INTRODUCTION
A MODERN NIGHTMARE
The trafficking of women for sexual
abuse is a modern phenomenon. Before the
early 20th century and extending back to the very beginning of human existence,
any man possessing even a modicum of power or wealth or position or superiority
of arms could take any woman of an unprotected group or class with impunity –
native, prisoner, refugee, servant, tenant, peasant, serf, ad infinitum. Rape was the handmaiden of conquest in an age
when conquest was the perpetual state of affairs; when wars lasted decades and
occupations last centuries.
But beginning in the early 1900s, with
the gradual emancipation of women and the rise of labor unions and other
"constraining" forces in the societies of the "civilized"
counties of the world, the availability of unprotected women was dramatically
reduced. War remained the obvious
exception. Between 1931 and 1945, the
Japanese army brutally raped its way across large swaths of China and South
East Asia. Tens of thousands of women
were raped. Thousands were forced into
sexual slavery. Russian troops likewise
raped their way across half of Germany in 1945, culminating in hundreds of
documented rapes (and doubtless thousands more undocumented) during the fall of
Berlin. Rape and other sexual abuses
continue today in wars throughout the Third World, sometimes as a matter of
deliberate political or tribal strategy.
But in much of the world, women are no
longer free for the taking. The
inevitable result is an increasingly robust black market where women can be
bought and sold – trafficked – for sexual use.
Instances of sexual slavery exist in
virtually every wealthy nation. But the
practice is especially prevalent in certain "islands" of violence and
lawlessness including the drug cartels of Northern Mexico, Central and South
America, Southeast Asia and Indonesia; and places were the ancient practices
have survived including parts of Asia, Japan, Taiwan, the Arab oil states and
North Africa. Collectively these
"islands" are known simply as the Archipelago, and together they
account for more than 90 percent of current trafficking activities.
The taking of female slaves also
displays a clear geographical pattern, influenced primarily by the buyers'
preferences. Youth and comeliness are
universally desired traits, although the definition of comeliness can vary
widely, especially in size and shape.
Considerable numbers of Asian and Black females are trafficked, but for
a complex set of sexual, political, chauvinistic, religious, racial, historical
and iconic factors, Caucasian females, especially fair-haired females are most
in demand world-wide, with Caucasian-Americans near the top of the trade and
American blondes at the pinnacle.
There are still places in the world
where females are sold directly into slavery by their own families, a practice
that horrifies most Westerners, who are largely ignorant of the utter disregard
and even distain for females in some cultures, and who have never experienced
the abject, starvation-level poverty that drives desperate people to desperate
measures. However, the majority of the
most beautiful Caucasian slaves are trafficked out of the eastern-bloc nations
of Europe and the struggling nations of what was once the Soviet Union. Many are lured into the Archipelago's
pipeline with promises of high-paying jobs, marriage and even stardom. Others, more realistically, believe they are
enlisting for a term of prostitution, always imagined to be brief, enriching
and even glamorous. Both groups are
destined to meet the same fate. They
climb into a van or step off a train and are never heard from again.
The taking of sexual slaves in these
east-European and ex-Soviet states are part of well
coordinated operations run by professional criminal syndicates that also
typically perform the transport and wholesale functions, and sometimes the
direct sales of slaves to key customers; essentially full service trafficking
operations. These syndicates are efficient,
effective, well financed and absolutely ruthless. They are also careful, especially in one
regard. They never get involved in the taking of American women overseas. The countries in which they operate will go
to any length to avoid the political embarrassment, the attention of the
international press and the likely involvement of the FBI and even the CIA that
a missing American female evokes. Police
protection, bought and paid for, suddenly evaporates. Informants come out of the woodwork. Profitable subsidiaries like illegal drugs
and prostitution are disrupted. Assets
are frozen. Lines of credit vanish. Even a false rumor or speculation concerning
human trafficking or so-called "white" slavery in a case involving
the disappearance an American can generate problems that last for years. Except perhaps in Northern Mexico, the taking
of American women outside of the U.S. is a Hollywood myth.
Logically, the takers of slaves within
the United States would be even more professional and well organized than their
European counterparts. As noted above,
American females are prized worldwide and often fetch twice or even three times
the price of females taken elsewhere.
Market forces alone would seem to demand that the highest competence be
dedicated to procuring the most valuable commodity; human trafficking at the
platinum level. Yet the exact opposite
is the case.
Internationally, the motive of the
takers of females is profit, first and foremost. They may or may not molest their victims,
depending on their tastes and cultural mores, but they are there primarily for
the dollars or Euros and they conduct themselves accordingly. They take their victims discretely, luring
more often than abducting, and they skillfully exploit economic and political
turmoil and even the chaos of war to leave not a trace. That is to say, they often harvest in places
where it is not uncommon for an attractive young woman to go missing, usually
at her own volition; her family not wanting to know what she's up to, her
friends wishing her well and both hoping that she'll return some
day rich and generous.
But the taking of females in the
contemporary United States is a fragmented, haphazard and entirely amateur
undertaking, little more than a sideline for rapists, sadists and psychopaths. The diversity and complexity of their
underlying motives would befuddle the world's great criminal psychologists, but
they do share one immediate goal to the point of obsession: to reduce
attractive, sexually desirable females to a state of absolute obedience.
CHAPTER
1
First
Hunt
Like his
father and his father's father and all their fathers before them, Jay was
taught that real men are predators and that women are their rightful prey. And so, on the occasion of his 20th birthday,
Jay was granted a license to hunt, like his father and his father's father and
all their fathers before them.
* * * *
She was a blond, a tall and very
pretty blond, a runner with a runner's sleek legs and firm ass. He spotted her on a warm September afternoon
on a deserted stretch of forest trail on the western side of Lake Tahoe. He'd spent a week perched up on the
mountainside watching that trail, waiting.
Just after noon on Thursday the blond appeared, running easily despite
the altitude, scantily clad in blue running shorts and a gray sports bra. She was alone. He could see the trail for a half-mile in
each direction. There were no other
runners, no hikers, no one.
When she came around the big bolder he
was waiting for her, his heavy bulk straddling the trail, a big .45 automatic
in his hand aimed directly at her bare belly.
She gave a startled cry and stopped so fast that she almost fell. Before she could even think of fleeing he spoke
in the loud, sharp voice, the voice he had been trained to use, "Shut up,
stand still or I will kill you."
She looked at the gun, stifled another cry and froze.
He marched her up the steep mountain
to an area of fallen trees amid the dense forest more than a mile from the
trail. He'd reconnoitered it days before
and cached his heavy bag of equipment there.
Halfway up he made her stop and take off her shorts and underwear so
that he might enjoy the view of that naked, round, very firm ass the rest of
the way up the mountain. If she'd had
any doubt about his intent before that point, she no longer did. She began to weep quietly beneath her labored
breathing.
When they arrived at the windfall, he
tethered one of her ankles to a long length of chain already anchored at the
other end to a huge old fallen tree smoothed of its bark by the years. Then he bound her wrists tightly behind her
back with white nylon rope; not so much out of caution, as that it made her
look all the more helpless and vulnerable.
Even before he finished she was sobbing and begging him not to rape her.
She actually offered him money, as if
he were some petty thief stupid enough to trek miles into the wilderness to rob
a half-naked girl who carried nothing but a small fanny-pack and a water
bottle. She said she didn't have any
money with her, but her purse was in her car, and there was at least $200,
maybe more and some jewelry too, a ring and her watch, a really expensive
watch. She said he could have all of it, anything he wanted, just please don't rape her! Then she got on to how, if he'd let her go
without hurting her, she would never tell anyone, ever, she swore it,
repeatedly, with desperate sincerity.
The more she begged, the harder his cock got. And by the time she got to telling him how
scared she was of getting pregnant and pleading with him not to rape her
because she would die if she got pregnant, and sobbing so hard at the very
thought of it that she could hardly get the words out, he thought his cock
might well explode.
Jay had heard it all before; the
begging and pleading and frantic bargaining of terrified women, their
desperate, hysterical voices leaking up from those rooms his father and uncles
had built under the floor of the barn. Since he was a boy, Jay had hidden among
the bails of hay on the barn's main floor,
masturbating to the sound of those voices and all the sounds that came
after. Now, finally, it was his turn to
be begged and pleaded with, and it was even better than he'd dreamt it would
be.
She didn't stop her blubbering until
he unsheathed a huge hunting knife and began combing its tip through the little
tuft of fine, blond curls nestled at the base of her belly. Then she stopped talking and almost stopped
breathing as well. Slowly, deliberately
he traced the tip of the knife up her taut flesh, over her flat, hard belly and
smooth, tanned midriff until it touched the bottom of her sports bra. He turned the blade flat and slid it under
the fabric. The touch of cool steel set her to weeping again. Slowly he turned the blade and then sliced
through the garment, letting it fall away to reveal her breasts,
disappointingly small breasts, but flawlessly smooth and milky white within the
tan lines, and capped with those little, pale-pink, bud-like nipples that only
young, very fair-skinned girls can have.
With the razor sharp blade positioned
between her naked breasts, the blond got very silent and stood frozen, her eyes
squeezed shut, tears streaming down her cheeks, barely breathing.
Jay calmly considered his
options. Keeping her was out of the
question. Only the most perfect prey
were kept as trophies, maybe one in ten, and despite her pretty face and cute
ass, the blonde's tits were too small by half to qualify as a trophy. She would be universally scorned. Jay would lose face.
Jay knew what his father would say to
do. His father would tell him to just
claim what was due him as the hunter; male over the female, strong over the
weak, worthy over the worthless. He
would say that the only purpose of this first hunt is to "blood" the
hunter, as the ancients said, to whet Jay's appetite for the power that will
define his life as a man. Keep it
simple, his father would say – take her, rape her, and make her disappear.
But Jay wanted more. He wanted to play. His father and uncles were masters of the
game, like cats who wound their prey and then let them think they have escaped,
only to pounce on them again, over and over.
So many times Jay had masturbated to the voices of women terrified, then
hopeful, then terrified again, sometimes repeated two or even three rounds,
pacing himself until the ultimate climax of fear, then despair, and finally
complete surrender. Jay's groans of
pleasure and the women's groans of submission had often mingled together.
At the very least he had intended to
terrorize the blond a bit more; but now, with all this going on about her dread
of pregnancy, he was practically obligated to seriously game her. Reluctantly he sheathed his knife.
"Stand perfectly still," he
ordered. He began slowly circling around
and around her, not speaking, not touching, just feasting his eyes on the taut
flesh and luxurious curves that were now his; on the breasts that rose and fell
with her rapid, frightened breathing, breasts that were too small perhaps, but
his, all his. On her
well-muscled thighs visibly trembling and her sweet ass nervously clenching and
unclenching, his too. On her
eyes, tightly shut so as not to have to meet his, and the tears rolling down
her cheeks and the glimpse of white teeth biting into a pale lower lip, his,
his, his.
When he was behind her for the third
time he stopped. She stiffened and held
her breath anticipating an assault, but none came. Instead he spoke in a quiet, cold,
unnaturally contained voice, "If you're so freaked about getting
knocked-up, why do you run around in nothing but a bra and shorts that are so
tight you might as well be naked? It
looks to me like you're asking to get fucked."
"No! That's not ... I just..." she stammered,
horrified.
"Or maybe you're just a big
tease, one of those bitches who likes to get a man all hot and bothered and
make his cock so hard it hurts and then you say, 'Oh no, you can't touch me
because I might get pregnant.'"
She started to cry again, shaking her
head and whimpering, "No! I
swear..."
He moved up behind her, not quite
touching her but so close that she could feel his breath on the back of her
neck, "Or maybe you're not a tease after all. Maybe you really are looking to get fucked,
maybe you want it real bad, but you're afraid of getting knocked up. Maybe you're one of those girls who would
rather take it in the ass, a little back door action. Can't get pregnant that way, right? Hell, a fine ass like that, it's made for
butt-fucking."
She was trembling violently now and
sobbing so hard she couldn't speak. She
could only shake her head in vehement denial.
"No?" he chortled,
"Well then, you've got yourself a serious problem. You've given me a great big hard-on and one
way or the other you're gonna have to fix
it." Her sobs grew so loud that he
grabbed her arm and spun her around so that he could talk into her face. "You're telling me that I can't do you
regular 'cause you're too fertile ... and your also telling me you don't take
it up the ass ... so what's left here, I'm sure you're way too princess-fucking-pure
to suck it off..."