|
Kidnap, Part 3
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.
As I was being chained to the bed, I had been strongly aroused,
despite my undercurrent of genuine fear. The arousal rapidly faded,
though. There is nothing particularly stimulating in being
immobilized. If a building collapsed around you, you wouldn't be
thrilled, even if you were unhurt and certain of early rescue. The
essence of bondage is the context -- that a person, your lover, now
controls you. Similarly, lying in wait can be intensely sexual,
while you wonder what is going to happen next, and when. I wasn't
wondering; I knew: John was going to have a hangover, and it wasn't
going to happen until the next morning. And I was stuck, in a rather
uncomfortable position, until then.
For a little while, I just tried to relax; there didn't seem to be
anything I could do, I so just tried to make the best of it. But my
work kept coming back to haunt me. Those designs had to be done or
my business was in deep trouble; reliability is the a key asset when
your competitors are perceived as being flakey or temperamental. I
considered my situation. Was there some way to escape?
I considered my arms first, of course. Had the cuffs been fastened
too tightly for me to slip out? The right one definitely was; in
fact, it was downright uncomfortable. The left had a bit more slack,
but a few minutes of trying didn't get me anywhere. I decided to
explore other options.
A second possibility was the chain holding my hands above my head.
Rather, the lock might be a target; it was a fairly small, cheap one,
and it might break if pulled hard enough. But I had no leverage in
that position, not even enough to be worth trying again later.
Besides, each tug made the handcuffs cut into my wrists.
Could I get my legs free? That seemed like the best shot. They were
only held in place by Velcro cuffs, not steel. And they were simple,
homemade cuffs, and not too well-done at that -- they were some of
John's first efforts. I probably couldn't break out of good ones,
the kind where you stick the free end through a metal ring on the
other end of the strap, then fold it back on itself before fastening
it. These were simple loops, though -- he had taken 9-inch lengths
of both the hook and loop pieces, and glued them to each other. You
wrap it around the limb, with the soft hook side inside, then overlap
it and press down. For a tie point, just use a key ring, slipped
over the Velcro before fastening it.
I started tugging, rhythmically, with my right leg, each time pulling
as hard as I could. I tried jerking it in the direction of the
fastening -- Velcro releases by moving up, and I wanted to work with
it, not against it. Gradually, I got more and more frantic, and lost
my rhythm. I'd been bound, John had put me here, and I wasn't
getting out! The struggles, and the remembrance of who had bound me,
got me more aroused. I writhed, and tugged, to no avail, and each
movement got me more aroused. But I couldn't do anything to relieve
myself; my hands were bound, and I couldn't get enough stimulation.
That thought aroused me even more, of course; the whole situation was
again intensely sexual. I moaned through the gag, and tried
desparately to squeeze my legs together, to rub my thighs on each
other. At that point, I would have given up all thought of escape in
exchange for being bound on my stomach instead, with a pillow under
me to grab between my legs.
Eventually, by main force of will, I managed to relax. My struggles
had gotten me an inch or so of slack -- perhaps the chain connecting
the anchor bar to the arm chain wasn't completely taut under the
mattress. Did that offer any new possibilities? I lifted my head,
as best I could, and surveyed the situation. Gotcha! Either from my
escape attempts, or because John had bound me incorrectly, given his
state, my left leg was fastened incorrectly. The Velcro overlap was
rotated so that it was mostly down, towards the mattress. By
carefully twisting and moving my leg from side to side, I could tease
the two halves apart. It was a slow process -- drag, up, and back --
but the rhythm aroused me again. The back movements became jerks,
nominally to apply pressure, but really because I couldn't control
myself much any more. Just as I was losing myself in arousal again,
my leg burst free. In delicious agony I just threw my legs together
and rolled over, rubbing my legs together, pressing my body into the
bed. This time, I achieved release, albeit a small one. I more or
less collapsed at this point, still bound by my arms and one leg.
Getting my other leg free was rather straight-forward at this point.
My toes were able to release the strap holding my right leg, and I
painfully drew my legs up. I rolled off the bed, and pulled the arm
chain out from under the mattress, eventually reaching the anchor bar
that had held the leg straps. I was lucky -- if he had found a place
on the bed to secure that chain, such as carrying handles on the
mattresses -- I'd probably have been stymied. As is, I was more or
less free, though I had an eight-foot chain and a six-foot bar
fastened to my cuffed hands.
I tried next to get the gag off, but that didn't work -- the knot was
too tight for me to manage with my hands still bound. No matter --
the next few steps wouldn't be strenuous. While I was trying to get
loose from the bed, I thought I was going to choke; gags can really
restrict your breathing. So I went over to John's toybag, looking
for the key. It wasn't there; apart from a few lengths of chain and
a few locks, all I saw was another pair of handcuffs. I did spot the
key to the padlock holding my arms to their chain; opening that let
me move around much more easily. But I was getting worried.
I had done something like this once to John. At the end of a long
vacation weekend, I had locked his hands in front of him, but I had
deliberately left the key elsewhere. At that point, he had no choice
-- he had to follow me, waiting patiently -- with a jacket over his
hands, of course! -- while I checked out of the motel, loaded the
car, etc. He, of course, was contemplating the prospect of a five
hour drive home, bound, without even much ability to visit a rest
area. "Now you know why I rented this van,", I said, as I urged him
into the back and blindfolded him. I drove around, then, for about
30 minutes, while he pleaded to be released. But all I could do was
to answer -- truthfully! -- that I didn't have the key. Finally,
when I thought he had had enough, I headed for a secluded campsite,
where I had cached the key. That, of course, was both reason and
means to extend our stay for a few days.
I searched the room for the key, as best I could. No luck. I was
getting desparate; John still wasn't likely to wake up for hours, and
I still had to work. And I couldn't just leave; I was nude, and I
didn't see any reasonable way of dressing myself with my hands
chained like that. Yes, a tube top would have done, or a strapless
evening dress, or even a halter top, but I didn't those with me. I
could, I suppose, have cut the bra straps, and tied them behind my
neck, but that would be very difficult, too. Besides, that bra was
about as sheer as possible; I certainly couldn't go outside wearing
just it in this neighborhood.
As before, my frustration at being unable to escape the bonds that
John had put me in aroused me. This time, though, my hands were
free, so I was able to satisfy myself. It felt good, too; there was
still a lot of unresolved tension from my time on the bed.
After all that, I realized that if the key were in the room, it was
in one of John's pockets. Slipping bound hands into them wasn't
going to be easy. At that thought, I grinned. There was no reason
to leave his pants on while I searched them. First, though, a
precaution. I took the spare handcuffs out of the bag, and locked
his hands behind him. Then I had a better thought, and spent a few
minutes putting the anchor chain back under the mattress. The next
step was getting John onto the bed; while I'm strong enough to drag
him, I didn't see at first how I could do so with my arms bound. I
discovered, though, that I could get my arms around his legs, and
then up his body. Grunting, I got him to the bed, and then on it.
Finally, I got his pants off -- which is more difficult than it
sounds when he's just deadweight on the bed, and you are chained --
and checked his pockets. Fortunately, the key was there; I released
my hands immediately, and then got that gag off. Finally free, I
stretched and considered my next move.
One thought was foremost in my mind -- I wanted revenge. John had
been treating me like an object, of late, culminating in this latest
indignity. Apart from the potential risk to my business -- and I
knew only too well how many breaks had gone my way, to let me get
loose -- he simply shouldn't have set up that situation, where he was
more interested in the bottle than me, but kidnapped me anyway. If
he wanted to get drunk, fine -- but leave me unbound. If he wanted a
shoulder to cry on, I'm always willing to do that for my lovers. And
if he wanted to set up a scenario where he could act out his
frustrations, I could go along with that, too. But what had happened
was unacceptable. This, on top of everything else over the last few
weeks, was quite possibly going to break up our relationship, and I
felt like getting my last licks in. If he wanted to apologize
afterwards, I might listen, but for now -- revenge!
I started by stripping him, and binding him in the same position I'd
been in. One idea was to leave him like that, with a note next to
his head: "Dear John, I got out of this position; can you? Just like
you did, I've kept the final key on my person. Trouble is, I had to
go back to my office; I'll see you there later. Love, me."
I didn't much like that idea, though; it was too close to breaking my
rules. If he didn't spot my escape paths, he'd be stuck there till
the chambermaid came by in the morning. In this dump, that might be
a long time. And the vodka was going to be heading for his bladder;
he was going to be awfully uncomfortable, probably to the point of
pain. What else could I do?
I decided to stick with the notion of me keeping the key; forcing him
to make his way to my office while handcuffed had an undeniable
appeal. That would mean that I'd have to put his shirt on him; I
started to do that. Before I did, though, I wondered what would
happen if I tried to take advantage of him. I decided to find out,
and went at him with my lips and mouth. Nothing. For all the
growth, so to speak, in his crotch, I might just as well have been
licking another woman. Woman? Hmm -- I knew what I was going to do!
As I had mentioned, John was very slight of build. He also had long
hair for a man, and a clear complexion. Could I turn him into an
involuntary female impersonator? I didn't know, but I sure could
try! The first step was to shave him. He'd brought along a razor,
of course; I plugged it in and went over his face, legs, and armpits
quite thoroughly. I didn't think his face would remain that smooth
by morning, but I decided to postpone that problem. Next, I started
dressing him in my clothes.
The stockings were no problem, of course, nor was the garter belt. I
put my panties on him, then paused. One good erection could spoil
the whole effect, to say nothing of the panties. Rummaging around in
my bag, I discovered some string. I tied this around the piece de
resistance, through his legs, and up to his waist. I then knotted it
in the back. It was very strong twine; he would not find it easy to
break. And too much arousal would be quite painful. Breaking the
rules? Maybe -- but it was up to him; if he retained his control, it
wouldn't hurt at all. Besides, I had bound him that way before, and
he had never seriously complained, the way I always did when he
stretched the rules.
The bra was easy enough, and I filled it with some of my modeling
clay. Then I got inspired and colored in an aureole and a nipple --
the bra and blouse were sheer enough to make that noticeable. I
confess I was vain enough to use myself as a model, though my
half-hearted attempts at making an actual casting didn't work.
Finally, I put my blouse on him, though I decided to leave it
unbuttoned; let him have the fun of trying to close it with his hands
bound. For the same reason, I left the miniskirt off, too.
A bit of hairstyling was next. I didn't want to cut his hair, but
there was no reason I couldn't put in a nice pony tail, and a few
barrettes. And I'd worn clip-on earrings that day, which heightened
the effect. Would my heels fit on his feet? They were a tight fit,
and would be uncomfortable to walk in, but so what? I think shoes
like that are a cultural form of bondage, that society as a whole has
forced women into. It was a man's turn now.
I finished my preparations by handcuffing him, then spread-eagling
his legs to the anchor bar. I didn't attach the handcuffs to the arm
chain, which meant that getting loose would be much easier for him
than it was for me, but that was the whole point.
One last problem: could I wake him up earlier? I decided it was
worth a try. I pushed the blouse up away from his midriff, and put
an ice cube in his navel. I then dressed in my gym clothes, gathered
up everything else but a single sweater, and left. Pleasant dreams,
John.
As I started his car, though, a disturbing thought struck me. I had
escaped, but what would John do to get even? Would I regret my
revenge?
Driving back to the office, I asked myself this question: why did I
persist in my relationship with John? What did he supply, to make me
take such risks? The key answer, I think, is imagination.
Did you ever see the movie "Blowup", where some characters play an
invisible tennis game? It takes a certain kind of mindset to do that
without a director hovering over you. Not every shot is difficult,
but some are. You neither win nor lose every point. Bondage games,
at least the kind I like, are similar. You have to know when to
resist, when to give in, when to dominate. Beyond that, you have to
create an illusion, set a scene. There's no particular trick to just
tying someone up, and sometimes that's a good thing to do. Other
times, though, you want more. Perhaps there's a new way to tie
someone up, or a good world-model to keep in mind.
John could do that. There was that whipping post, for example, that
was perfect for stimulating the victim, even without the built-in
vibrator. Or there were the worlds he could create. Once he
described a society very similar to ours, with just a few changes.
Slavery -- sexual slavery -- was legal. Debtors could be
repossessed. And the whole legal structure was weighted in favor of
the banks.
You can imagine some of what comes next, of course. I was victimized
by a "mistake" by my credit card company. We acted out my arrest,
detention (with "parties" for the staff), trial, sale, and eventual
release. We kept that story going for weeks. But he could also take
the other side. I pointed out that my lover in the scenario might be
held for contempt of court, for objecting to the proceedings, and
remanded to a municipal brothel. Guess who the patron of that
brothel was? Guess who the judge was? This was a society with
egalitarian sexual slavery; I could have just as much fun ordering
John tied to a log as he could have leading me around on a leash.
Not everyone can do this sort of doublethink. I remember one past
lover who never could come up with much new. If I suggested, for
example, that I was an odalisque in a harem, he'd comply. He could
find appropriate costumes, and perhaps even an authentic scholarly
tract on, say, punishments of the period. Similarly, he would act
the part if I told him I was the mistress of a Roman plantation, and
he was part of my property. But dream them up? Never. And he had a
great deal of difficulty switching roles within a scenario.
Now, though, I was concerned that the real-life relationship I had
with John was broken. He had pushed me past my breaking point, and I
suspected that my revenge had pushed him past his. With most people,
that wouldn't be a serious matter. Upsetting, yes -- you never want
a relationship to end on such a note of hostility. But John had been
so unpredictable of late that real violence seemed a possibility.
I went upstairs to my office. It was late, and the place was almost
deserted. There was one light on in the back; luckily, it was Roger.
I was almost in love with him, even though we'd never gone out; he
was by far the brightest (and handsomest) member of my staff. But I
have rigid policies against dating my employees; if nothing else, it
can totally mess up the professional dynamics of the company.
(Besides, could you imagine a lawsuit for sexual harrassment, given
my tastes? "Your Honor, not only did she proposition my client, she
tied him up and whipped him. And she literally chained him to the
desk when he had to work overtime.")
Another reason I liked Roger, though, was that I suspected he liked
bondage as well. A few years ago, when I gave a company costume
party, he and his lover of the time showed up, with her dressed as a
barbarian warrior, and Roger all but naked and in handcuffs. She
held a short chain leading to the cuffs; whenever he did something
she "didn't like", such as flirt with me, she'd tug on the chain and
nearly make him spill his drink. Half-way through the party, though,
they vanished; when they re-appeared, she was stripped of her brass
bra and other finery, had her hands bound behind her, and was being
led around on a leash by her barbarian captor. She could only eat
when he fed her, or if she was willing to kneel on the floor and eat
like an animal.
Not enough to convince you? I was convinced; I practically raped
Roger right then and there. But let me tell you about another party,
at his house. This was a conventional party; no costumes or
anything. Roger has odd decorating tastes, and -- being an artist --
he can indulge in them a lot himself. He had painted a wall of his
living room to resemble the side of a barn. The balcony became a
hayloft, complete with a beam sticking out for the lift. But the
pulley wasn't just decorative; it was obviously serviceable, not just
a painted-over antique from some farm. I was staring at it,
imagining how John would look suspended from it, when Roger walked
over to me. "That's for rolls in the hay," he said. I looked up at
him; he continued, "or other associated games". "Games?" I replied.
"Ask Janice," he said, gesturing towards his lover. But she was
staring at John, who had just arrived -- they had been involved for a
while, it seems, all unknown to Roger or myself. And John's tastes
are enough like mine that I knew what sort of games he would have
played with Janice. We left that party early; staring at those ropes
all evening without touching them was too much for me; I could barely
wait for John to tie me up.
But all that was fantasy of a different sort; Roger was off-limits,
even though I knew he'd broken up with Janice. I could dream of the
day the firm was big enough that I'd need a partner, but for now I
needed to get to work -- after all, this contract just might do it.
I sat down to work. I figured that if John was going to do
something, it would be one or two hours later -- he'd need at least
that much time to get loose and walk from the motel. But if it took
much longer than that, it probably meant he'd just gone home to nurse
his anger.
Sure enough, just about an hour after I'd started, the phone rang.
It was John. "You've had it." I tried to reason with him. "John,
let's talk about this later. You're still drunk. Let's talk in the
morning, and tomorrow night I'll have a special surprise for you."
He wasn't buying. "Forget it, you bitch. It's war, not play, and
you're the target." Click.
I didn't know what to do. I really wanted to finish up, and I was
almost done, but would John turn violent? He certainly sounded that
way. I compromised with myself. I wandered down to Roger's office,
mostly to verify that he was still there, and made some small talk.
I just "happened" to let him know that I'd just broken up with John,
and that John wasn't taking it well. This was mostly to alert him,
in case something untoward did happen, that I might not mind
intervention. That settled, I went back to my office and got back to
work.
I'd just finished when John showed up. How he got in, I don't know
to this day; I'm certain I had locked the front door to the office
suite. But there he was, twirling a choke collar and leash. He did
look charming in a miniskirt, though. I didn't know if he wanted to
play or hit me with it; either way, I wasn't buying. I decided to
play it cautious. "John, I'm really not in the mood anymore tonight.
We did play a bit, and I turned the tables on you, just like we
always said could happen."
"Forget it, bitch. You're mine, and I make the rules now." He took
a few steps forward.
I braced myself, and stood up, reviewing some karate moves. I didn't
see any way out of the situation that wouldn't require hurting him,
and that would make the hostility permanent, even after he sobered
up. I decided to make one more try at dissuading him. "John!
Leave! Now. I'm busy, and I don't have time for this. We'll talk
tomorrow. I'd appreciate it very much if you'd leave this instant."
I didn't work; John kept on coming. Just before I had to move, Roger
showed up in the door, startling John and me. "Hi, folks. Am I
interrupting any games?" he said with only a small leer. John looked
at him -- looked up at him, rather -- and decided the odds weren't in
his favor. They weren't even if Roger hadn't been there, but I don't
think John realized that. I was confident, though -- and for
whatever reason, karate lessons had never come up in conversations
with John. Be that as it may, John backed out the door, snarling
"I'll get you later" as he left.
Roger was concerned. "You'd better flee, fast. Do you have anywhere
to go that he wouldn't know of? Don't even go to a friend he might
think of. If there's nothing else, try a hotel, but even that's
risky." I told him about the farm house and said I'd be okay. He
escorted me to the parking lot, and I drove off. I didn't notice the
red car that followed me down the street, or Roger's wild
gesticulations and shouts.
At that hour, there wasn't much traffic out of town. I was too
self-absorbed to notice that there was always a car behind me, no
matter where I drove. Finally, I pulled into my own drive, and
breathed a sigh of relief. I did see the car behind me going past,
then; for some reason, it seemed to be driving slowly. That much I
noticed, but I didn't put two and two together.
Once inside, I relaxed a bit. Odd. It would be first time I'd slept
there, but I was doing it alone. Should I tie myself up for
recreation, the way I did when I was between lovers? While the place
was by no means finished, I did have a few toys in place. I
seriously considered it, and after I'd undressed and showered, I
toyed around for a while with some handcuffs and a harness I'd made.
I finally took them off; I just wasn't in the mood, and going through
the motions of autoeroticism for their own sake didn't seem to make
much sense. Accomodating a lover when you're not in the mood, sure,
but yourself? Then I rethought the issue; on a night like this one,
I was all too likely to wake up horny and depressed in the middle of
the night. So I compromised -- I put the harness back on, left two
pairs of handcuffs within easy reach, and went to sleep. That was a
mistake -- a big one.
By the clock, I'd been asleep an hour or so when I was awakened by
the crack of a strap across my thighs. I jerked around but was
caught short -- my hands were chained to to the waist ring of the
harness! I tried to kick out, but that didn't work well, either; my
legs were confined by the second pair of handcuffs. Before I could
recover, John had clipped my legs to a ring I'd conveniently
installed at the foot of the bed. It took only a moment more for him
to collar me, and attach that to the head of the bed.
"Nice little love nest you have," he said. "I haven't been here
before; who have you been sharing it with?" With that, he struck me
again. "Doesn't matter, though; it's mine, now, and so are you." I
was petrified.
"I haven't been with anyone else," I said, truthfully. "This isn't
even my place; it's Roger's," I added. John just laughed. "With
your name on the mailbox? With the front door keyed the same as your
house?" My heart sank as John continued, "I don't like being lied to;
you'll regret it." He whipped me twice more as he said that, but
almost casually; I could see that he was working up to something
bigger.
"OK, John, what do you want?" I asked. "You, of course; I already
told you that. And the first step is to mark you as all mine.
Tonight, I'll bring back some tatooing equipment, or maybe a branding
iron; for now, though, this will have to serve." With that, he
pulled out a pen and started marking my breasts with indelible ink.
He first wrote "Property of" on one side, and his name on the other.
He continued with a few obscene phrases describing me, then rolled me
over and continued on my buttocks. Naturally, he wasn't at all
gentle about it, either.
Finally, he was done. "I'm going to look around this place, to see
what else you've got here. That bed is entirely too comfortable for
the likes of you." With that, he vanished. I didn't even bother
struggling; I knew too well the quality of the toys I'd bought. And
I was also certain where I was spending the night. When I heard a
satisfied "Ah!", I knew he'd found it.
Have you ever considered the problem of building a jail cell? Trying
to order an authentic door and having it delivered to a residence
just doesn't work. And I'm not a metal worker. I am, however, a
decent carpenter. Downstairs in the basement, there was a large
storage closet. I took off the door, and built my own. I started
with a stout frame of 2x4s. That would sag, though. So I took two
pieces of plywood the same size as the frame, and cut out the middle.
That gave me a rigid border to fasten to the 2x4s. I filled in the
middle with thick dowel sticks, the kind you use for clothes rods in
closets. I ran a 6x4 across the center for rigidity, and used it as
the anchor point for a deadbolt. Voila -- a cell door. The inside
of the cell was, of course, fully equipped with rings, chains, etc.
I left the bare cement floor alone; it added to the air of
authenticity. I did have some foam pads cut to fit the floor for
overnight use; spending a full night on a bare cement floor could be
very unpleasant, especially in winter. Somehow, though, I didn't
think John was going to be that nice to me.
John came back upstairs. He released my legs from the ring, only to
bend them backwards and chain them to the back of the harness. I
sure wasn't going to be kicking him. He also fastened another pair
of handcuffs to my leg cuffs before unchaining my neck and carrying
me downstairs into the cell, dropping me on the floor. While I was
still a bit stunned, he quickly moved my right hand from the front
handcuffs to the back. Fastened like that, I was helpless; I
acquiesced while he moved my other hand. He completed the scene by
chaining my neck to a ring, and locking the cell door. "Good night;
don't go anywhere," he said as he turned out the light and closed the
basement door.
Somehow, despite my total helplessness at the hands of a man who had
been my lover only hours before, I wasn't the least bit aroused.
Eventually, somehow, I fell asleep.
(to be continued)X-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-X
Another file downloaded from: & the Temple of the Screaming Electron
NIRVANAnet(tm) HQ (510) 935-5845
! \ AREA CODE WILL BE (925) AS OF 03/98
-$- -------- *
! . / Raw Data for Raw Nerves
/_\ /-o-\ Information * Innuendo * Lies
(o..) | * Full access for first-time callers
+ |:| /^\ /~\ Thousands of text files * Multi-line Chat
! |:|/\ _| |____|:| We don't want to know who you are, where you
/^\ / O |/...\ /_-_\ live, or what your phone number is
|@ \_| @ /:::::|/|- : -| We are not Big Brother
| | | /~ |/| _ |
|____|/~ @ /~\ |/|_(_)_| Free Speech * Anonymous Access * User-Supported
/_______|_|_|/ To make a $10 donation call (900)443-4227 x145
X-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-X
|
|
