
The ruddy-complexioned man looked like a young Santa Claus, before his hair turned white, the woman noticed. She knew her head injury was bad and she was about to pass out. Seeing no alternative, she slid onto the cracked vinyl seat and pulled the heavy door shut. She could locate no seatbelts. ”I’ll settle for a police station,” she said, wheezing.
The driver had no intention of going anywhere near a police station or hospital.
After humming to himself and driving at a moderate speed through the fog, Dermott tried to make conversation. “So, that looks like a nasty break. What’s your name?”
There was no response from his guest. Feverish and exhausted, and warmed from the car’s heat, his passenger was unconscious and slouched in the seat.
Dermott Whittington III, despite his regal sounding name, existed on the lower fringes of society. He settled in the area after marrying Daneen, the daughter of a log transport company owner. Dermott had lived all over the country after a childhood immigration from Scotland where his abusive, alcoholic father had legal trouble. Family pets tended to disappear in the various neighborhoods where Dermott grew up, and in recent years he was suspected of involvement in the disappearances of at least three local young women. His takeover of the family trucking business after his father-in-law died lasted less than three years before it was liquidated by the provincial court. He did odd painting jobs and mostly lived off his wife’s waitressing income.
The ancient maroon wagon slowed to a stop on a wide spot on the side of the road, its dirty exhaust adding to the fog, Dermott slid over next to her, “Girl?” He shook her gently. “Girl?” He saw the large, matted nest of bloody hair above her ear. He tried to wake her once more, then placed a hand on the side of her neck. She still had a pulse. He carefully tugged on a rip in her shirt, and saw no bra strap, confirming his suspicion. He then whispered, asking permission to take a peek and unbuttoned the flannel shirt enough to spy a bare breast and the pink stripes crisscrossing it. He refastened one button and resumed driving after gingerly pulling her torso lower it the seat, so her head would not appear to a passerby.
Dermott was surprised that such a helpless girl would fall into his grasp at such an opportune time. He could use a nice quick fuck to start the day. The maroon station wagon pulled onto a gravel path diverging from a parking lot behind the large metal building of a paint distributor, mostly hidden in the trees and not open for business on this desolate early Sunday morning.
The first step was to remove her clothes. Missing persons media reports always reported ‘last seen wearing’ such-and-such, so if her body was somehow discovered, it would delay her identification, Dermott felt. His heart raced and his penis began to swell as he unbuttoned her mud-caked flannel shirt, revealing her bruised, scraped, welted upper torso. “Into the rough stuff, huh, bitch?” he whispered to his victim, then imagined her cleaned up and begging him to fuck her. “Somebody tore up those beautiful little brown hooters already, eh?” he said almost audibly. Her shirt removed, he felt her breasts for over a minute before exiting the driver’s side, his dick hard and her shirt in hand.
On the woman’s side of the car, he opened her door and carefully hoisted up her limp, topless body and carried her to the waiting folded-down tailgate of his wagon. The back of the wagon was filled with junk, but had room for her prone body. Adjacent was an all-important canvas tarp which would conceal her once he was finished and had strangled her, if she even was still alive then. He would take her to the giant, empty truck garage behind his house, and mummify her in heavy metal chains, welding the cocoon closed in a few spots. The building and thousands of feet of rusted links were nearly all that remained from his father-in-law’s trucking company. The unfortunate girl’s final resting place would be the bottom of a very deep, dark lake 30 minutes north of town, joining the others he had put there.
Dermott was able to rip the girl’s filthy pink pajamas off just from the slices and tears already present in the fabric. He jogged through the underbrush to stuff her clothes into an empty box in the dumpster behind the building. He left her shoes on, impatient to sink his hard cock into this sweet little whore, seemingly a divine gift, as there were not even any panties to contend with. In his mind, she was clean, uninjured and thanking him for fucking her, ‘she needed his cock so bad.’
With the woman sprawled out in the back of the wagon, hips on the tailgate, calves held airborne against the top of the back window opening. Dermott slipped on a pre-lubed condom, leaned in and forced his erection into her battered vagina. An imagined conversation took place of praise for the presence of his ‘awesome cock’, exclaiming it was the best she ever had. He imagined her caramel body clean and writhing and in ecstasy beneath him.
Suddenly Dermott felt a searing pain in his lower stomach. He cried out and looked down between his victim’s thighs to see one of his wood chisels imbedded inside him nearly up to the handle, blood quickly surrounding the puncture. He cried out and let go of his victim’s legs, one of which kicked at his arm as he tried to pivot to the side and extract the tool. Its slicing semaphore movement within his intestines caused even more damage, pain and screams. Kicked once more near the wound by his victim’s good leg and clutching his bloody lower stomach, Dermott cursed and staggered back, his condom covered erection showered with blood from above. He then fell forward, his shoulders and head face down on the tailgate next to his victim’s hip, squirming, cursing and wailing in agony.
Becca, having awakened nude to the panting stranger fucking her, had surreptitiously surveyed her surroundings while her rapist’s line of sight was above the roof of the wagon and found the knife-like chisel. Now she gripped a toolbox handle. Summoning all her strength and using her lethal, Vassar tennis team, two-fisted forehand, slammed the end of the small but heavy red metal box into Dermott’s temple. He grunted and fell to the ground, and tried to pull himself up until his knuckles were pummeled by the descending toolbox, filled with a wrench and sockets he had stolen out of a truck just last week.
In moments, naked Becca, fueled by pure rage, was lying on her stomach, overhanging the tailgate, pounding the skull of the bearded rapist repeatedly with the box as she cursed him in English and Spanish until he ceased grunting and convulsing. His limbs fell limp. Blood gushed from his stomach and scalp.
Finally spent, Becca, coughing spastically, tossed the bloody, dented toolbox as far as she could into the woods. Standing on one foot, her arms and good leg dripping with blood, Becca bent at the waist and let out a long, primal scream of both victory and anguish.
She then hopped, hanging onto the paint splattered ladders tied onto the station wagon’s rusted chrome roof rack, until she reached the driver’s side door. She still found no seatbelt, and felt along the steering column for the ignition. She then remembered keys for really old cars were in the dashboard, The engine started, Becca slung her painful right ankle over the hump in the floor, and awkwardly used her left foot to drive.
The car clunked into D for Drive and Becca, naked and in disbelief the speedometer went up to 200, pressed the accelerator. The car’s back tire spun, kicking up a cloud of dirt, Becca could see in the rearview mirror. She suddenly remembered a lowrider car she was allowed to drive around an unpaved parking lot when she was about fourteen, owned by a young man who was trying to get into her pants. She had spun the tires of that Impala, its engine big and rumbling also. Hoping that she was spraying her attacker with gravel, Becca floored the pedal, and the low roar of the spinning tire and the cacophony of rocks pelting the underside of the car ensued, and the rear of the car fishtailed, the dust painting her attacker the same hue as the surrounding earth. Eventually the car lurched forward.
Dermott’s heart stopped beating.
The rusty wagon bounced down the dirt trail and back onto the main road. Becca drove slowly, nearly passing out more than once. There was nothing in this fucking state but trees and fog, she thought until finally she reached an intersection with a red flashing traffic light hanging overhead. A small silver car sailed past. Across the intersection opposite was a shiny SUV with some kind of police markings and a light bar across the roof. Finally.
Becca pressed the brakes, but nothing happened. The SUV was about to turn left away from her. To get their attention, the young woman pointed the wagon directly at the law enforcement vehicle, which tried unsuccessfully to swerve.
Becca clipped the back corner of the SUV with a loud crunch, then the wagon barreled off the shoulder and loudly collided with a tree. The young woman’s face smacked into the steering wheel, breaking her nose.. The smashed wagon pivoted and slid sideways down a grass embankment into a large ditch. Steam hissed loudly as it escaped the radiator behind the crushed grille and bumper
With the car nearly on its side at a steep angle, the doors creaked even more loudly as they were opened. Flashlight beams extended into the car.
“Damn! It’s a naked girl!” a male voice with an Indian accent registered in Becca’s mind.
“Focus, Raj! Oh my God!” a female deputy gasped at the sight of the driver. “Call EMS and get me a blanket and med kit out of the back!” she shouted, referring to the dented SUV, jagged pieces of its tail light and rear bumper now on the pavement in the middle of the intersection, emergency lights flashing.
The female deputy scrambled down the back seat to reach the battered, bloody nude girl, who had been tossed the length of the front seat when it slid into the ditch. She was bleeding from her nose onto her chin and breasts and had crimson liquid splattered on her legs and arms, One ankle must have been broken and it appeared she had a head wound.
“Sweetie?” The deputy asked in a loud, motherly tone. “Sweetie, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” came the weak answer as the flashlight in her eyes caused her to squint.
“We’re going to get you help, really soon, okay? Hang in there, can you do that for me?”
“Okay.”
The speaker on the deputy’s lapel radio then broadcast her partner’s call to the dispatcher, which only sounded like electronic gibberish to the injured woman.
“What’s your name, honey?”
“I…I don’t know…” her words were followed by a long coughing fit, during which she was covered with a lightweight blanket.
Sirens were now audible in the distance. The deputy wanted to keep this girl awake and talking, in case she had a concussion. She opened the med kit and began dabbing at Becca’s bloody nose with a bandage.
“Where’s the man that was driving this car? Did he hurt you? Are you running from him?” The deputy was going to enjoy violently arresting Dermott. He was not going to be able to bullshit or lawyer his way out of it this time, she reasoned.
“Who?” the battered woman answered.
“Do know where you are now?”
Feverish and exhausted, the whole situation now made sense to Becca. The whipping, the loss of the money, falling down the cliff, the rape, having to beat her assailant bloody, the cars that could drive 200 miles an hour with no brakes, seatbelts, or airbags. The commuter flight must have crashed and killed her, she thought.
“Hell,” she replied, then began coughing deeply once more.
***
While Becca, on a stretcher, donning a neck brace and oxygen mask, was being loaded into an ambulance, a log truck slowed and cut over behind a paint warehouse a few kilometers away. The sleepy driver, on his fourth trip of the weekend, was almost home, but had a full bladder. He had used this secluded road before, but didn’t remember it having the large bump halfway down the slope. After hearing his two loaded trailers and their large logs slam around each time the tires rode up and down the small ridge, he looked in his mirrors to make sure the large, precarious stacks of timber hadn’t shifted out from under their restraints. Satisfied all was well, he pissed, standing in the radiator heat of his bug-splattered Peterbuilt, looked back on his trailers once more, and headed for the sawmill, and then home.
Monday morning, the paint warehouse manager called the sheriff’s office, advising them that a flock of vultures was eating a human corpse behind the building in the woods. The dispatcher suggested it might be a young elk or deer. The manager advised her that elk didn’t wear Nike sneakers.
That same morning on a roadside on the edge of town, wavy brown-haired Tiffany waited alone on the wooded roadside for her school bus. She was hoping, however, that the nice man in the rusty old maroon car would stop and talk to her. He always told her how pretty she was. Over the last couple weeks he had been offering her a ride to school or elsewhere, but she had declined, citing her parents’ rules about strangers. She thought that his offer of marijuana and maybe a little wine during a day skipping her Grade 8 classes sounded fun, and decided she was going to accept his offer this morning. The man in the rusty old station wagon never showed, and Tiffany boarded her bus as usual.
Later that day, in her toy-cluttered living room, Dermott’s wife was informed by RCMP officers that her husband was believed to have been the victim of a serious accident. It seemed he had been fatally crushed by a large vehicle, probably a truck and semi-trailer. They would need a DNA match from one of his children to be certain, but his ID was found among the remains. His wife, her face still swollen and bruised from a recent beating, showed no emotion.
8
One Week Later
“Hey Raj,” the female deputy called to her partner as he navigated across the office.
“What’s up?” He set his refilled coffee mug on his adjacent desk.
“Looks like we found our Jane Doe,” she said, gesturing toward the laptop screen on her desk.
The department had been intrigued by this battle-scarred, amnesiac mystery woman who had likely beaten that sick bastard Dermott unconscious and escaped in his vehicle. Never possessing enough evidence to make charges against him stick, they hoped that with his death, young women would now stop disappearing. While his body had been reduced to a pulp by, judging by the tire impressions, at least two loaded gravel or logging trucks, a damaged toolbox with his blood and hair imbedded in the seams was found near the site. Their person of interest was still too drugged up from cranial and ankle surgery to recall her escape.
The deputy clicked on a video of a beautiful, Hispanic-descended woman giving a financial update from a work from home-like setting for some American brokerage company. There were dozens of vacation rentals in the province that had a similar interior appearance.
“Yeah, I guess that’s her, before the broken nose,” Raj agreed. “She’s beautiful.” He said in a whisper.
“Now check this out, I think this video was made here, up at the lake. Aren’t those her breasts? You saw them in the car that morning.”
The deputy had fast forwarded the video to where the woman’s sweater and bra had been cut away and the assailants were demanding passwords while her breasts quivered with her shifting in the restraints.
“I caught my son and his friends watching this last night. The video’s been mega viral since last Friday. Because she’s American, we never thought it could be our mystery guest.”
“Yep, that’s her. Who are those guys?”
“No idea. Professionals from the looks of it. Completely covered, using voice alteration. Left only footprints. Two males and a petite female, based on the boot size and depth of the impressions. Doesn’t look like a criminal, does she? Your girl embezzled nearly half a billion dollars.”
“Where is she now?”
“Victoria General, why?”
“I want to go propose marriage to her,” Raj replied.
“Forget it, she gave the money back when they threatened to torch her. Those guys probably drugged her, smuggled her up here, and made it look like the same house she had rented or whatever in Idaho. Then they whipped her with a lamp cord, broke her, then left her for dead in the woods, I guess. Somehow she survived but ran across Dermott.”
“Good thing for us, nobody misses Dermott. Why up here?”
“I guess to confuse the jurisdictions and complicate tracing the internet hacks into her company’s network. Several FBI TAC teams were sent to the wrong houses. The kidnappers even rented an identical black Lexus in Boise to park outside the house, so the girl had no idea she wasn’t at the original house in the States.” The deputy sipped her own coffee.
“Anything on the car rental?” Raj asked.
“Petite woman, hat and sunglasses on security camera, The credit card was stolen, a 77 year old blind resident from a Phoenix nursing home… Ya, that’s true about Dermott. But we’ll never get the chance to thank… uh…Rebecca…Flores, that’s her name. Captain called the FBI. The U.S. Marshall Service is on their way to Victoria. Smart girl, quite a hacker. I think she was bullshitting us about the amnesia.”
Using his partner’s mouse, Raj was advancing the video. The close-up segment with the woman’s puckered anus, yet-to-be-whipped buttocks and glistening genitals appeared at the point her leggings and panties were pulled off.
“Switching teams?” a passing male sergeant said to the female deputy as he noticed the smooth brown and pink vulva on her desktop screen.
“Um..evidence,” she replied, swatting Raj’s hand away from her mouse. “The girl that was driving Dermott’s car…”
“Seriously? Send me the link.” the sergeant said quietly, watching the closeup of the lamp cord striking the woman’s quaking buttocks.
“Already in your email.”
“Mmmm, I dunno, Raj. She looks pretty rough now. The hospital shaved her head for surgery. I saw her on a Zoom interview this morning.” The female deputy, whose hair was long, brown and wavy just like that of her daughter Tiffany, who would soon graduate Grade 8, gathered her hair into a ponytail.
“I still want to marry this Rebecca,” Raj said, watching the video’s squirting conclusion.
***
At about the same time as the deputies’ conversation, Becca, still registered as Jane Doe, was being rolled through the halls of the surgical stepdown unit, bound for some fresh air. Her wheelchair had a vertical pole for her antibiotic and pain management IV drip bags, and her right leg was extended out level due the plastic cast surrounding her broken ankle, recently reinforced with steel rods. Virtually unrecognizable, a bandage surrounded her head above the ears, protecting the surgery sutures she had for a skull fracture. The visible parts of her scalp were covered by black stubble, essentially shaven, as semi-conscious Becca told them to do her whole head if they had to do half for the skull operation anyway. Her eyes were still partially blackened from the collision with Dermott’s steering wheel.
Parked on a patio next to the parking lot, Becca was almost asleep when a different orderly came from behind, kicked the brakes off and harshly began to push her out among the vehicles in the lot.
“Leave something in your car?” Becca asked, having grown used to her wheelchair trips being used for personal errands of the employees: cell calls, vaping, stops at the cafeteria, and so on. “Whoa, slow down!”
“Yeah yuh Uber’s here. Yoo look like shit,” the girl pushing her said, in a decidedly non-Canadian accent. This woman had the same Upper East Side vowels as… there was no way, Becca thought, no fucking way. Becca dismissed it as coincidence and the painkillers in her system.
“Thanks, you should see the other guy,” Becca replied, having been recently shown crime scene photos of what remained of her crushed rapist to try to jar her ‘amnesia’ loose. The story of the tortured woman who appeared from nowhere and escaped the area’s alleged serial killer was big news back in the town where her ordeal occurred. She matched no missing persons reports, and her fingerprints were not in any RCMP database, it was determined.
“Always the fighta. I gotta admit, the amnesia angle was pretty sweet…Chica.”,
It was Cheryl, wearing a hokey black wig and tinted glasses. The lover she ran away from nearly three years ago. Becca began to cry and scream questions.
“Hey! Don’t make a scene, stoopid! They know who you are. U.S. Marshalls are on the way and will fly you back to California as soon as this joint says you can transfer to UCSF Medical Center. Then the party’s ovah,” Cheryl said as she and her passenger arrived at a worn, older silver minivan.
“How the fuck did you find me?” Becca asked as soon as they were on the highway east and she had painfully blown her nose. The two women had a long, sobbing embrace inside the van before they left. Becca apologized for abandoning her lover.
“Wasn’t that hard to find yoo. Of course you’re all over the internet. I think you and your whipping and dildo party set a new viral record for crime videos. I was going to fly out to see you in prison or whatever but then when you didn’t turn up, they thought maybe you were dead. I checked the internet hourly and finally saw the stories of the blood-covered, naked warrior chick with amnesia and an Abuelita tattoo up here in B.C. I knew that tattoo, and it would be just like your driving to hit a cop car, so I jumped on a plane. I had a friend of a friend of a cousin in Brooklyn make us a few new IDs and passports. You’re welcome.”
The used minivan was a cash purchase in Saskatchewan, with a topless Cheryl blowjob to make sure it remained undocumented. The two women continued east among the beautiful Rocky Mountain forests as the hospital staff found the empty wheelchair. ‘Jane Doe’, AKA Rebecca C. Flores was declared missing just before two female U.S. Marshalls landed on their commercial flight.