A Picture is Worth About a Thousand Words

I was enjoying the evening on the terrace behind the kitchens with Fletcher House’s hunt master. He was in a talkative mood and as he lit a fresh cigar, let drop that he’d be off tomorrow on a tag-and-bag. A member had taken Watford Hall for the week and had everyone on their toes. They needed among other things, cooks, a string quartet, a lifeguard, a film crew, and a virgin slave. This last is where the hunt master came in. That’s his job. Among other things. Acquiring virgin slaves when needed.

Word had been put out last week through the Fletcher House grapevine and a scout had reported a find yesterday in Linn, MO, that fit the member’s requirements. The text message read: “Subject has immaculate skin, classically muscled body, a butch -- but a foreign sort of butch face, all parts exceptional and a real callipygian wonder; patrician toes, just under six feet, uncut and well endowed; it has long beautiful hands, thighs to die for and is 18 years old.”

I thought this hunt fit in perfectly with what i needed for the book I’m writing on the Harvest Games and immediately made my case for going along. The hunt master hemmed and hawed and I reasoned and pushed and finally he said OK, he’d send over a uniform and I should be ready to go tomorrow at 1700 hours. “Meet the team at loading dock two and do not bring anything with you. No phone, no keys, no papers, no money, nothing.”

                                                                            _____

I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me that the hunt master knew my shoe size. After all, he’s supposed to know things. About people. That’s his job. The uniform was all black without insignia. Or pockets. Made the warning kind of unnecessary. I joined the hunt master and his three-man team on time and we all drove to the airport together. A Bombardier was waiting for us, engines idling. Takeoff was minutes later and before I knew it, I was sound asleep with my head on the window. Touchdown at JEF Memorial woke me. A black unmarked van was waiting for us on the tarmac as we got off the plane.

The advance team of two had worked the subject and the scene yesterday and this morning. The subject was currently at the Tap Room just outside of town, having dinner with friends. There was a man close on him who would report to us as the subject moved. We drove over the Missouri river and onto US 50 into Linn, and down to the subject’s rental unit at the end of Ridge Crest Drive, an unlighted dead end. The subject’s rental looked to be a small mother-in-law attached to a small house. The driver parked across from the unit’s parking space and then we waited a couple minutes before the capture team deployed. I stayed with the driver, the other four scattered into the darkness.

Then there was a lot of waiting and no talking with the driver. After some time I heard two quick beeps from a device on the driver’s belt and a few seconds later a pickup truck turned into the road coming toward us. It parked in the space we expected and after a few seconds its driver turned off the music and the engine and put cowboy boots on the gravel; they hadn’t gone three steps when their owner was shot in the back of the leg with a tiger tranquilizer. That produced a short exclamation in reaction that sounded like HARK. The boy went to one knee, then hands on the gravel and head shaking. The team was on him directly, helping him to his feet, half dragging him into the van’s back door.

We motored away sedately with the lights off until we got to the highway. By the time we’d got on the airport tarmac, the boy had been completely stripped and put in a body bag. Two team members exited the van each with a long case in hand and surveyed the area; they both indicated all clear and got into the plane. Two others whisked the body bag on board in a matter of seconds and no one the wiser. I followed last and got seated as the plane taxied off toward the runway and the black van disappeared into the night.

_____

Fletcher House, as a matter of policy, had to get a number for this slave before it could be given over to a House member for personal use, had to get it washed up and shaved and brought on the books. This took time and it wasn’t until late afternoon that the boy, now 2309 (that is, the ninth such special capture this year) was brought unceremoniously out of a service van, hands roped together in front and being frog marched by two large handlers into the great room at Watford Hall. The film crew were already at work setting up, musicians stood around playing tune up notes. One crew was screwing pipes together into an elaborate rack structure that stood at the end of the great room. There was already food on trays set out here and there on folding tables among the ladders and piles of power cables for the lights and camera equipment.

“Oh my God!” shouted a man who came right over to the boy. He seemed from his demeanor and dress to be someone’s aide de camp. “This is it?! Oh, Tsk! And what a grumpy face it has! Oh my God, Everett will just love this! Everybody! Here it is.” And of course everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered around to see what all the commotion was about.

According to the work order, the boy was prepped without a gag, but no one spoke a word in response, no matter how urgent its pleas were. With all preparations complete, there was now a penis gag in its mouth -- and the boy is now absolutely terrified -- right in line with the member’s requirements, and so, job complete on delivery.

Its balls had completely shriveled up. The boy was covered in cold sweat; it could hardly see for the sweat in its eyes that it now furiously tried to blink away. When it could see anything at all, the eyes darted everywhere. The boy put on a brave front but had to be focused now on the only thing it could be thinking: what is happening to me, and all the imaginative conclusions that were quickly piling up.

The aide de camp signed three forms on behalf of the member; the handlers unhanded the boy, nodded politely, once to the AdC, once to the room, and departed without once having uttered a word.