Chapter Sixteen

The sides snapped into place one by one. Buckles on the sides of the arm sleeve allowed fastening to rings in the interior sides. This reduced any side-to-side movement of the captive. Cheryl was now tightly ensconced in the travel box. All he could see of her was her sleeved arms and the delicate white skin of her back and the tops of her tender rear globes. All that was needed now was the lid. Before he fastened it on, he placed the garments and jewelry Cheryl had worn during her show into the box in a little bag. Her new owner might enjoy a live rendition of her strip-tease. And a token of her prior life might excite her new owner by reminding her of her descent into slavery.

Turk had resisted one more caress of her breasts before tying her down and now regretted it. He took one long last look at his captive. He rubbed his hand over her ass, reveling in the softness and the warmth. But then his purpose reestablished itself. He was a slaver. This is what he did. He had sent dozens of beautiful women to their fates before. This was just one more piece of ass; a very profitable one. The lid went on.

The top of the case had a handle to expedite transportation, the bottom had wheels. Turk easily rolled Cheryl to the door. He made a last trip around the apartment, wiping carefully all the objects he touched. With no sign of foul play, the police would quickly lose interest in Cheryl’s disappearance. A couple of months from now, the apartment would probably be emptied, cleaned and re-let, all traces of DNA from falling skin cells or hair would be gone.

Grabbing his bag, Turk opened the door and wheeled the box into the hall. It was heavier now and somewhat lumbering. He locked the door and pushed the box down the hall to the elevator.

***

Three and a half hours later, Turk was pulling his gray van into the parking lot of a small shopping center in East Baltimore. Each time he did this he was given a different drop off point, usually within ten miles of the Baltimore Harbor. The boxes traveled mostly by ship, at least until they reached a “safe” port. No port in the U.S. was considered safe and no customer was allowed to keep or receive the product in the U.S. Mexico, he knew was considered safe, all of South America and Africa. Russia beyond the Urals and the new countries comprising the former Soviet republics of Asia were safe.

Cheryl could be headed anywhere. She could spend the next few days or a week in the box. However, it was normally considered best to deliver the box within a few days to a safe port and then fly it to its destination. Even then the occupant would be severely cramped and dehydrated. Rest was the usual cure, closely confined of course, before the slave’s new life really began.

As per instructions, Turk wheeled the box out of the back of the van, pushed it onto the sidewalk and into a darkened doorway. He was being watched, he knew, and there was no risk of the box being recovered by anyone other than the intended. Having pushed the box into the doorway, Turk took a last look at Cheryl’s prison. While the drugs were an intense soporific, they did not deprive the user of consciousness. The occupant of the box remained awake, just not alert. What was she thinking? Did she have hope that she would be saved? Did she now understand what had happened to her? Was she in pain? It was not good for him to think of these things. He tapped the box, said a mental goodbye and walked away.