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Kidnap, Part 4
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.
For obvious reasons, I didn't sleep well that night. Apart from my
discomfort, I was very worried about my situation, and not just the
obvious concerns. Have you ever been bound that way, with your hands
tied tightly to your ankles? It's an exhausting position; it's even
a bit hard to breathe. And that was the danger; when breathing
becomes a struggle, eventually your chest muscles and diaphragm
become too tired to keep up their job. Did John know that? And was
I safer if he did or didn't know?
And, oddly enough, I even worried about work. I was sure to miss the
presentation in the morning. Losing the contract, while
disappointing, would be no big deal. But not showing up would be
disastrous; with all the temperamental "artistic" types I competed
with, my reputation for reliability was a crucial edge. Could I
explain, "sorry, I was tied up yesterday?" No, I doubted they'd
understand!
That was the way the night passed. I'd doze for a while, then wake
up and worry. I had no idea what time it was, or even if it was
morning yet; that basement was pretty light-tight. Eventually, I was
awakened by a gag being shoved into my mouth, and a hood being placed
over my head. John started to speak.
"OK, bitch, I make the rules now. Here's what your life is going to
be like from now on. First thing every morning, you'll be punished.
We'll start today with a whipping -- a real one -- but I have lots
more ideas, so don't worry about being bored. After that, we'll see
how well you can please me. Be sure to do a good job; how satisfied
I am will determine whether you get fed that day, how tightly you'll
be bound while I'm gone, even whether or not you get to use a toilet
instead of lying in your own crap all day." He giggled; I, perforce,
was silent. I didn't even try to moan audibly, though internally I
was on the verge of panic. In the right context, those same words --
even those same actions, for a few days -- might have been a
tremendous turn-on; here, they were threats.
John continued with his schedule. "The same thing will happen in the
evening, of course. And if I'm not interested in having you" -- his
phrase, verbatim -- "that's obviously your fault for not interesting
me enough, so I'll have to punish you some more. Of course, some
evenings I'll be too tired to drive all the way out here; that might
even happen two or three nights in a row. I sure hope that you were
good enough the morning before to earn an extra plate of food left
next to you; that would be an extra-special treat, one I couldn't
give you very often." Again, he giggled, and I could imagine him
smirking.
When he was done talking, he unfastened my legs and neck chain, and
slapped me on the buttocks. "Up!" he commanded, pulling on my leash.
"Run!", he said as we left the cell, pointing me towards the stairs,
slapping me again, and pulling harder. Of course, I didn't know
which was I was facing; I ran straight into the wall while John
laughed. He more or less dragged me up the stairs, into the living
room. When we got there, he chained my legs together again, though
he left me standing alone for a moment.
"You didn't finish this room," he complained, somewhat illogically.
"No matter; I know how to install ringbolts." With that, he tied my
ankle chain to the floor, and attached a rope to my handcuffs. The
rope apparently went up to the ceiling; he pulled it taut, stretching
my arms up rather uncomfortably, and causing my buttocks to stick out
at him. I assume he tied the end somewhere, but the next I knew of
his activity was when I felt the sting of the paddle. He was no
longer playing; the beating hurt worse than anything I'd ever felt.
I wanted to scream despite the gag, and despite the hood my eyes were
tearing.
I don't know how long the pain continued, but he stopped well short
of beating me unconscious -- John wanted me awake for the next part.
He release the rope to the ceiling, pushed me to my knees, and raped
me from behind. I wasn't responsive, of course -- no one would be in
that situation -- and that infuriated him. He kicked me hard, then
hauled on the rope again till I was in his chosen whipping position.
He hit me a few more times, muttered to himself, and then left.
Eventually, I heard the door slam, and a car drive away.
For a while, I was too numb to think. Then the old worries returned
and gnawed at me. In that position, I didn't even have the solace of
sleep, so I tried desparately to think pleasant thoughts. I even
managed to come up with two about my present situation. The first
was that John had never cared for anal sex; if he had, he'd certainly
have hurt me severely taking me that way, with no preparation or
gentleness. The second was that my foresight in using an IUD was
again paying off -- when bondage and spontaneity are at the heart of
your sex life, other forms of birth control can be problematic at
best. Of course, my very survival seemed in doubt at that point,
rendering any question of birth control academic.
After some measureless interval, I heard a car pull up, and the door
open. I braced myself, certain that I'd be greeted by a blow. But I
was surprised. "Hi, Boss. At least, I assume that's you." It was
Roger -- and I nearly fainted with relief.
Quickly, he unfastened the ropes holding me in place, carried me to
the couch, and removed the hood and gag. He didn't waste time asking
me if I was okay; the outlines of what had happened were obvious
enough. "Where are the keys to your handcuffs and leg chains?" he
asked. I told him that I had left the keys on the night table, but
that I suspected John had taken them with him. "There's a master set
in the linen closet, though; I always keep spares there." Roger
disappeared for a moment, but returned empty-handed: "John apparently
ransacked the place; there are no keys to be found. Let me run into
town and pick up a few tools."
I demurred. "Before you go anywhere, could you please carry me to
the bathroom? And I have a well-equipped workshop downstairs; you'll
find what you need in there, I think." Roger obliged in the first
respect, but before fetching the tools, he carried me back to the
couch and covered me with a sheet. "I think you'll be more
comfortable this way," he said, without even a leer or flirtatious
note. Teasing games were one thing -- I remembered Roger at a
company beach party when John had eased my bikini top off -- but he
knew that this wasn't the place for any such thing. Of course, I was
feeling safe again, which made my bondage seem a bit sexy again; my
reaction, at least partially, was that I wouldn't mind the chains
just then if only Roger had been the one who had put them there! I
didn't let on, though; I just composed myself while Roger got what he
needed, and cut through the links. He then dispatched me to the
bedroom to shower and dress, while he cooked some food for us.
Over the meal -- breakfast? lunch? -- I told him what had happened,
sparing no details. I even explained the "Kidnap" game to Roger; he
seemed fascinated. When I finished, I asked him to explain how he
had shown up to rescue me.
"When I saw John following you away from the office yesterday, I knew
there would be trouble. I had biked in to work, so I had no way of
following you, and of course I had no idea where you were going
except for "the farmhouse". I tried going to the police, but they
weren't interested; everything was too vague and weird-sounding. So
I went back to the office and thought for a while.
"It seemed to me that your farmhouse would be 30 minutes to two hours
from here. Much closer and you wouldn't get any extra privacy over
your regular house; much further and it would be too inconvenient for
weekend visits. I kind-of guessed it was a love nest, but I wasn't
certain just how you'd feather it." We both blushed.
"I narrowed down the search area a bit by assuming it was in the same
general direction as your house; the direction you headed off in was
at least consistent with that guess. That still left a lot of towns,
though. But it was all I had to go on, so I started dialing
Information for each of the towns. No dice."
"No," I said. "The purpose of this place is relaxation and
isolation; I deliberately didn't get a phone or even any clocks. As
far as possible, this is not the real world."
Roger nodded. "That left the local tax offices, for all those
wretched little towns. I knew there was nothing else to be done
until morning when they opened, so I called my 'assistant' and
alerted her." I looked a bit puzzled; Roger replied, "Surely you
remember Janice?" I nodded; Roger continued, "Even though we're no
longer going out, we're still friends. And Janice hates John with a
passion. Their relationship ended much like yours is doing: with
John getting violent, though not quite to this extent. He let her go
after a week, and she never filed charges -- she said that she had no
evidence it wasn't just another game, and he could point to her
collection of toys when defending himself. I didn't agree, but it's
not the sort of thing you can push a lover into doing, especially
after a couple of years.
"Anyway, by morning I had compiled a complete list of numbers for her
to call; one of them eventually worked. I couldn't make the calls
myself -- I had to give your presentation."
I jumped up. "Roger! How did it go? What did you say about me?"
"No problem -- I said you had a bad stomach virus, but would probably
be in tomorrow. And I think things went quite well; they really
liked your stuff, even more than mine, I think." He paused. "You
always keep the best parts of these bids for yourself," but he was
smiling as he said that.
I smiled back at him. "That's my real pay for running the business,
and tending to all the paperwork. Anyway, that's neither here nor
there. What are we going to do about John?"
Roger turned dead-serious. "I don't know. Would you prosecute?"
"Well, to some extent I have the same problem as Janice: where's the
evidence? You rescued me, of course, but all of the paraphenalia
here is mine -- and that's a pretty strong defense. We'd need to get
more evidence."
Roger paused. "Can we frighten him, maybe even punish him enough to
make him stay away?"
"I doubt it -- and in any event I will not be a party to that sort of
violence." Roger seemed to sigh in relief as I continued, "Hmm -- if
we did manage to get some more evidence, could we use it for
blackmail instead? Neither of us wants our proclivities known." I
blushed; I'd been fidgeting with the remains of the handcuff the way
I do with bracelets, treating it almost as if it belonged there.
Roger noticed, and laughed.
"Whatever do you mean by that?" he asked, as he pulled the two chain
remnants close together. "Do you mean you like this?" he asked as he
grabbed a discarded twist-tie and fastened the two together again.
"Roger! Stop that this instant! Or I'll have to spank you," I said.
But I left my hands together, not pulling them apart, while we
continued talking.
"Can you tolerate being bound again, the way you were when I found
you?" Roger asked. I hesitated; he continued. "If the chains and
hood are on you, but you're laying on the floor, I think I can pull
the rope taut when I see his car entering the driveway. There would
still be time for me to hide. Here's what we'll do."
Eventually, reluctantly, I agreed. And so it was that after Roger
chiseled the remains of the old manacles from me, I brought out some
new ones -- sans any keys -- from the toybox. I stalled, looking for
every last excuse not to go through with it. Was the kitchen
properly cleaned up? Was Roger's car well-hidden? Finally, there
was nothing left to prepare; it was time to do it or flee. I went
into my room and undressed, then headed back to the living room.
"Are you ready?" Roger asked. I remained mute, no more able to agree
than I had been when John bound me to his whipping post. I draped
the gag around my neck -- we decided to try pretending I had managed
to spit it out -- and Roger tied the hood. He handed me the
handcuffs then and asked me to chain myself. "No, Roger -- you do
it." I hugged him; he hugged my naked body, and bent to his task.
The locks clicked home. "Roger? Touch me again?" I pleaded. He
finished tying my ankles to the floor, and properly threading the
ceiling rope. I felt a gentle caress on the side of my breast as I
lay on the floor. "Let's talk about that later, when we're equal
again," he replied. But he caressed my breast once more, lovingly
and lingeringly, taking the sting out of his words. And though we
lay there silently, his arm remained on my shoulder, reassuringly.
I don't know how long I laid there, bound. This time, the chains
were Roger's; the scene, though, was John's, and there was still very
real danger ahead. And I could do nothing to help; we had no key for
me to use to escape and come to Roger's aid if necessary.
Eventually, we heard tires kicking up gravel in the drive. "He's
here," Roger said, unnecessarily. He helped me to my feet, pulled
the rope taut, and vanished without even a kiss. Helpless, I waited
for John.
A few minutes later, John came in. "Waiting where I left you, I see.
Polite of you," he sneered. I heard the sound of a heavy object
hitting floor, and the clank of some metal. John chuckled.
"Remember what I said I'd do tonight? Here are my branding tools,
all nice and clean. I ordered them weeks ago, waiting for this
moment." Now that was an interesting revelation; my revenge for his
apparent thoughtlessness had nothing to do with the situation. It
struck me as quite likely that if I hadn't escaped from the motel,
all this might have happened last night.
As if he were reading my mind, John said, "Yup -- last night was to
be the lead-in, if you hadn't dawdled. You thought you were playing
bondage games with me, but it was never really a game to either of
us, was it?" With that, he slapped my buttocks, hard. "Of course, I
could never have afforded a place like this before today anyway; it
was thoughtful of you to provide it for me. I hope you like it a
lot; I don't think you're ever going to leave. While you're here,
you life will be like this."
With that, he started to hit me, hard. I stifled a scream; I was
supposed to be gagged. Roger stayed hidden; he was going to come out
on my signal only. For now, we had to elicit as many incriminating
comments as possible from John, which meant that I had to take as
many blows as I could stand. And I had to judge the psychological
moment just right; expelling the gag with a scream after a blow
seemed more plausible if I were silent despite having been ungagged
for some time.
Why not put the gag back in? Well, apart from the dangers I
described earlier, I need to be free to give our release word. And
we were certain that the hood was going to come off before the
attempted branding; John would certainly want to tease me with the
sight of the hot iron. If we were wrong about that, I was going to
suffer a lot of pain before I got out of this. Worse yet, John might
consider the hot iron a weapon to use against Roger; in a fight like
that, anything could happen.
I was bracing myself to scream when John stopped the beating. "Time
for a different game," he said. He untied the ropes holding me in
place, and pushed me to the floor. My arms and legs were still
chained; he further secured my by tying my handcuffs to my waist.
Finally, he tied another rope to my leg chains and dragged me, feet
first, towards the barn.
My sense of panic, which had vanished when I heard Roger's voice,
returned in full measure. Could Roger follow us and not be noticed?
Did Roger even know where we were going? Was there a place for him
to hide in the barn? I didn't know, and it worried me.
If I'd known what Roger was up to, I'd have been even more worried.
He hadn't even been in the house during the whipping! Rather, he'd
been out searching John's car, an action that was ultimately to prove
very helpful, but almost got him caught at the time.
When we reached the gravel drive, I couldn't hold in my screams any
longer. I was being dragged face down, and the rocks raking across
my breasts were too much to bear. John dropped me, swore, and came
over to investigate. "Maybe I should have dragged you by the hair;
the gag seems to have been pulled off." Sure enough, the hood was
shredded, so his explanation was quite plausible. "No matter, I'm
the only one who can hear you scream, and I quite enjoy it." He
laughed again, and twisted my breasts. "But I think I'll let you
recover a bit while I prepare the next set of toys." With that, he
picked me up in a fireman's carry and went into the barn.
It would have been out of character not to plead, so I did. "John,
stop this; you know I'll play any sort of game you want, do anything
you want."
"Of course you will, dear; did you think I'd give you the opportunity
to refuse. Now shut up; if you say another word I'll gag you again."
I was silent; another gag could have been deadly. John continued,
"But I do think I'll put the hood back on for now; wondering what I'm
going to do next will be half your pleasure."
When we got into the barn, John tied a rope to my ankle cuffs, and
hoisted me into the air upside down. "Next time, instead of leaving
your hands tied to your waist like that, I'll just attach them to a
heavy weight, and bounce it down on occasion; this time, though, this
pose is just to hold you for a while." I moaned, and had no need to
fake it.
What followed next was a bit odd -- some hammering, drilling, sounds
of something -- a ladder, I learned later -- being dragged around,
plus more than a few curses -- John wasn't the handiest guy around.
Finally, he was done. He informed me of this by unceremoniously
cutting through the rope; if I had been much higher off the ground, I
could easily have broken my neck when I fell. He then unlocked my
leg chains, and fastened a strap around each ankle. Some footsteps,
and the clicking of a ratchet. Slowly, my legs were pulled further
and further apart. Slowly, they were raised into the air. I started
to scream, but John didn't say anything until I was again suspended,
this time with my legs pulled uncomfortably far apart. He pulled off
the hood and looked at me.
"I'm going to spread you a bit more, then leave you like this. Then
I'm going to brand the inside of your thighs while you can't move an
inch to stop me. Then I'll drop you to the ground, rearrange the
pulleys to spread you like you've never been spread before, and take
you till you scream." True to his word, he tightened the ratchet a
bit more, and vanished.
For some reason, I felt the urge to look around and understand what
he had done. A rope from each ankle went through a pulley wheel
mounted high off the ground, at either end of the barn. One rope was
simply tied, at ground level; the other went to a winch, also near
the ground. By turning it, he dragged my ankles apart, and raised me
into the air. Obviously, by simply removing the pulley wheels, he
could stretch me on the floor, in a more convenient position for
rape.
Suddenly, I heard Roger's voice. "I think we've got him. If you
can, try the release word before he lights the torch!" But where was
Roger hiding? The whole inside of the barn was open; there weren't
even any stalls left.
I didn't get a chance to ask him; John came back in. "I found
something else I want to try before branding you; it should be even
more fun." It was a round file, a very coarse one, that he had found
in the workshop. He rubbed it, hard, on the inside of my thighs. It
would have hurt enough under any circumstances; with my legs
stretched that tight, it was sheer agony. I screamed, then used our
release word. I'd only done that once before with John, and that
time it was a test, though he never knew that -- it's always wise to
learn if your partner really will stop when things get too rough.
"Release you?" John asked? "Are you joking? That was when we were
playing your games. This is my game, and I'm the one who decides
when to let go. Come now -- are you ready for your brand? Or shall
I use this a bit more?" He pointed the file downward, as if ready to
insert it. "No, no!" I screamed. "Beg to be branded," he replied,
touching me with the tip of the file. "I beg you, I beg you!" I
screamed, all but forgetting that rescue was at hand. But I had to
get him away from me, lest he use me as a hostage.
I needn't have worried. As John stepped towards the propane torch
he'd brought, I yelled, "Roger!" John looked up, and an amazing
thing happened: Roger jumped him from above; he'd been in the
hayloft!
It wasn't really a fight; John was stunned by the impact. Roger
pushed him, roughly, towards the winch, slammed John into the wall to
immobilize him, and released me. He caught the crank so he could
lower me slowly to the floor. The keys had fallen from John's pocket
during all this; ignoring him for the moment, Roger picked them up,
walked over to me, and unlocked me.
John slowly rose to his feet. "I'm not done with you yet, bitch.
And don't try calling the cops; with this setup, I'll have no trouble
convincing any judge this wasn't just a game. And you can't even
afford to have this public; your precious business would fall apart."
I was going to reply, and dare him to expose me. He didn't really
understand the situation. I, and my competitors, are fundamentally
artists. So are the client representatives we deal with. And in the
art world, people pride themselves on ignoring odd personal lives;
such things are irrelevant. What I did was quite tame by comparison
to some of them.
I didn't get a chance to answer, though; Roger spoke first. "Of
course, you can't afford the exposure, either. What's more, there
will be no trouble with the jury; I have the whole thing on tape,
even the part about you rejecting the release word." John started
looking concerned. "But there's more. While you were busy, I had a
look in your car." At that, John started looking very alarmed.
Roger continued, "I'm sure the D.A. would love to send that funny
white powder to a lab. But that's not all. That stuff was packaged
for sale, not home use. And there was a lot of cash in the trunk as
well, which suggests that you didn't purchase the stuff. Tell me --
what would the kind of folks you ripped off do if they learned your
name and adress? Wait -- don't leave yet. I'm not going to do
anything with that tape now. Nor have I removed anything from your
car. But I did use your very own car phone to tell some friends
what's going on. I suggest that you leave, immediately. And if you
ever come near her or me again -- well, that tape will be page 1
news, and a letter about the drug ripoff will be mailed to a certain
address."
John didn't stay to hear any more; he fled. All I wanted to do was
lay down and have a good screaming fit, but Roger dissuaded me. With
some justice, he pointed out that I should not stay at a known
address until he had distributed copies of the tape and I had
installed suitable alarm systems. We walked back to the house, arm
in arm. Roger cleaned me up and bandaged me; then we headed for a
randomly-chosen hotel to spend the night. Obviously, all we did was
cuddle.
Roger was a bit distant in the morning, when I was a bit in the mood
for more. "Right now, you're feeling very grateful to me. Don't
mistake that for infatuation. And remember, we still work together,
even if you do make me a partner to handle half of this contract."
How had he guessed my thoughts! "Relax for a while, date others, and
recover from all this. In a few months, you can make a decision
about us."
His logic was, of course, impeccable. And I did start dating others,
though I remained celibate; I wasn't ready for anything deep. Work
kept me busy; we did get that contract, and I did promote Roger. And
we never heard a word from John; when we checked with his neighbors,
we learned that he had never returned that day. I never did learn if
he fled or if the mob got him without our help.
Finally, I hit it off with someone. We retired to his place that
evening; he even had a reasonable set of toys of his own. And it
felt good -- when you chain yourself up, as I had been doing, there
isn't that sense of abandoning control that you get when someone else
does it. Most important, though, it clarified my feelings about
Roger.
I waited until the next time both of us had to work late, well after
everyone else had gone. I walked up behind him as he sat at his
desk, put my arms around his neck, and rested my head on his
shoulders. "You've been kidnapped," I said in a dreamy voice,
closing my eyes. He grasped my hands, and I felt something hard.
"No, it's you who's been kidnapped," he said, as he snapped a pair of
handcuffs shut.
We drifted back to the couch in my office. Before this, I'd often
spent the night there when I'd been working late, but never nude,
never bound, and never with Roger chained beside me.X-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-X
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