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The Traffickers - Volume 1 (Mary Alice Clarke)


The Traffickers - Volume 1 by Mary Alice Clarke

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FICTION TORN FROM THE HEADLINES. From the author: "Women who say that they could never be broken and would never submit have not been there. They have not been sexually tormented day and night for days and weeks. They have not spent every minute of those days and weeks under the threat of horrific punishment and slow, agonizing death, with no hope of escape or rescue, denied even the liberation of suicide, repeatedly and systematically abused in every way that a woman can be. Some women play at being slaves. But real slavery is a journey, which begins against a woman's will and ends when she has no will left. The stories that follow are fictionalized versions of the real experiences of women who made the passage."

Product type: EBook    Published by: Renaissance E Books    Published: 10 / 2012

No. words: 37800

Style: Male Dom - M/F

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Excerpt

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..."


Reviews

Very well written collection of short stories. If there is a weakness is that there is little exploration of the victim’s emotions. The stories also cease after the protagonist's initial encounter, which is a shame. The one story where this doesn’t happen is probably the weakest of the bunch. Still, a great collection. 5 out of 5 (ParkerFN)

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Renaissance E Books publishes the best in classic and contemporary popular fiction and nonfiction through its PageTurner imprint, and the best in classic and contemporary erotica through its Sizzler imprint.


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