“I think you will find this one to your liking,” declared Max. “It took us a while to bring her up to your specifications, but the results were worth the effort.”
The client, heir to a banking fortune in Canada, nodded impatiently as he perched on his chair in the showroom.. He was young, he had speedboats and vacation houses and girlfriends and more money than he knew what to do with. Which suited Max just fine, because his firm catered to exactly such clientele. Max pressed a button on his desk.
The door opened, and a woman trainer escorted the man’s custom-designed LoveDoll to stand in the center of the room. The young man blinked. “She’s so. . . perfect,” was all he could manage. And Max could not disagree—they had done themselves proud with this one.
The girl had amber hair whose tresses slipped over her bare shoulders. Her face was oval-shaped, her lips large with just the right amount of pouting sensuality. The LoveDoll kept her eyes downcast, the long lashes giving her a vulnerable, demure look. And her body—three months of rigorous conditioning, the attentions of some of the world’s most accomplished cosmetic surgeons, and the natural comely shape of the original kidnaped girl all combined to make her the equal of any centerfold.
“She’s. . . quite amazing,” said the young man, unable to hide his excitement.. “And she’s programmed exactly as I wanted?”
“Of course,” said Max. “Neural imprinting of your personal behavior requests, as well as the basic obedience and sexual stimulation programs.”
“What’s her name?”
Max smiled, and took a cigarette out of his gold case. “What do you want her name to be?”
The man thought. “Amber,” he said at last, as if he had not been thinking about it constantly for the last six months.
“Amber it is, then,” said Max. His hand touched a remote control device on the desk. “Tell her.”
The young man cast a sidelong look at Max, then cleared his throat. “Your name is Amber,” he said. The girl’s lashes rose up just long enough to gaze lovingly him.
“Yes, sir,” she said in her soft contralto.
The young man rose and walked around her as if he were in a museum admiring a piece of sculpture. “And she will do anything I say?”
“Of course. That is what we offer here to our clients. Total beauty, total compliance. She’s been conditioned to think of your pleasure as her only function. Advanced sexual technique modules have all been incorporated into personality. And naturally, her body has been modified to enhance your pleasure, in ways which I will allow you to discover on your own.”
“The body suit is self-contained, permeated with the skin. It can be obsidian black, metallic, or natural.” And Max’s fingers danced expertly over the control device as he talked, making the LoveDoll’s body shimmer into the alternatives—each one seeming more alluring than the last.
“You’ve done her breasts perfectly,” said the young man, marveling at the fullness and perfectly shaped orbs, with their rosy areola and stiffened nipples. “May I?”
“By all means, after all, she is your property now,” said Max, with a magnanimous wave of his hand. The man and walked completely around the girl. His fingertips tentatively trailed over her body. Emboldened, he cupped the Love Doll’s breasts, rolled her nipples with his thumb and forefingers. The LoveDoll’s long lashes fluttered, and her breathing became fast and shallow. The man’s hand then roamed over her flat stomach, her curvaceous flanks, before his fingers probed the shaved lips of her sex. “She’s wet,” he said in mild wonder.
Max smiled. “I would wager she was soaking the minute we brought her in. Biochemical conditioning. Her chemoreceptors have been adjusted to respond to your pheromones.”
“Huh?”
“That means just having you in the same room sends her into a sexual heat. We’ve done neurological scans in the clinic; their pleasure centers light up like a Christmas tree,” Max said with a chuckle. “A command from you, and she’d probably orgasm right here.”
The client took a deep breath. “Show me.”
Max tossed him the control unit. “You’ve had our course in LoveDoll control. Press the O button.”
The client did so. Amber (as she now was tagged) closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly back. Her hands crept to her breasts, massaging them with increasing intensity. Then her fingers slipped between her legs...and she gave a long shudder and collapsed into the arms of the client.
“That’s really something,” he said. He looked a little bashful. “I know you get these. . . LoveDolls from various sources. Can you tell me what she did before she was, uh, acquired?”
Max shook his head. “We would prefer not to. Keep in mind she’s not a person anymore, with a past that has to be reconciled. She’s your toy, your plaything. Believe me when I tell you that she has been totally converted into your personal sex slave. Somebody in your position has a right to the finer things in life, and this just happens to be one of them.”
The client tilted his head in acceptance. “And the financial arrangements are all satisfactory?” he asked.
Max said, “Yes, your account draft was received yesterday. Thank you. It’s a privilege doing business with someone who appreciates quality. Now if you just step out this way. . .”
The client took his LoveDoll gently by the arm and guided her through the door opened by Max. When they were gone, Max checked for messages, and nodded in satisfaction. Another acquisition was in progress. And high time, too, with such a demand for the product. . .
The minibus of Kappa Beta Phi sorority barreled over the road to the beach. Spring break was finally here, and the girls shrieked and laughed as the bus swerved in its hurry to reach the beach for the week of fun.
“Hey, watch those curves!” shouted Brittany over her shoulder, almost toppling over the seat she was kneeling backwards on.
“Watch your own!” shot back Samantha at the wheel as she glanced through the rearview mirror at Brittany’s tight-clad shorts and voluptuously filled t-shirt. “You’re jailbait, girl!”
The sorority sisters giggled with glee. “Bring on the boys!” came a yell from the back of the bus. Somebody opened the cooler, and chilled cans of beer were passed from seat to seat. Samantha, her blonde hair a mop, accepted a can and took a hearty swig, while her other hand pounded the steering wheel to the beat of the blaring radio.
A siren suddenly wailed behind them. “Oh, noooooo!” one of the girls cried. “Cops!” There was a mad scramble to put away the beer. Samantha glanced out the side window her beer can still held high on the steering wheel, and her eyes met the reflection sunglasses of an officer in a patrol van next to her as he gestured her to pull over. “We’re toast,” she muttered. She nudged the minivan over to the side of the road, and began rehearsing her sweet-and- innocent act.
Brittany had her own plan. She quickly opened a water bottle and splashed the liquid over her T-shirt.
“What are you doing?” one of the girls asked.
Brittany smiled her dazzling smile and looked down at the soaked t-shirt hugging the contours of her ripe breasts. “Cops are men, aren’t they? It’s worked before.”
The sorority sisters heard the doors of the parked patrol van slam behind them. Two officers sauntered up to the driver’s window.
“License and registration, please, Ma’am,” said one.
“Was I speeding, officer?” asked Samantha as she dug into her purse. “I’m awfully sorry, it’s just that we’re late to meet our parents, and—”
The officer held up an imperious hand. “Just let me see your license and registration, please, Ma’am”. Glumly, Samantha handed them over. In the meantime, Brittany had clamored out the bus, her t-shirt clinging to her jiggling breasts, and leaned nonchalantly against the minibus and smiled with seductive innocence at the cops. She parted her tanned legs slightly and gave a long, luxurious overarm stretch to thrust her breasts even further out, straining against the soaked cotton of the t-shirt. “I hope we haven’t been too bad,” she said coquettishly. One of them gave her an expressionless look through the dark glasses and went back to his scrutiny of the license. “This has expired,” one finally said. “And I believe we saw some drinking. We need everybody to get off the bus, and bring your ID’s.” There were chirps of dismay, but the girls—eight of them in all—were soon lined up by the minivan showing various stages of concern. One of the officers heaved himself inside the minivan. Samantha leaned over to another scantily-clad girl. “My daddy is going to kill me if I get a ticket,” she complained. They fretted under the sun, sweat beginning to run down there barely-clad bodies in rivulets.
The officer emerged from the van. In his hand were small plastic bags filled with pills. “Look what I found on the bus,” he said accusingly. The girls exchanged wide-eyed glances. “We’re going to have to take you in, all of you,” continued the officer.
“Not just a minute!” snapped Samantha. “None of us brought drugs or anything on the bus.”
“How did you know they were drugs?” countered the officer. “No more sass out of anybody. Come along!” he barked. The officers herded the protesting girls into the van parked behind the bus.
“But what about our bus?” demanded Samantha before she was shoved through the back door of the van.
“It will be taken care of,” said the officer as he closed and locked the door. The van drove off, leaving one of the officers behind, the one who had “discovered” the contraband. He climbed onto the minibus, turned on the ignition, and drove it to a deserted stretch of coast, a high cliff where the sea met the mountains. He slowed the bus to where the guard-rail had been carefully weakened. The officer prepared to dismount the bus, keeping one hand on the steering wheel—then gunned the engine. With an athletic leap, he rolled to safety as the minibus smashed into the guard railing and toppled into the depths of the crashing sea below. The officer stood up and pulled out his cell phone.
“Operation successful,” he called in. “Eight items retrieved, vehicle disposed.” Then the officer took off his bogus police cap and waited for retrieval.
* * *
The man known only as Max leaned back in his executive chair and regarded the Director of Marketing with patience. The office had a minimalist ambiance, with glass and chrome and various high-tech communication equipment. A large-screen television stood turned off at one side of the room; at the other side was a empty pedestal backlit with concealed stage lamps, as if any moment Max expected somebody to bring in a piece of art for display there.
“We’re backlogged for orders, and I’m beginning to get complaints from some of our best clients,” said Marketing. “You know what they’re like—getting what they want when they want it, is their mode of life. If they want to eat dinner in Paris, they fly there. If they’ve been promised a love doll of their dreams, they want it now.”
Max steepled his fingers, his gold cuffs glinting on his monogrammed sleeves. “Surely they understand our difficulties,” he said. “These girls are not easy to come by. They do not just drop in our laps like overripe apples. Why, just look at Maria,” he said, tilting his head to his personal office LoveDoll. She knelt naked and submissive by his chair, the long lashes of her eyes lowered, her long dark hair brushed over her shoulders to rest on her full breasts. Her hands lay open, her lips slightly parted, her body available for immediate use as much as the computer consoles or television screens that lined the office. As if reciting the LoveDoll’s provenance to a customer, Max said, “First noticed by our scouts while she was doing standard runway work as a model in Milan. Background check to assure no entangling relationships, two months. Acquisition took four months to plan and execute, done in such a way as to suggest no foul play. Physical enhancements—” and Max’s hand reached down to strum her always-erect nipples—“two months of treatment and recuperation, then another two months for mental conditioning and programming. Each one of our LoveDolls is a work of art, not a mass-produced commodity.”
“Yes,” grumbled Marketing, “try telling that to the Saudi princes, or the CEOs of those new Silicon Valley start-up tycoons, who have the money to demand instant gratification in every other facet of their lives, so why not with their LoveDoll?” He lay a stack of requisition orders on the glass-topped table that served as Max’s working space as if offering evidence before a judge. “Here’s an order for two blondes from that retired publisher in New York. Here, , a Japanese industrialist sent over his plane, expecting to pick one up off the shelf, apparently. This one, a banking titan in Liechtenstein in Europe—”
“I know where Liechtenstein is,” interrupted Max dryly , whose accent suggested his own European origins.
“—wants someone who looks like his deceased wife, God knows why, I’ve seen the woman’s picture. Now this one,” he said, fluttering a requisition order in the air, “is really interesting. Some aging film star in Hollywood who’s demanding twins—I mean, it’s endless, Max.” Marketing gave a massive shrug of despair.
“What’s currently in the pipeline?” asked Max, his hand stroking the glossy hair of Maria in an absent-minded way. The LoveDoll was already breathing shallowly, her breasts rising and falling in seductive rhythm, conditioned as she was to get aroused at his merest touch.
Marketing said, “Fourteen undergoing basic programming, eleven physical conditioning. Three in the clinic with body enhancements.”
Max spun in his chair to tap the keyboard of the computer behind. He nodded in satisfaction at the information on the screen. “And eight more acquisitions as of this morning, ready to start basic indoctrination.”
Marketing shook his head. “That’s what, about thirty-five subjects? We have orders for over a hundred. Ready buyers with cash in their hands, Max. Even if we doubled the price, the demand would still be there.”
Max said, “Patience, my friend. I’ve already put my long-range strategy into play. Plan on a steady source of subjects in the future. In the meantime, continue to accept orders, but emphasize to our clients that we need a little time to provide them with the woman of their dreams.”
Marketing looked at Max closely. “What do you mean, long-range strategy?”
Max offered one of his enigmatic smiles. “Ah, leave that to me.”
A buzzer sounded, and his secretary voice said, “Max, the new acquisitions have come in.”
“Excellent,” said Max. Then, to Marketing: “Shall we see our new guests? Let’s bring Maria. He pressed the “Follow” command on his wrist console, and Maria rose gracefully and fell into step behind the two men as they strode to the reception room.
Standing in row, some teary-eyed and all of them, naked, the seven kidnaped girls stared at them in trepidation. Cuffs held the girls’ wrists securely behind them, and hobble-chains on their ankles prevented any thought of escape. Bright red ball-gags kept their voices to mere helpless mewing. Max nodded to the grinning “officers” who stood guard. “Good job, gentlemen,” he said. Then he gave the women his horse-trader’s appraisal, looking them up and down and judging the potential of each new recruit.
Max smoothed his elegant-cut suit and said, “Welcome to all of you. I’m sure you all feel rather anxious and distressed at what has happened. But rest assured nobody means you any harm. As a matter of fact, I’m sure you’ll find the days ahead to be quite exciting and even pleasurable.”
Samantha struggled and hissed behind her gag, her beautiful brown eyes blazing. With a short inclination of his head, Max indicated to the guards to release the gag. Samantha immediately shrilled, “What are you doing to us? And who the hell are you? I demand to talk to whatever jerk is in charge of this place.” One of the guards made a move toward her, but Max shook his head.
He said to her in a calm voice, “I’m called Max. And I am the one who is in charge here.”
“Then you’d better let us go!” spat Samantha. “Or my daddy, when he finds out, is going to just killlll you!”
Max smiled. “I don’t think your father will find you. And to tell you the truth, young lady, even if he did, I rather doubt he would very much miss you, to tell you the truth, after reviewing your record. But be that as it may, you must all accept that fact that nobody knows you are here, that events have been arranged to prove that you all died in a rather tragic accident involving your vehicle being driven off the road and into the sea. A terrible tragedy, the result of too much partying.” One of the girls, Brittany, whose still-damp t-shirt displayed her marvelous chest, began weeping behind her gag, her large breasts heaving up and down with each little sob. “There, there,” said Max, patting her shoulder. “Things aren’t that bad. You’re all going to be well cared for, pampered, even. First, perhaps, a demonstration. . .? And Max’s fingers tapped the “Stand” command on his wrist console.
Maria rose. The captives stared at the beautiful girl, standing in almost sculpted perfection in shimmering bodysuit that seemed to accentuate her every curve and contour, so thin its smoothness looked line a second skin—even the nipples on her perfectly rounded breasts were fully defined. Her eyes had a look of serene calm, like twin still pools of water. Max ran his hand over her flanks in a fond, proprietary way.
“When Maria came to us, she was just as nervous as you all of you, surely,” he said. “But after completing a full program, you see her now. And who is to say she is not as happy as she’s ever been?” He cupped one of her breasts and ran his fingers over her nipples. Maria gave little shudder of pleasure.
Samantha tore her eyes off that blatant display of carnality, and Maria’s compliant response to it. “What do you mean, a full program?” she snapped. “What is this place?”
Max said, “We’re . .an employment agency. We select candidates such as yourselves, train them, then place them with clients who desire their services. Along the way, we help the candidates make certain psychological adjustments to their situation, and usually include some physical conditioning and beauty enhancement as well.” He continued to stroke Maria as he spoke.
Samantha snarled, “Well get this, mister—we don’t want your friggin’ program, and we don’t care about your clients, and you’d better let us go right now before—mmmmph!” Her outburst was cut off as one of the guards jammed the gag back in place.
Max eyed her carefully. Hmmm, he thought, lots of spirit in that one. He thought of a special request from one of the clients, a big-game hunter. “Sorry to bring our little dialogue to a close, my dear,” he said, “but we really ought to get started.” He turned to the guards. “Gentlemen, if you could escort these ladies to the examination room. Tell Dr. Chacornac to visit with me about this one”—he gestured to the struggling Samantha—“and this one too,” he said, pointing now to the large-bosomed Brittany.
As the girls were being forcibly escorted out of the room and into their new lives, Marketing said glumly. “Eight girls. Not nearly enough to fill demand.”
Max said, “Leave that to me. It’s well in hand.”
Darcie McVey, celebrity host of “It’s a Girl’s World”, smiled into the camera as her TV show drew to a close. Her face was pretty, if not beautiful, and her voice was honey-sweet. “I thought our viewing audience had some excellent call-ins on today’s topic, Flirting in the Office.’ Before saying goodbye until tomorrow, I want to say a word of thanks to all of you who sent me flowers when I got my sniffles last week. You’re all so kind. . . It’s those little gestures that make me want to reach out and hug every one of you. And keep your fan mail coming in, I try to read all of your letters. Really I do.” Her eyes twinkled as she recited her standard sign-off. “And now we have to go. See you tomorrow, and remember—it’s a girl’s world, out there!” Darcie smiled perkily and waved as the theme music melded in.
“Cut to commercial,” said the producer. “Good job, everybody.”
“Good job, my ass!” snarled Darcie, the perky smile replaced by a sneer. “I had make-up running down my cheeks, but did any of you notice? No! And the light was bouncing off the glass tabletop again right into my eyes. I thought you were going to fix that.”
“Sorry, Miss McVey,” said the producer. “I’ll get somebody from tech support—”
“And do something about all those flowers in my dressing room! The place is beginning to look like a friggin’ funeral home!”
Darcie McVey stormed out of the studio. In her wake followed her newly assigned assistant, Louise. When Darcie got to her dressing room, she flung herself into the chair next to the lighted mirror and began wiping away her show make-up. Louise stuck her head in the door.
“Miss McVey?” called Louise. “I got the schedule for next week, if you’d like to approve those topics.” Darcie snatched the clipboard out of her hand. As she read, Louise’s eyes could not help but rove over plush dressing room, done to Darcie’s McVey’s precise demands. Gilded mirrors. Italian marble on the floor. And the walls were plastered with celebrity photographs of the rich & famous she had interviewed, and Darcie’s boyfriends over the years, displayed like trophies. The fact that the last boyfriend’s smiling face was impaled with a letter-opener showed, in terms of the psycho-babble that was a hallmark of her show, that Darcie had not yet “achieved closure over the broken relationship.”
“Some of those topics look kinda interesting,” ventured Louise hesitantly. She knew about Darcie’s reputation as a bitch-celebrity boss to work for—the screaming tantrums, the demand her staff run her personal errands, her assumption that her assistance come running at the merest whim.
“They’re garbage,” retorted Darcie, as she flung the clipboard to dressing table. “How many times do I have to tell them that I want to have serious shows from now on. I’ve paid my dues on their silly little good-housekeeping program, and I want some kinghell RESPECT!” Louise froze at the venom in the woman’s voice. Darcie snatched the memo off her desk. “Just listen to topics,” she said, and read, “Ten Tips for Terrific Toenails’. . . Making Your Husband Fall in Love With You All Over Again,” . . . “Do’s and Don’ts on the First Date.’” She flung the paper back down. “This makes me want to puke!”
The assistant Louise blinked through her thick glasses as the darling of the afternoon talk shows rip through some cursing that would have made a drill instructor blush. “But Miss McVey,” she protested obsequiously, “you have the highest rated show in the afternoon time slot in the country. All my friends just adore your programs. Why, just look at what happened to those bunny-tail bedroom slippers you endorsed—one little quip from you on your program last week, and the stores have run out. You can’t find them anywhere.”
Darcie McVey rolled her eyes and said, “But can’t anybody at network headquarters see I’m sick of gushing over things like bunny-tail bedroom slippers?” she said. “I want to interview Senators and CEO’s and foreign leaders. I want to report on world events, not tea parties and the latest make-up fads. I’m beyond all that now, I don’t care how much they pay me. I am not some kind of” Darcie paused with her lips pursed, trying to come up with the right word, " . . . ornament for their mindless talk shows.” Darcie’s eyes narrowed on the dowdy figure of her assistant. “You’ve been working for me for six months now, and you haven’t done a thing to help me!”
“Me?” quailed Louise. “I mean, what could I possibly do to help?”
“Haven’t you been listening? Find me some good programs. You’re an assistant producer—so you’d better start producing something,” snapped Darcie McVey. “I’m really not sure you’re giving me a full hundred percent motivation.”
“Oh, Miss McVey, I’d do anything for you, you know that. . .” said Louise quickly, aware that Darcie’s last assistant lasted exactly three days.
I’m stuck with losers, thought Darcie to herself. Just look at my so-called assistant: frumpy, terrible make-up, clothes straight from the bargain bin. And those black-rimmed glasses look like something my mother would have worn. Darcie’s practiced eye could see her assistant could be quite attractive if she took care of herself. But Darcie was not about to waste her time educating her. She was aware how much her own looks and sex appeal added to her career, and she was not about to let anyone outshine her. Not now, not when she could become a real television personality, not just last year’s blonde.
“Well then?” demanded Darcie. “Any ideas?”
Louise nervously ran her hands over her wrinkled cotton blouse and said, “Well, there is something, maybe, I could do. I know somebody who works a company that, likes, investigates accidents for the police, and this friend, he’s on the team doing that accident last week, you know, where those sorority girls were killed going over that cliff into the sea? At least they thought they were all killed. Well, my friend said they had found some odd kind of connections to a string of other disappearances—all young women, all gone without a trace. I might be able to get a peek at his file. . .” she added hopefully, pathetic in her eagerness to please Darcie McVey. “I know he said he had some photos of the missing girls.”
Darcie said, “Hmmm.... an investigative report...all right, Louise. Get that file and we’ll have a look.”
Louise paused at the doorway. “Um, Miss McVey, if I do a good job, could you give me screen credit as the producer on this report? I mean, if it comes to anything? It would really help my career.”
“Of course, Louise, “said Darcie McVey. “If you make this happen, I’d be glad to give you credit along my name.” When hell freezes over, you little parasite, Darcie added silently to herself. She flung herself off the make-up chair and headed for her closet, but tripped over a bouquet of irises propped against the wall. “Will somebody do something about all these damn flowers!” she yelled.
Two weeks later Max was having dinner in his favorite Manhattan restaurant. Uptown, first class food, and a wine list that made him feel he was back in France. He was just sipping his after-dinner Napoleon brandy when a woman marched up to his table.
“I believe they call you Max,” she said.
Max calmly put down his brandy snifter and looked up at her through his rimless glasses. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “You know me, but I do not know you.” He frowned, then smiled. “But wait—of course I recognize you. I have even seen your show on the television from time to time. But I cannot remember your name, forgive me.”
“You’ll know it soon enough,” said the woman. She glanced at the empty chair on the other side of the table, and slid into it before Max could invite her. “My name is Darcie McVey,” she said as she smoothed her dress to take her seat, keeping her attache case on her lap.
“Ah, but of course,” said Max. “Your program is quite. . . amusing. Do you often invite yourself to the table of gentlemen to whom you have not been introduced? I still find the customs of this country very interesting. Would you care for something to drink?”
“Cut the Old World charm, Max,” said Darcie McVey. “And as for my program, you’re going to find it even more amusing. Because you are going to be on it.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Oh? To what do I owe this honor?”
Darcie produced a file from her attache case. “Look at this,” she said simply.
Max opened the file hesitantly. He flipped through the papers idly, then a frown creased his mouth and he began studying them in earnest. Darcie smiled to herself. That’s right, Max, you can start sweating now, she thought. It was critical for her to keep the initiative.
When Max finished the file, he fished in his coat pocket for a cigarette case, and carefully selected one. He leaned back in a cloud of smoke, holding the slim cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, palm up. “So where did you get these . . . fabrications, Miss McVey?” he asked.
“That doesn’t matter, does it, Max?”
“It might.” Max flipped through the file again. “Prostitution. . .kidnaping. . .money laundering. . ..connections to offshore powers. . .these are all serious accusations.”
“That’s right, Max. And you’re going to hear them broadcast live on my show. Tonight.”
“I didn’t think your program dealt with such issues, Miss McVey.” He took a leisurely puff on his cigarette. Classical piano music floated in from the bar.
Darcie was struck by his calm. So as not to be out-maneuvered, she produced a slim cigar, lit it, and matched her smoke for his. “It hasn’t, up to now. But all that’s going to change. I intend to blow the whistle on your little operation.”
Max said, “Ah, but such threats usually come with an offer. What is your offer, Miss McVey? Surely this conversation is not merely to alert me to watch your program so I can find out more about myself, and alert my lawyers to start a defamation lawsuit immediately against you and your network.”
Darcie’s heart was hammering, although she kept her face composed. She knew the file that Louise filched from the investigators was a collection of loose leads, nothing definite. And she really did not have a clear idea what this man was up to. But this was her big chance to do a serious show. Time to bluff, she thought.
“Oh, that’s just a fraction of what we’ve accumulated. You’ll have to see the show to get the full picture. And as for my offer, it’s this: I want the inside scoop of your operation. I want a guided tour of your whole network—personal interviews, background, the works. And I want an exclusive—just me.”
Max was silent for a minute. “Even if I admitted these fantastic charges, why would I open our operation to you?”
Darcie McVey said, “Because I’m willing to hold the broadcast and give you time to close your network and get out of the country with your skin.”
Max took another draw on his cigarette. Then he said, “Suppose we just forget about the show, and I just make a counter-offer to you. A financial reward for your. . .discretion, in not doing this show.”
“No deal. I want this story.”
Max sighed. “Very well, suppose you join me this evening in my penthouse, and bring that file with you—”
Darcie McVey snorted. “And wind up in the bottom of Hudson River, and the file burned in your fireplace? No thanks. I’ve made sure that somebody else knows about this, and will act immediately if I disappear like your other victims.” And Darcie thought that Louise finally did have her uses, if only for agreeing to keep a copy of the file as a guarantee. It was Louise who implored Darcie not to risk herself, but Darcie was not about to share the spotlight with anybody. Louise was something of a little fool, with her meek submissiveness and dowdy appearance. But at least she could keep her mouth shut. So Darcie McVey had instructed her carefully that if she did not return in two days, to call the police and come and rescue her. Even that might make a good story, if things don’t work out, she thought.
Max smiled without humor like a man forced to show his low cards. He seemed to think for a while, then said, “As I said before, Miss McVey, you seem to have me at a disadvantage. I agree to your proposal. But I would need three weeks to close our operation here with a minimum of disruption, and arrange for residence in a country without extradition procedures. We anticipated sooner or later this day would come, you see.”
“Three weeks?” repeated Darcie. Three weeks would mean, if the file were to be believed, there were kidnap victims already in the pipeline. Three weeks would mean they would probably disappear to wherever Max dispatched his captives. So what? she said to herself. As long as I get this story.
“Max, you have yourself a deal,” she said.
They left immediately. Darcie insisted on it, knowing that was her best protection against a set up. But as Max settled his bill, she had time to call up Louise to let her know she “was going in,” as she put it dramatically, and to remind the little nitwit—one more time!—about what to do if Darcie didn’t contact her by the next day. Max’s limousine picked them up outside the restaurant. He murmured a word to the driver, and Darcie McVey found herself watching through the tinted windows as the streets flashed by. Eventually they stopped somewhere on the upper East side at a nondescript brownstone. Max led the way down some steps where a doorman made a little bow to Max and opened the door. Darcie found herself in a plush reception area, like the lobby of a grand hotel.
Darcie McVey had dressed according to her concept of the Investigative Journalist in the Field—trenchcoat with the strapped pulled tight across her slim waist, pullover jacket with pockets filled with pens and recorders and tiny secret cameras Louise had procured for her—and sensible shoes. As she looked around, she began to feel a little self-conscious about her appearance. After all, her image from her talk show was one of carefully cultivated style. And the receptionists in the lobby dressed in designer outfits, all of them young and beautiful and very deferential to Max.
“How’s business?” he asked as they took his coat.
“Very good tonight, sir,” said a striking brunette. She wore a low-cut dress and what appeared to be an elegantly-styled black velvet choker around her slim neck. “A table for two, then, sir?”
Max led her through a side door into a large anteroom. From behind a second set of doors, Darcie could hear muted thump of dance music. Max inserted an entrance card into a slot and escorted his guest inside. Darcie’s eyes opened wide.
A cavernous club seethed with motion and lights and sensuous shadows and the clink of glasses. Laughter and whispers and bubbling conversation provided background to the music, music that seemed keyed precisely into some deep throbbing sensual rhythm. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Darcie could make out dance stages where beautiful women swayed and flowed to the beat of the music. Other girls sat with the clientele, or danced before them, topless as on stage.. Waitresses, dressed as scantily as the dancers, circulated among the audience tendering drinks and meals to the patrons.
Darcie’s heart sank. So this was the big secret—a strip club? Not exactly the great expose of my career, she thought. A hostess greeting Max with the same deferential familiarity as the receptionists, and guided them to a table. Max ordered drinks, and Darcie was so busy looking around that she did not notice that Max ordered drinks.
From their table at the center of the club, Darcie could see that club was even larger than she had seen from the doorway. It was built on many levels, with the revolving colored lights revealing nooks and crannies and corners. Occasionally a door would open in some far wall, and Darcie caught a glimpse of more stages, more dancers, throngs of clients—mostly men but with a few women—moving easily between the rooms.
And then she noticed that each dancer wore a collar embossed with a name. No DJ’s voice boomed over the club, yet the dancers ebbed and flowed onto the stages in perfect order. Darcie noticed other patterns in the room as well. The clientele seemed wealthy, completely at ease, with business attire or even evening dress. She caught sight of some exotic outfits—two men with trimmed beards wearing the checkered headdress of Saudi princes, their dark eyes glued to the dance stages. The waitresses were uncommonly attractive. Where could Max find such good looking women to serve as waitresses, she wondered. Each one could pass as a supermodel. But if the waitresses were beautiful, the dancers were. . . goddesses.
Darcie knew a thing or two about feminine beauty. After all, she got her start in broadcasting on the strength of her own tawny good looks. But these dancers seem to possess an innate sensuality that stoked desire, combined with bodies that seemed utterly perfected to slake any man’s appetites. Or woman’s, Darcie conceded to herself, as her eyes locked with those of a dark-haired dancer on a nearby stage.
A waitress appeared out of the darkness bearing the drinks. Darcie absently accepted the cold glass, then asked, “What is this?”
“Why, merely Chardonnay wine,” said Max.
This gave Darcie pause. “That happens to be my favorite drink,” she said suspiciously. “How do I know it’s not drugged?”
Max looked at her thoughtfully, then switched glasses. “If there be poison in thy wine,” he quoted, “then let my life pay for thine.” And he quaffed the brandy and gave her one of his infuriating half-smiles.
Darcie could not help but smile herself. “All right, I believe you.” she said. “So all this is yours?” she asked with a sweep of her hand.
“I look after things here,” answered Max vaguely.
“So where do you get all these good looking babes?”
“Oh, from the usual sources. We have quite a reputation among the entertainers. Some of them come from overseas.”
“And where do you come from, Max?”
“Me? Oh, Miss McVey, in my business one becomes something of a . . .citizen of the world.”
“You aren’t very informative.”
“Alas, it’s my nature,” he said. He followed Darcie’s eyes to the dark-haired dancer. Max raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Does that one appeal to you? Would you like a performance?”
“Oh, no thanks,” said Darcie. “Just looking.” But Max beckoned the dancer over to their table. The girl slid off the stage compliantly and made her way to their table. Another dancer immediately took her place on the empty stage.
“This is Celeste,” said Max. Darcie stuck out her hand. But Celeste gracefully knelt in front of Darcie’s feet.
“Oh, really,” protested Darcie. But then the music began another set, and Celeste rose slowly to the beat of the rhythm.
Darcie’s sexual experience with other women was limited to a few college “experiments” (as she thought of them) with other coeds, and fending off the occasional butch passes at her own beauty. But nothing had prepared her for the seductive spell of the dancer in front of her. Celeste weaved back and forth, her limbs and torso undulating in fluid motion, obviously trained well in her art. From time to time she would lean forward, her firm full breasts swaying with hypnotic allure to barely brush Darcie’s cheeks with her nipples. That close, Darcie inhaled the intoxicating bodyscent of the woman, and felt her own body responding to the dancer’s lithe movements. Unbidden, Darcie’s hands were slowly drawn to touch the girl’s thighs, her fingertips exploring that satiny smooth skin. Once, when her touch trailed on the creamy inside of the dancer’s thighs, Celeste closed her long-lashed eyes and emitted a tiny gasp and whispering sigh of pure sensual delight. She turned around, her well-toned back and asscheeks offered to Darcie’s view, then with another movement in the music, she spun again, leaning forward so her warm breasts pillowed Darcie’s face and her silky hair formed a canopy for the just the two of them. The dancer’s lips brushed Darcie’s, with the faintest and most tantalizing of kisses, soft and promising, as only a woman can kiss—and then the dance was over and Celeste drifted back to an open stage.
Darcie sat back, blinking, her loins moist with desire, her heart hammering like engine. She shook her head to clear it, darting a quick glance at Max, to see if he was leering at her. But not at all. Max was studying the stage, his fingers steepled in that curious professorial manner.
Darcie said shakily, “That was, uh, amazing. I’ll give you this, Max—your girls know their business. How much should I tip her?”
“Nothing.”
“What, no dollar bills tucked into the G-string?” But Darcie’s survey of the club showed that no such customs were at work here. But by now, her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, and she could see dim forms in the shadows, slow movements, the occasional polished fingernails gripping the top of wing-backed chair. Darcie squinted, and across the room could suddenly make out a stunningly attractive blonde straddling a seated man, grinding her hips down on his pelvis in tempo to the music, while the man gripped her waist and began. . .fucking her. Darcie blinked to make sure she was seeing right. Yes, they were making love—openly copulating as if in the privacy of a secluded beach or hotel room. Nobody took notice. A waitress stopped only long enough to freshen their drinks. And by now the blonde’s head was thrown back, while the man’s mouth sought out the moist hollow of her throat, his thrusts becoming more savage, driving the woman into head-thrashing moans of pleasure. Then as she looked around the room even more, she could see that behavior was the rule, more than the exception. One man in a tuxedo leaned back in a chair while two kneeling sirens competed with their tongues to minister to his engorged cock. Another guest—a mature but still attractive matron—calmly undid her blouse and directed her entertainer’s mouth between the matron’s breasts. No wonder the club had such a sexual tension to it—half the patrons were ravishing some of the most beautiful women Darcie had ever seen!
Darcie gathered her wits by taking a long drink from her glass. She cleared her throat and said to Max, “Well, it looks like our little club has a few extracurricular activities.”
Max shrugged. “Consenting adults, mon ami,” he said. “When you are as rich and powerful as the people who are guests here, surely you do not feel confined by middle class conventions of morality.”
“Well, yes, but. . .where do you get these women, Max? Any one of them could be on the cover of a fashion magazine, or a swimsuit calendar.” Instead of subjugating themselves to the lust of these degenerates, she wanted to add, but didn’t. Something else was odd; the dancers did not seem to talk—they flowed through the room in a seamless circuit from the dance stages to the waiting laps of the customers. Then through the spirals of cigarette smoke and flashing lights, Darcie spied a familiar face from one of the photos in the investigation file on the abducted women. She couldn’t remember the name, but she was certain the dancer on the far stage was a school teacher who had disappeared about six months ago. And here she was now, lasciviously sliding herself up and down a shiny stainless steel pole, her body, slick with sweat and clothed only in a tiny G-string, was far more voluptuous than Darcie remembered in the photo.
Max said, “As you can see, this is an upscale establishment. The dancers are well taken care of. The club is fun, they get to laugh and make good money and meet rich, powerful people.”
But Darcie suspected something. This secret club, the incredibly attractive and docile dancers, an abducted schoolteacher now gyrating seductively on stage as if born to topless dancing—not to mention the unabashed open sex in half the couches and chairs in the room—this didn’t add up. Darcie whirled on Max. “This club is just a front, Max. I know a scam when I see one. There’s something wrong with these girls. They don’t seem to even care that everybody can see them—doing what they’re doing. So what’s the deal? Are they drugged? Blackmailed? Beaten?”
At the last, Max’s eyebrows shot up in genuine shock. “Drugged? Really, Miss McVey, you do us an injustice!”
“Cut the bull, you cultured creep!” retorted Darcie. “I’m marching out that door this minute, and straight to the police, and we can let the authorities get to the bottom of this. And don’t forget, I have insurance—if something should happen to me, your story will hit the streets by the end of the day!” Once again Darcie congratulated herself on giving frumpy Louise precise instructions to carry out her threat of full disclosure of the file, if Darcie didn’t return. Max could read the intent in her eyes. He sighed, a great Gallic release of breath accompanied by an elaborate shrug. “How do I know you will keep your word about giving us time to close up our little operation?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ve given you no word to keep,” said Darcie coolly, playing the upper hand. “I don’t think you have much choice.”
“What drives you to do this, Miss McVey? You have an excellent media career already. Your talk show is famous, even in Europe. And here you are now, fishing in very deep waters.”
“I’ll tell you what, Max. This story is going to make my career. For too long I’ve been treated like a potted plant by the network. A pretty face to dispense drivel to the young adult women’s market. I need to show them I can handle a real story.”
Max gave a resigned shrug. “Well, you seem too motivated for me to stop you. Come with me.” And he took her gently by the elbow past the dance stages toward another set of doors. Darcie tried not to look at the copulating couples along the way. The couples themselves paid not the slightest attention as they walked past. Darcie tried to hide the look of disgust on her face that women could allow themselves to be toyed with in public that way. These woman have no pride, she thought, as she felt the elation of forcing Max into giving in to her demands.
Max talked as they walked down a corridor. “I’m going to give you the grand tour, Miss McVey. We’re actually quite proud of what we’ve put together here.”
“I bet you are.”
“No, I’m quite serious. We deal in a very special commodity here.”
“Sex is not that special, Max. You can get it at any massage parlor.”
“Ah, but that’s precisely the point, my dear. We do not sell sex. We sell sex slaves.” He said it matter-of-factly.
Darcie stopped in her tracks. “What?!”
Max said, “We discovered quite a market exists for docile, well-trained women to serve the sexual needs of their masters. Once you get over the morality of it, the economics make perfect sense. Many wealthy men attempt to buy the affections of younger lovers; we just took it to the next logical step. More compliant that a wife, more loyal than a mistress—and far more versatile than a trophy girlfriend.”
Darcie said, “But how—I mean, don’t they run away? How can you get away with a thing like this?”
Max said, “You asked several questions, there, Miss McVey. Let me see if I can answer them. How? Neurological conditioning and physical development. The slaves—we call them LoveDolls, by they way—don’t run away because by the time we finish with them, they are quite reprogrammed to their new life. The very thought of running away would never occur to them. And what was the last? Oh, yes, how do we get away with it? Well, we run a very discrete operation. New clients must be sponsored by an existing client. We take adequate safeguards.”
“I still don’t see how you can turn a normal, intelligent person into some kind of robot slave,” declared Darcie.
“I”ll show you how,” said Max. “Sometimes our clients like to come by and watch as their personal LoveDoll is prepared. This is the observation corridor that follows the various rooms in the process. Sometimes our clients like to visit and inspect what we’re doing with their, ah, investment.”
Process? wondered Darcie, as Max led her to the first chamber.
The observation deck was like an amphitheater over a surgical operations room. Darcie looked through the glass partition at the activity in the clinic below. Centered the room was a chair that looked like a dentist’s chair, complete with head-rest, tilted far back. Behind the chair was a bank of computers and monitors.
Being led to the chair was a young woman; Darcie would guess her to be about college-age. The girl was held securely by each arm as she was guided into the chair. She walked unsteadily, as if sedated, and it appeared to Darcie that she resisted as much as her weak condition allowed. But the clinicians settled her into the chair with little effort and snapped a metal band across her forehead. Straps secured her arms, legs and torso.
“What’s going on?” asked Darcie.
Max said, “We call this the incubator’. The girl you see down there was acquired several days ago. Young, in good health, attractive. Yesterday she underwent a rather specialized cranial operation. Our team of neurosurgeons have identified the sensory perception zones of the brain, and have found a way to access them. A small neurotransmitter has been installed in the subject’s cerebral cortex, connected to a jack at the base of the skull.”
“And what does all that mean?” asked Darcie, as she watched the team settle a kind of virtual-reality helmet over the girl’s eyes.
Max said, “It means we can make her see things, hear things, even feel things in her own mind. And reinforce those perceptions by intense pleasure—or by a sensation of unpleasantness applied directly to her mind.” The girl was struggling weakly, but straps soon held her immobile in the chair. And as for the pleasure stimulus. . .”
And Darcie saw how they undid a small velco seal between her legs, and gently but firmly inserted a large powered dildo deep into the girl’s sex. Faint muffled protests could be heard through the helmet, but despite her attempts to fight the straps, the dildo slid home.
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