Tintin does not belong to me. Neither does Dr Müller or Captain Haddock or any other character associated with Hergé and the Hergé foundation. This story is for recreational purposes and should not be taken rectally. I'm also really curious to know if anyone reads the disclaimers, 'cos I don't.

Warning: This story contains bad language, violence, and scenes of a sexual nature. Also, even though it's in the Tintin After Dark section, it contains absolutely no Tintin-sex at all. It's just here for bad language and dark subject matter.

This story is set in the aftermath of Alph-Art, which can be found on this site in the main Tintin archive, or on my author's page.

One

People say sometimes that Beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, Beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. - Oscar Wilde

Georgia knew she was beautiful. She'd been assured of it all her life but it was only now, at age twenty, that she knew it to be true. To compare the tall, willowy blonde to older photographs cast doubt on any former declarations of beauty: she had been skinny and gawky; and her dull, mousy-coloured hair of old lacked its present sparkle. But now she was sure she had it right.

Her brother, Daniel – Dan (or Danny) to his friends – didn't think so. He eyed her as she preened in the mirror. They were spending the summer on their Aunt's houseboat. Hillary, their Aunt, was an 'artist' who had relocated to Holland many years ago, when Danny and Georgia were very young, to pursue her artistic dreams and live a bohemian lifestyle. Now, on the wrong side of forty-five, her chic bo-ho life seemed – to Danny at least – to consist of sitting around smoking pot and complaining about the commercialisation of contemporary art, or selling home-made tat in the flea markets.

"How do I look?" Georgia asked. She smoothed the velvety material of her short, blue dress across her flat belly.

"Cheap," Danny snapped. He was sick of her. They had to share a bedroom here and he was sick of her increasingly bad behaviour: coming home at two, three, even four o'clock in the morning; waking him up; getting sick; laughing at his anger… Aunt Hill seemed blind to it, and was doing nothing to rein in the young woman.

In fact, Aunt Hill seemed to regard his complaints as an insult. He'd tried to speak to her about Georgia's actions, but his Aunt had flipped out and started talking about society's perceptions of women, and how such behaviour was encouraged in young men, but frowned on in women. She'd continued in this vein for about a half an hour, until Danny had got bored of listening to her and gone out for a walk instead.

Georgia laughed at his insult, but her ears turned red: a sure sign that his comment had upset her. "Like I care what you think," she said, trying to make her voice light. "You're so boring. We've been here two weeks and I bet you haven't got off with a single girl. In fact, I bet you haven't even kissed anyone yet." She stole a sly glance at his face and saw that she was right. "God!" she said scornfully. "You're so pathetic. You're sixteen going on sixty."

"Oh, shut up."

"Or else you're gay," she added as an afterthought.

"No I'm not! Shut up!"

"Aww!" She pouted at him mockingly, pushing her plump, lower lip out. "Don't worry: I'm sure you'll meet your Prince Charming."

"Shut up!"

"Come out with me and prove me wrong." She turned back to the mirror and teased a few strands of hair into a more pleasing position.

"No," he said sulkily.

"Fine. Stay here, Mr Boring. Better get into your pyjamas and tuck yourself in nice and tight. Boring bastard. This is the opportunity of a life-time: most sixteen year olds would kill for a holiday in Amsterdam without their parents."

"Georgie, they're splitting up!" he cried. "You don't seem to care at all."

"No, I don't care," she said flatly. She brushed by him and retrieved her handbag from where it lay, discarded behind the sofa in the tiny living quarters. "And you're wrong: they're not splitting up. They just want some time alone, away from us."

"Are you mental? I'm in boarding school and you were away for your first year of university! They've just had almost nine months away from us!"

They were splitting up: Danny knew it instinctively. His mother had become more and more unhappy and Dad was spending all his time 'working late' in London, which was adult code for sleeping with his fit, young secretary. Who wasn't even all that fit, if Danny was honest. She just had big tits and was younger than Mum. She was also as thick as two short planks.

Georgie opened the door to the deck and paused, looking back over her shoulder at her unhappy brother. "Please come out," she said. "I'll buy your drinks and everything. The girls here are total slags: you'll definitely pull."

He rolled his eyes. As if I care about that. "Maybe later," he said grudgingly.

She grinned at him. "I'll be at the café until around nine o'clock. You know the one? The cool one near where Aunt Hill buys her weed? You'll have fun, I swear. I'm meeting Veltje and her mates again. You'll like them: they're a right laugh."

"Alright," he said with a sigh.

"You'll come?" Georgie's face brightened and Danny thought she looked a bit pretty as her natural good humour broke through the many layers of make-up and fake tan. Usually he thought she looked like a mildly retarded Oompa-Loompa.

"I'm not promising anything," he warned, but she ignored his tone and breezed on, convinced of his intent to have a night out for once.

"Text me when you're on the way," she said cheerfully, and left.

He waited a few minutes before going out on deck. It was painted bright green and looked garish. Georgie had already disappeared into the crowd – it was always busy here in the evenings, with joggers and dog-walkers and people out for a leisurely stroll. He leaned against the rail and took it all in.

Amsterdam was fine. Well, that was an understatement: it was a beautiful city. But he didn't want to be here when he knew things were going on at home – important things that affected him and would shape his immediate future. It wasn't fair: he should have a say in what was happening. He should get the chance to tell his parents how he felt; to tell his mother to grow a set of nuts and stop being such a doormat; to tell his dad to man up to his responsibilities and dump the idiot secretary.

When his parents had announced the plan – that Georgie and he were to go away for the whole summer – he'd fought against it. Aunt Hill was great, but only in small doses. When she came to visit them in at their house in Kensington Danny loved hanging out with her. She always had interesting ideas about how to pass the time. They'd sit in the park and eat ice-cream and she'd teach him about philosophy and political ideology. They'd tour the museums and see the paintings and the exhibits in the British Library and the Natural History Museum. They'd go to pavement cafés and watch the street performers. She'd even brought him and Georgie to Shakespeare in the Park one year, which had been great fun (if a little baffling, but Aunt Hill said that about 20% of all of Shakespeare was total bollocks: nonsensical rhymes to keep the dialogue flowing naturally).

Aunt Hill was brilliant… for an afternoon. At most, an afternoon and an evening. Six weeks? Too much!

As soon as Danny had been told about the plan he'd gone to work on his dad, and petitioned to go to Belgium instead. Aunt Hill was his mother's sister, but his dad had a brother in Belgium: a retired sea captain named Archibald. They hadn't spoken for years, but they sent each other Christmas cards. The big draw for Danny, though, was the fact that his unknown uncle was Tintin's guardian, and Danny was a big fan of Tintin.

It must be brilliant, he thought, having no parents and travelling all over the world.

Tintin had lived. He'd experienced everything Aunt Hill spoke about. Aunt Hill and her beatnik friends spoke in romantic, glowing terms about the ideology of Mikhail Bakunin and Friedrich Engels and Karl Marx, but Tintin had been to communist countries like Borduria and China: his opinions would be worth hearing, and would be more valid – more relevant – than Aunt Hill's. Aunt Hill thought commercialism was wrong, and that corporations were the enemy: Tintin fought for human rights and basic civil liberties that had been steamrolled by communist dictators.

After a while, it had seemed like his dad would capitulate. He mentioned that he'd phoned Danny's uncle, but then some stuff had happened with Tintin at the start of the summer and the idea had been flatly refused: Archie would have too much on his plate to deal with already and he didn't need another teenager hanging around his house like a spare part. And that was that: Danny was sent off to Amsterdam and now he was stuck here for another month.

Which freaking sucked!

x

Dr Jörn Müller was pleased, though he didn't show it. It wouldn't do to show these people how much he wanted their merchandise: they would simply jack the prices up and he didn't want to pay more than he had to. After all, he was running a business and for a business to be profitable one had to make more money than one spent. Nobody ever got rich by spending over the odds, and the merchandise had a shelf-life of only a few years.

He took another look through the photographs, this time with a more critical eye. "She's too old," he said, tossing one photo aside. "This one looks like a junkie: too frail. How old is this one?"

The fat Dutchman, Van Sant, sat forward and studied the photograph Müller held up. "Twelve," he said at last, "but she has a sister, fourteen, who's just as beautiful."

"Hmm. Perhaps I can find a place for them." Sisters were good: they tended to be a big draw to a certain type of deviant. "This one: he's is lovely but his eyes are insolent."

"He's been broken since that photo was taken," Van Sant offered. "He's quite tame and very obedient now."

"How does she perform?" Müller had moved on, and waved another photo at Van Sant. It was of a teenage girl with dusky skin and an almost Jewish look to her face. Her eyes were exquisite, even in fear. He had half a mind to keep her for himself, and fuck the jew out of her.

"Aahh, my personal favourite!" Van Sant took the photograph and stared at it wistfully. "She is shy in front of people, but pleasing one-on-one. And I can personally vouch for the tightness of her pussy."

Müller shelved the idea of keeping her for himself: he didn't like the idea of putting his cock in any hole Van Sant had already been in. The Dutchman was riddled with disease.

Most of the girls had come from Eastern Europe, from places like Romania and Syldavia and Borduria. They were under the impression that the kind people helping them move to a better life in central Europe would help them find good, honest jobs and nice places to stay. In reality they were smuggled in for prostitution and slavery. They were kept in houses and flats all over the cities, locked inside rooms and watched constantly on closed circuit television by burly men with guns. They were moved constantly, and at the drop of a hat, depending on the whims and paranoia of the men that owned them.

The easiest way to keep them under control was to feed them drugs. Heroin worked well, and the girls were usually so frightened and hopeless that they started to crave the drug pretty quickly, seeking a release from the harsh nightmare their lives had become. It was used as a reward too, and withheld if they didn't cooperate and do as they were told. After a few days of going cold-turkey they were begging for mercy and a hit, and promising to do everything they were asked. Within a few weeks most would do anything for a hit, and were so caught up with their addiction that escape was far from their thoughts.

Müller used drugs too, but he had his education to fall back on. He'd been a psychologist once upon a time, and a damned good one too. He understood the human mind and human nature. By the time the stock came to him they were badly beaten and broken and filled with despair. After months of rough treatment and fear, kind words and gentle touches were worth more than raised voices and violence. And they responded to it: they were pathetically grateful to him. It was pitiful but effective, and it built into a twisted sort of loyalty – almost love, if that word meant anything in this business. They were so determined to stay with him, where it was safe compared to where they had just come from, that they would do anything to please him.

Yes, a little psychology and – dare he say it? – brainwashing worked wonders.

"I'll take them," he said, sliding the photographs back over to Van Sant. He'd have them all, even the faulty ones. He could sell anything, given the right buyer.

"That's why I like to meet with you, my friend." Van Sant tipped him a salacious wink. "You are a generous and clever man, and your discerning eye can see quality at once." He wrote something down on the back of a small piece of card about the same shape and size as a business card, and slid it over to Müller. "Here is the price."

Müller looked at the figure and snorted. "I don't shit money," he said tersely, "and I'm not hard up for stock. Try again."

Van Sant grinned. He'd chanced his arm with the severe German – no harm, no foul – and had expected to be rebuked. "Half it," he said generously.

Müller thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "Bring them to the usual place." He held out his hand and Ivan, his trusted second in command, handed him a briefcase. He opened it and took out almost half of the stacked bills, piling them neatly on the table. Van Sant shook his hand and Müller left shortly after. The Dutchman was crass, but he wasn't so vulgar as to count the cash in front of Müller. He had some sense, at least.

Author's Note: Am I the only person that thinks Müller would look at home in a sex dungeon? Y'know, with his jodhpurs and his riding crops and his random German swearing? No? Just me? Fair enough so.