Kidnap, Part 1

Kidnap, Part 1 · Part 1 (1/2)
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I was hard at work. The design, both sketches and clay models, had to be done by the next day, and I did not want to stay late — my lover was finally interested in a date for that evening, and I was certainly ready. The last several weeks he had been acting very odd, avoiding me, acting surly, etc. I suspected trouble at work; this didn't seem to be the boredom accompanying the end of a relationship, but it was irritating me nevertheless. And he wouldn't talk about the problem, whatever it was. Hmm. Tie him to the bed and tickle him till he talked? I grinned; whether or not he said anything, the game sounded like fun.

I returned to work. Reaching for the eraser, my hand tangled in the phone cord. The momentary hint of bondage brought a smile to my lips, and a wetness to my groin. Almost unconsciously, I smoothed my skirt. The unexpected contact of hand to thigh startled me, and then generated another smile. I didn't often wear such skimpy outfits to work. But I was intent on celebrat- ing that evening, and no one would say anything to me — there are advantages to owning the firm.

Suddenly, the phone rang. Cursing — I had told me secretary I wanted no interruptions — I picked it up. A distorted voice said, "You've been kidnaped"

Shit. The call had come in on my private line, the one that did not go through my secretary's phone. Only one person was likely to be calling me on that phone these days. "John? Is that you? We were supposed to meet tonight, not now — I told you how busy I'd be today."

It was John. He repeated, "You've been kidnaped. You know the situation: any time, anyplace — you drop what you're doing and come with me. Now."

I did indeed know the rules. Many years, and not a few relation- ships, ago, a lover and I had evolved the kidnap game as a way to spice up our bondage lives. Either of us, at any time, could "kidnap" the other, simply by announcing it. The "victim" would go to the other's car to be bound, and off we'd go. The kidnaper would drive off to some prepared place, where a scenario had been prepared. We'd then have an evening, or a weekend, or even more, of delicious servitude.

One of the iron-clad rules, though, was that we didn't hurt each other. I like being tied up — and I like tying my lovers up — but I'm not into pain. A whipping, if that's what the game called for, was just a few strokes, enough to tingle, but not sting more than slightly. But locks were real locks, and while we often used Velcro for convenience bonds, if the game called for sleeping chained, real handcuffs were used. Neither of us had ever escaped — and the rules do permit escapes and turn- abouts. In fact, that was why I started a serious exercise program; I didn't like being overpowered that easily. I don't know if I'm as strong as John is, but he can't easily overpower me without risking hurting me — and that, as I said, is beyond the rules. Be that as it may, I grew to like exercise for its own sake; even today, as busy as I was, I found time to work out.

We always took the "no pain" rule seriously. When we played our discreet public bondage games, we always did it an hour or more away, to avoid any public embarrassment. We'd keep each other minutely apprised of our professional schedules, so that kidnap- ings didn't cause problems at work.

John always seemed to walk the edge of that rule, though. His ropes were often a bit tighter than necessary, and his spankings a bit harder. I never really knew what was going to happen next, and that was both a thrill and a source of worry. The essence of bondage is helplessness — that you are not at all in control, that you are at the complete and total mercy of another. But there must also be trust — you must know that your partner won't exceed your bounds — and I was never really sure if I could trust John. But that, of course, meant I was really at his mercy, which turned me on even more sometimes. Other times, of course, it made me worry, and I had been giving serious thought to ending the relationship.

I remembered what he had done a few months earlier. While I was sleeping, he had broken into my house, slipped upstairs, and quickly handcuffed me. As I struggled awake, he kissed me, announced a kidnaping, and slipped a hood over my head. He then led me downstairs, out the back door — nude! — into his car, and drove me to his house. He was courteous to drive around to his back door, too, something he doesn't usually do, and led me in. Of course, I didn't know where I was; he wouldn't tell me. He then fastened my hands high over my head to some sort of post, and tied my legs to either side of it. My toes could just barely touch the ground. Finally, he moved some sort of lever, and the whole thing tilted forward about 10 or 15 degrees. My breasts and crotch were pressed against the post, creating a delicious pressure. I had just enough leverage to wiggle my crotch against the post.

John spoke. "I'd like your permission to bend the rules a bit. I'd like to whip you rather harder than we usually do. It's really going to hurt this time, and I'm not going to stop after two or three strokes. I think you'll find it's worth it, though, at least this time."

I wiggled in my bonds, trying to get loose. I couldn't, of course. And I didn't know what to say. If I said no, would he whip me anyway? If I said yes, could I take it? John isn't particularly large — in fact, we're about the same height — but I hadn't even seen the whip. And would I really enjoy the expe- rience? I had never found pain to be a particular stimulus in the past. I moaned and wiggled some more, which of course stimu- lated my crotch and provoked a different sort of moan.

John said, "You don't have to explicitly agree. I'll count to ten; if you don't demur by then, I'll proceed." I remained silent, stilled by an agony of indecision. Oddly enough, rather than simply counting, he activated a metronome, a slow one, and counted with every tick.

"One. Two. Three. Four. Five." Still I said nothing, but still, I struggled with the ropes and chains. "Six. Seven. Eight. Nine." I braced myself. "Ten."

Nothing happened. Two more ticks went by, and still nothing happened. "Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen." I had just started to relax, when I heard, and then felt the whip, exactly on the sixteenth tick. I screamed, and pressed wildly against the post, rubbing on it. John kept counting; on twenty, he hit me again, and again on twenty-four and twenty-eight. I knew when each blow was coming, and before each one I'd try to escape, and press myself deep into the pole to hide before he hit me again. But each of these attempts stimulated me more; I found myself trying to embrace the pole like a lover. Around the tenth stroke, I felt the pole responding — John had built a vibrator into it. My life was just a haze; all I could focus on was the pain in my back and the pleasure in my groin. I couldn't tell which was more intense.

Then he skipped a tick, and another, and a third. Was it over? Suddenly, the hardest stroke of all landed, on my buttocks in- stead of my back. Before I could even react, John operated a quick release, freeing my legs and my handcuffs from the pole. He caught me as I slumped down, eased me to my back, attached the handcuffs to a flooring. John then spread-eagled my legs, tied them that way, and mounted me. Again, there were the conflicting sensations, of the pain of my back and rear against the floor, and John within me. The pain subsided, John didn't, and I had one of the most intense orgasms I'd ever had. All I wanted to do was to hug and hold him, but my hands were chained, and that made my thrill even greater. When we were both spent, he lay along side me, hugging me until I fell asleep still bound.

I awoke the next morning alone in his bed, not remembering being moved. To the side of the bed was a bottle of champagne, a note, and a key. "Dearest. Your turn now." A riding crop dangled from the doorknob, and I knew he hadn't used that on me — you never forget what one feels like, even years later. Investigat- ing downstairs, I found John bound to the pole, where I had been. I ignored him while I looked at the mechanisms. Finally, I released him from the pole, and punched him in the stomach as hard as I could. "John, that was a wonderful night, and if you ever do anything like it again I'll cut your nuts off and feed them to you for breakfast. I'll see you next month." After watching him writhe in pain a bit longer, I tossed the key down, helped myself to some clothes and his car, and left. I refused to take any calls from him for four weeks, though I did mail his car keys back.

Remembering that incident, I pondered what to say to him this time. Thinking of it still gave me a frisson and made me rub my legs together. "OK, John, I'll go along. But I'm going to bring some work along; I really do have to finish this for tomorrow."

Now it was John's turn to pause. "We'll see. I have plans, too." I shuddered. "You will be downstairs in the parking lot within five minutes. Move!" I heard a click before I could reply. I put some clay and some pencils in a sample case, grabbed it and my gym bag, and left, telling my secretary that I was going to finish up at home.

His red car was waiting outside. Slowly, I got in, and closed the door.

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 moulded 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 kid- naping — 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 impor- tantly, 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 neighbourhood.

Once we were inside, things got a lot better, at least at first. He closed the door behind us, grabbed me, and kissed me thorough- ly. 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 satis- fied, though, and motioned for me to continue. I used the dress- er, 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 in- stead. 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 furni- ture. 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 mat- tress, 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 favourite 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 hand- cuffs 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 at- tached 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 what- ever. Nor can I use my mouth sexually, for both of our pleas- ures. Finally — and perhaps most important — gags are danger- ous. 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 behaviour 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 kidnaper 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 am, 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.

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 flaky or temperamental. I considered my situation. Was there some way to escape?

I considered my arms first, of course. Had the cuffs been fas- tened 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 remem- brance 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 desperately 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 ex- change 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 strug- gles 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, nomi- nally to apply pressure, but really because I couldn't control myself much anymore. 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 visi

Kidnap, Part 1 · Part 1 (1/2)
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