Free Kidnapped! by John Savage Page B

by a lover’s tongue, both her nipples were standing out, taut and hard.
    Bending down, Stella brought the whip up to Susie’s bare breast and tapped the rigid nipple. “Just the beginning,” she whispered. Susie’s looked up to see a mask of pure, vicious evil. This woman loved hurting other women!
    Susie closed her eyes and waited for the next blow. What else could she do? She was sure that there was nothing she could say, no promise she could make, nothing she could do that would stop this torment. Raszini wanted her in pain, and so it would be.
    The riding crop had reddened the skin of her breasts, but this whip raised an ugly welt wherever it kissed the flesh.
    The whipping of her breasts continued. With each strike of the leather, she cried out and frantically twisted her body to try to avoid the pain. Her contortions set her to swinging, but no amount of movement could distract Stella’s accurate blows. Again and again the whip touched her flesh and delivered its venom.
    With both her breasts covered with dozens vicious whipmarks, there came a point where it seemed that continued punishment would do more than mark the skin, perhaps even begin to tear it. At that point, Stella’s hand was caught in mid-backswing by a man’s hand.
    “Let’s leave some for tomorrow,” Raszini said, quietly.
    Stella glared at him, a vicious curse about to spring from her lips, but then she sucked in air and the hatred fled from her face.
    “Of course, Mr. Raszini. Tomorrow.”
    Susie hung there, crying softly and in pain for a long time before she was let down and her numb hands released from those cruelly tight ropes.
     

 
    Chapter XVIII
    The Search
     
    I pulled up to Raszini’s former residence that afternoon after what should have been a pleasant drive up the California coast. But my mind was too filled with worry to enjoy the views of the mighty Pacific, the blue sky, and the offshore oil rigs. His home was in an area called Montecito, a foothill area of Santa Barbara filled with trees and multi-million dollar homes, most at the end of a private driveway. The house itself was a classic California Mission style home with whitewashed walls and red tile roof, and was large enough to hold conventions in.
    No one seemed to be at home, which did not surprise me. I had hoped to find the place empty. There was yellow police “crime scene” tape across the front door, so I walked around to the back and let myself in via a convenient window.
    There were signs that the pace had been tossed, undoubtedly by federal agents. Drawers were pulled out, papers scattered around, pictures off the walls (looking for safes) and generally everything was a mess. At least they hadn’t taken to tearing the upholstery off the expensive furniture.
    It was getting dark before I found what I was looking for. The agents had been looking for evidence relating to criminal activity. They had taken everything out of the house, including a couple places that looked as if there had been computers. I was looking for something more normal. And found it.
    In the trash can next to a desk I found a sheet of paper. It was only a utility bill for electricity and gas but it was not for this house. It told me that he had another house. And it gave me the address.
     
    * * * * *
     
    The address was in an upscale area of Orange County, one Newport Beach by name. It was an area of expensive homes crowded shoulder to shoulder along a network of canals and islands. Every available foot of shoreline was filled with docks and boats. The few streets that serviced the area were always crowded and parking places were hard as hell to find. I had to park three blocks away and walk to the address I had copied from the bill.
    From the street side, the place wasn’t too impressive, a two-story house so closed in on each side by neighbors that you could damned near reach out your bedroom window and touch the next house. I knew the other side had a small dock and maybe a boat,