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Kidnap, Part 2
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
John was ready for me. "Wrists," he said. I held out my arms, and
he fastened a cable tie around each one. I don't know if you've ever
seen a cable tie. Electricians use them. They're narrow strips of
tough plastic. One side is ridged; it fits into a ratchet mechanism
molded into the other end. There's no way to release the ratchet;
once you loop the strip around and insert it, you can't release it,
only tighten it. Electricians don't care; they rarely want to
release their wires. If they do, they just cut the cable tie. But
these were my hands being bound that way, and I couldn't even hope to
steal a key. Even if I had a sharp enough knife, I probably didn't
have the leverage to cut the plastic.
After braceleting my hands, John used a third tie to bind them
together, and a fourth to fasten them to my seatbelt. I looked at
him; he chuckled, buckled it, and said, "We don't want to get pulled
over again, do we?" I blushed. A year earlier, some public-spirited
citizen had notified police of an apparent kidnapping -- seeing a
bound woman being pushed into a car. Despite the drawn guns and my
helplessness -- for that game, he had bound my hands behind me and
pushed me into the hatch, hiking my skirt up in the process -- I
persuaded the cops to lock him in the police car (handcuffed, to stay
in style with our game!) and question us separately. We both gave
the same story; more importantly, we both told him the same "release
word". I, of course, was blushing furiously the whole time, though I
was thankful that this was out of town, and that no one who knew me
would ever see that police report with my name. But I got even with
John for ignoring my qualms about public exposure -- I convinced the
cop to release me, and to let me put my pair of handcuffs on John in
place of his. I then drove John off, and I played the master in that
game!
Once I was bound, he drove off. His voice seemed a bit slurred,
though, and his driving rather unsteady. "John? Have you been
drinking again? I don't think you can drive far enough in your
condition."
He snarled, "Shut up!", as he pulled into the driveway of a sleazy
motel not half a mile from my office. "What I drink is my business.
And if you don't behave yourself, I won't give you a sweater to put
over your hands when you go up to the room." I shook. For all that
I love what I do, and don't hesitate to tell prospective lovers early
on, I'm terrified of exposure. And John would do it, too, especially
because of my fear -- it was just one more aspect of him crossing the
line on pain. I started to get seriously concerned.
He parked the car and, with a knife from the glove compartment, cut
the tie holding my hands to the seatbelt. He tossed me a sweater and
headed upstairs, leaving me to get out of the car and follow as best
I could. Surprisingly, he took my bags with him. I was just as
glad; I had to get some work done that night, come hell or high
water, and I wasn't pleased with the leers some of the local
loiterers were giving me. Small wonder, perhaps -- I was wearing a
sheer, low-cut blouse and very short skirt -- but it still made me
nervous. I wish I knew why he had picked this neighborhood.
Once we were inside, things got a lot better, at least at first. He
closed the door behind us, grabbed me, and kissed me thoroughly. I
put my bound hands around his neck, which reminded him of the games
we had planned; he tolerated the embrace for a moment longer, then
stepped back and ordered me to strip. Again, there was a cold note
in his voice. And there was a seriously-depleted bottle of vodka on
the dresser.
It's hard to undress with your hands tied, of course, and of course I
had to be graceful and sexy -- that's part of the game. (But you
should have seen some of the ways I've made him undress!) Still, I
managed as best I could. The skirt was easy, as were my panties and
garter belt; I left my heels and stockings on for a while longer. I
unbuttoned my blouse, and unhooked my bra -- it was no accident that
both of them fastened from the front! -- and looked up at him.
"Slide them down your arms," he said. I pushed them both off of my
shoulders as far as I could, and approached John. I then rubbed up
against him, using his body to push my blouse and bra strap down my
arms. He didn't just stand there, of course; he did such a good job
of caressing me that I almost forgot my goal. But he remained
clothed.
Eventually, I could go no further that way; the blouse behind me was
holding my bound arms against my stomach. John wasn't satisfied,
though, and motioned for me to continue. I used the dresser, the
bed, and sometimes John, to first gain a bit more slack, and then
push my garments below my buttocks. By bending over, I could lower
my hands, too, and ended up with everything around the level of my
knees. I would have tried to bring the clothing under my legs, but
John stopped me; he seemed to like seeing me doubled up. After
leaving me like that for a bit, he produced a pair of handcuffs and
fastened them above the garments. Before removing the cable ties,
though, he fastened a home-made Velcro cuff to each ankle, and ran a
loop of chain connecting them to each other and to the handcuffs. I
was to remain bent over, it seemed.
Finally, he cut off the cable ties, and told me to continue. I
removed the blouse, and, with John's permission, took off my shoes
and flopped backwards onto the bed. He told me to kneel; after a bit
of struggling, I managed to, with my arms ending up between my legs,
still bound to my ankles. There wasn't enough slack in the chain to
let me slip the loop around my knees instead. Just as well, perhaps
-- that would certainly have ripped the stockings.
I looked over at John. Curiously, he still hadn't undressed; he
hadn't even changed into a costume. Except when I prompted him, he'd
been quite passive. Normally, he'd have been commenting, or teasing,
or fondling. Instead, he seemed interested only in his vodka bottle.
I knelt there silently, and looked around to see what props he'd set
up.
At the head of the bed, there was a short length of chain, with an
open padlock. The chain vanished between the headboard and the
mattress. At the foot, I saw a bar running the full width of the
bed; each end had an adjustable strap with snap hook lying on the
sheets, and a chain dangling off the bed. It looked like a gadget
I'd built a number of years ago, to deal with motel furniture. For
that matter, I needed it when visiting some of my lovers; they
weren't well-equipped for bondage, either.
In fiction -- or at my house, for that matter -- the bed is always a
four-poster, which provides convenient anchor points for ties.
Motels are rarely so considerate. The next obvious anchor points are
the legs of the bed. This one, though, was a platform bed -- no legs
at all. But if you run a chain under the mattress, with a Y to
connect to both ends of that bar, you have two ideally-placed rings.
You can do the same at the head of the bed, of course, but John
preferred a single chain for handcuffed wrists -- that way, he could
fasten me to the bed without ever releasing my hands, a favorite
fantasy of his.
There wasn't much more to see. John had brought his toybag, but it
was closed. Judging from the shape, there wasn't much left in it; in
particular, it was flopped over enough that I didn't think his riding
crop was there. Just as well -- in his current mood, I didn't know
if he'd remember to restrain himself enough with it.
The vodka bottle suddenly dropped to the dresser, startling me. John
staggered over, barely keeping his feet. I said nothing. He threw
me onto my back, rather roughly, and fastened my handcuffs to the
head chain, pulling my legs over my head. He didn't leave me that
way, though, but he also didn't tease my bottom the way I wanted him
to. Instead, he use a short chain to fasten my ankles together, and
then released the chain holding them to my hands. Gratefully, I
straightened out.
He only let me have a moment's respite, though, before he attached
the straps to the ankle cuffs, and took up the slack. Then, and only
then, did he release the chain, and pulled the two straps taut
together. Another fantasy of his -- simulating motor-powered
bondage. He stopped for an instant while he grabbed my legs and
pulled my whole body down, to keep the head chain tight, and then
finished spreading my legs. He concluded by taking a gag from his
toybox, shoving it into my mouth, and tying it there. "Don't worry;
no whips today," he said as he staggered back to his chair. "Unless
you brought some?", he asked hopefully, glancing at my bags. I shook
my head; he looked in the bag, and scowled at me.
I wasn't reassured by the absence of whips. I've always hated gags,
even when I didn't need my mouth free to give a release word. For
one thing, they interfere with play too much. I can't give the
proper verbal responses appropriate to whatever game we're playing --
"My father's knights will avenge me!", or whatever. Nor can I use my
mouth sexually, for both of our pleasures. Finally -- and perhaps
most important -- gags are dangerous. It's just too easy to choke
with a gag in, especially a really effective one that puts you on the
edge of vomiting. If I want to use one for its symbolic value, I
just tie a scarf around John's head and mouth. It's thin enough that
he can kiss through it, and it can be pulled down quickly enough in
emergencies, often just by chin movement.
Some people, of course, use real gags because they need the silence.
It's impractical to really whip someone in a city apartment without
one, I suppose. But I had a better solution to that problem. I'd
recently bought an old farmhouse, very far back from the road, to use
as a playhouse. I'd just finished having it fixed up, and I'd been
getting ready to spend a few weekends there building some accessories
-- ring bolts, chains, even a stock out behind the house where no one
would ever see the occupant. I hadn't told John about this; my
original plan had been to kidnap him there when it was ready. But
his behavior the last few weeks had been sufficiently odd that I was
no longer certain I wanted him to know about it.
I twisted my head around to look at John. He was still drinking
vodka, and he still hadn't said anything, which was odd; usually --
always! -- the kidnapper should have said something to set the scene,
even if only to heighten the suspense. I remembered the last time
we'd spent a weekend at my house. I had tied him in more or less the
same position I was now in, and left him that way overnight. But of
course, I had told him he was to await my pleasure, and every now and
then I'd wander back into the room to lick him a bit. He kept trying
to wiggle free, to no avail, of course, while I'd arouse him and then
leave. Around 3 a.m., when I was certain he was asleep, I crept back
in, aroused him again -- in both senses of the word -- and mounted
him. When we were both more than satisfied, I curled up next to him
and we fell asleep together. Around 10 a.m. or thereabouts, I
finally unchained him.
John finally tried to get up. No dice -- he'd had too much to drink,
and he passed out at the table. Here I was, nude, gagged, and bound
spread-eagled to the bed -- and my captor was in a drunken stupor,
probably unable to move until morning.
----
(to be continued).
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