Indoctrination - Chapter 13

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WARNING! This is a work of erotic BDSM FICTION. It is ADULT ORIENTED MATERIAL of an EXTREME SEXUAL NATURE, including acts of abduction, exhibitionism, humiliation, and discipline. This is not for readers who are easily offended or incapable of distinguishing fact from fiction. The author does not promote such activity in real life unless it is between consenting adults and practiced safely. The author does not promote or suggest the use of drugs mentioned in this chapter. The copyright of this story remains with the author, Night Owl. This posting does not give anyone the rights to post or print content without obtaining the author's permission first.
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Indoctrination
by Night Owl


Chapter 13: Hunters

Buffalo, Missouri . . .

The van seemed innocent enough parked along the street. Half a dozen vehicles were parked there also, and since its windows were tinted, a passer-by wouldn't have noticed the man sitting almost motionless behind the wheel. He was not a resident in that neighborhood, but for three weeks he had been there on business, and his business was in the house he was watching.

The man's name was Jason Clark. He was a 'slaver' or more professionally referred to as a 'recruiter', on contract with The Organization to find, survey and abduct young, attractive women. This was his first assignment leading a ‘crew’ on his own, but Sonia had trained him well. He knew how to set up a surveillance system and could 'shadow' a target as well as any U.S. federal agent.

He observed the woman intently and even somewhat anxiously as she finally emerged through her front door. She was a gorgeous blonde with an athletic figure and D-cupped breasts that were not only impressive in size, but looked as firm and round as a pair of ripe melons. Jason often referred to them as "Power Girl tits" in reference to a DC Comics character he remembered as a kid, and he was sure this woman’s knockers couldn’t possibly be her own.

She wore the usual outfit -- a spandex sports bra top and running shorts cut high and loose around her well-toned thighs. Her long golden hair was now braided into a ponytail. Still standing on the porch, she briefly scanned the neighborhood, as if to make sure there were no gawkers nearby. Her eyes didn't even pause on the dark van parked across the street.

"Ok, sweetheart," Jason said to himself, "Now start your warm-up."

As if done by order, she lifted one leg on the railing and began the usual routine of stretching before her early morning jog.

"Yeah, that’s it. Just like clockwork."

After three weeks, he had memorized every routine about the girl. He knew when she started her runs, what time she left for work in the morning, and when she came home in the afternoon. He knew which nights she took her aerobics classes. After he was given the assignment, Jason and his crew immediately went to work, entering her house with pick locks, bugging her phones to record conversations, and setting up pinhole surveillance cameras in almost every room, including the bedroom and bathroom.

As he watched the woman lean forward to stretch each raised leg, Jason imagined she was putting on this little show for his benefit, beckoning him to come over and violate her in any way he pleased. Too bad this little fantasy would never come to reality though because Sonia had lectured him many times that pleasures of that nature never mixed well with business.

The woman dropped the other leg then raised her arms high to stretch her upper body. Jason peered through his binoculars to get a better look, his eyes focusing on how her breasts thrust outward so provocatively while she arched her back, and in the way her nipples underneath strained against the spandex top. No doubt in his mind, someone was going to fork up a huge chunk of change to become this girl’s owner!

After loosening up, she began her run, heading down the street in the opposite direction. Jason watched her until she turned the corner, then he lifted the mic,

"Gazelle is on the move," his code word for the woman. "Stand-by."

"Roger," a voice answered.

The other two men were waiting in their truck only a few blocks away. Jason estimated the girl would be gone 40 minutes, having clocked her a dozen or so times before. When she returned, she would be good and tired from her workout, and less likely to put up much of a struggle. That's when they would make their move.

Until then, Jason had plenty of time to kill and wished he had brought a newspaper or even a book to read. Instead, he pulled out the pocket file Sonia had given him on the girl and began leafing through its contents. There were numerous surveillance photos taken of her -- eating dinner, dressing, undressing, sleeping, showering, even a few of her masturbating in her bedroom. There was also a profile:

File Opened: May 04, 2000
Name: Heidi Strobel
Age: 26
Born: October 29, 1973
Birthplace: Bethesda, Maryland
Marital Status: Single
Occupation: P.E. Teacher
Current Residence: 246 Cottonwood Lane, Buffalo, Missouri
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Eyes: Brown
Hair Color: Blonde
Height: 5 ft. 9"
Weight: 110 lbs.
Bust: 30" DD
Waist: 24"
Hips: 32"
Figure: Hourglass, Slender and Athletic
Skin Color: Light Almond

The file then went over her bio in more detail. Most of it was worthless, but Sonia always insisted on being very thorough in her reports -- Bachelor of Arts degree in exercise physiology . . . secondary education and physical education from Drury University in Springfield, Missouri . . . currently, a physical education and health teacher at Pendleton High School . . . previously worked as a sales representative for a lingerie company . . . a secretary in a doctor's office . . . etc . . . etc.

Her most recent faculty photo for the high school yearbook showed a very sexy dish trying to appear official in her white polo shirt with a Pendleton logo on the pocket and whistle around her neck. Jason couldn't recall any of his P.E. teachers looking this good, or even being a woman for that matter -- just ex-marines and washed-up football players. And they were always shouting at the students, as if they were to blame for how their own lives ended up.

"Keep those toes on the line!" Jason remembered the words while he and his classmates lined up in their matching gym shorts and t-shirts.

He looked at the photo again and imagined this bombshell blonde walking to class, looking very leggy in her shorts, and wearing a white tank top with her whistle dangling between those torpedo-like breasts, drawing heated stares from every boy she passed in the halls. He wondered how many of those boys jerked off at night with a mental picture of her still fresh in their minds.

Jason scanned the rest of Heidi Strobel’s profile until he got to the part that he was searching for:

Subject Character and Behavioral Profile: Type A personality . . . extremely independent . . . past sexual history shows high activity but monogenous . . . signs of submissive characteristics – very low . . . training could be very difficult . . . advise we drop this candidate.

Those were Sonia’s notes. Jason knew she felt this one was a bad choice, and in spite of her drop-dead good looks, he was inclined to agree.

"I could fuck her all night," he once told his crew, "but I wouldn’t try to domesticate the bitch."

It was obvious this Strobel chick didn’t match the category of woman they were always looking for, but Sonia told him The Board of Directors, who ultimately made every decision on how The Organization was run, wanted this one anyway and gave the go-ahead to bring her in ASAP for indoctrination.

And so here he was.

About 40 minutes later, just as Jason guessed, the woman came jogging back to the house. He lifted the mic again.

"Gazelle in sight," he said, "let's roll."

"On our way," answered the other voice.

In less than five minutes, a delivery truck appeared and pulled up in front of her house. It was actually an old U-Haul that had been repainted with a logo that read "Smythe Bros. Furniture" on the sides.

"Now to get this show on the road," Jason said out loud to nobody. He was feeling anxious again.


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Dave Roberts emerged from his truck and walked confidently up to the front door while his partner, Marco Sanchez, stayed in the cab and waited. Both men were wearing delivery uniforms with a Smythe Bros. patch stitched above the front pocket. The woman was still dressed in her bra top and shorts when she answered the door, her perfectly tanned skin beading with perspiration all over. Like Jason, he admired the nice tits on this one but forced himself not to look at them.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," he said, "I'm with Smythe Brothers Furniture. We have your sofa ready to bring in."

"I didn't order a sofa."

"Are you sure?" Dave glanced at the fake form on his clipboard. "This IS the Brooks residence, isn't it?"

"No. Strobel."

He then read off the house number and street.

"You have the right address but there’s no one here by that name," she answered, sounding slightly irritated.

"Shit! Oh . . . sorry about my language, but we were supposed to get this sofa delivered over an hour ago, and now they've given me the wrong address. Do you think you could let me use your phone so I can call the warehouse?"

"Uh . . . well sure, go ahead," the woman stepped aside to let him in. "It’s through the living room in the kitchen."

"Thank you. I really do apologize for this. It’ll only take a minute."

Dave grabbed the phone and dialed a number, then pretended to talk to his supervisor. The woman was drying off with a towel. She moved passed him to the sink and poured herself a glass of water. Dave continued his fake conversation, but quietly hung up the phone. He reached into his pocket. The plastic bag opened easily as he got the chloroform-soaked cloth ready.

"I've never heard of Smythe Brothers," she said while still facing away from him at the sink. "Where are they locat . . ."

The woman's words were cut off as he pounced on her from behind. The glass fell from her hands, spraying water and shattered pieces all over the floor. His left arm locked around her chest while he used his right hand to cover her face with the cloth. She struggled frantically, twisting, grabbing at his arms, scratching, kicking. Her strength surprised him at first. Dave had almost forgotten he was dealing with a well-trained athlete who obviously knew how to defend herself, but he had surprise to his advantage and the chloroform quickly took effect. Within moments, her arms fell limp to her sides and her legs lost their ability to support her weight. Dave continued to hold her tightly for a minute until he was sure she was really out, then he carried her into the living room and gently laid her on the floor. It took a moment for him to catch his breath, then he proceeded to the front door and waved the signal to his partner in the delivery truck. Jason also saw it through his binoculars and breathed a sigh of relief.

Dave knelt down next to the woman's prone form to check her pulse and respiration rate. Having once been a pre-med student, he knew there was always the possibility of a negative reaction to the chloroform. Satisfied she was in no danger he pulled a small case out of a pocket in his overalls that contained a syringe with just the right dosage of Midazolam to keep her under.

He then unzipped her top in front and pulled it off. Dave had never seen this woman up close before and couldn’t resist running his hands over her breasts and giving them a squeeze. He tweaked and pinched her nipples then, out of curiosity, checked her breasts underneath for any scars.

"Damn," he thought. "They are definitely real. Jason was wrong about that."

The woman’s shorts came off next and Dave was about to continue his exploration of her body down below when Marco suddenly walked through the door.

"You took your time getting in here," Dave snapped.

"I was waiting for you to come out. I can’t drag that crate in by myself, you know."

They went outside to the truck and brought in a large, 6 ft. x 3 ft. crate that was mostly empty except for a few items they would use to get their captive ready for the journey. One of those items was a white canvas straitjacket used in institutions and clinics. Dave worked her arms into the long sleeves of the restrictive garment, then pulled them tightly across her chest and locked them securely in place in back. A padded strap at the base of the jacket was pulled snug up against her crotch to keep it secure down there.

Next, he took a roll of duct tape and taped her legs together at the ankles, knees, and upper thighs. After her body was secured, Dave and Marco lifted the woman into the crate, which was padded inside to keep her from moving too much and harming herself if she were to wake up from the sedative. To insure she had enough oxygen once the crate was closed, an air mask was secured over her mouth that ran to a small air tank fastened inside the crate.

While Dave finished with the woman, Marco cleaned up the spilled water and carefully picked up all of the glass, then put it into a plastic bag to take with them so there would be no evidence left behind. It was also his job to remove all camera and listening devices, and to wipe away any fingerprints.

Jason watched from the van while his partners carried the crate from the house and loaded it into the truck.

"Everything go well?" he spoke into the mic.

"Yeah, no sweat," Dave answered.

"Good, I'll meet you at the rendezvous point. We have a long drive ahead of us."

With that, Jason waited until the truck was out of site, then started up the van and followed.


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Everyone knew Elma Peterson to be the neighborhood gossip. At age 71, and with only a walker to move around in, she had little to do all day but watch people from her living room window or, if the weather was agreeable, she could observe them while sitting on her porch.

Much of her tattle was just that, but occasionally she hit pay dirt – like when she found out Bill and Maggie Stevenson were getting a divorce before anyone else even suspected their marriage was in the dumps, or how Shawna McFarland, the cheerleader who lived three houses up, got herself pregnant and had to get an abortion when her parents found out.

Elma got all sorts of tasty bits of information just by watching her neighbors through the window or listening to their conversations as they walked past her house. She also had her friend Norma Watts to trade gossip with over the phone. Sometimes those conversations could last more than two hours.

So when Elma saw the delivery truck parked outside Heidi Strobel's house, she had a gut feeling something was amiss, especially after a suspicious-looking van parked nearby drove off right after the truck. She jotted down the license plate numbers for both on a pad she always kept handy for notes, but forgot about it, until two days later, when she saw the police come to search Heidi's house. Elma immediately got on the phone and called Norma.

"I heard her family filed a missing person's report. You have to call the police, Elma, and tell them what you saw." So she did.

One week later, the Heidi Strobel file was sent to FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C., along with Elma Peterson's written account, and two pieces of evidence found in the house that were equally as valuable -- a small listening device carelessly left in the telephone mouthpiece from Heidi's bedroom, and a single print from Marco's thumb. This was the break Special Agent Phil Trask had been waiting for. Within days, the investigation was moved from the back burner to high priority status, and the original two agents assigned to it, increased by five, with Trask overseeing all operations.

"Looks like I'll be working late hours again," Joe Kelly lamented.

"Sorry about that, ol' chum," Trask smiled and fired a piece of waded paper over to his partner's desk.

(continued)