Kidnap, Part 1 · Part 2 (2/2)
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t 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 desperate; 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 have 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 cer- tainly couldn't go outside wearing just it in this neighbourhood.
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 consid- ered 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 situa- tion, where he was more interested in the bottle than me, but kidnaped me anyway. If he wanted to get drunk, fine — but leave me unbound. If he wanted a shoulder to cry on, I'm always will- ing 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 after- wards, 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 break- ing 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, proba- bly 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 undeni- able 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 seri- ously 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 coloured 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 cast- ing 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 hair styling 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-ea- gling 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 imagina- tion.
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 some- times 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 favour of the banks.
You can imagine some of what comes next, of course. I was vic- timized 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 object- ing 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 double think. I remember one past lover who never could come up with much new. If I suggest- ed, 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 harassment, given my tastes? "Your Honour, 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 reappeared, 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 obvious- ly 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 dissuad- ing 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 favour. They weren't even if Roger hadn't been there, but I don't think John realized that. I was confi- dent, 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 farmhouse 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 autoerotism for their own sake didn't seem to make much sense. Accommodating 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 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 tattooing 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 con- tinued 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 comfort- able 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 6×4 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 authen- ticity. 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 complet- ed 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.
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 compet- ed 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. Eventual- ly, 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 illogical- ly. "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 some- where, 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, mut- tered 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 desperately 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.
Kidnap, Part 1 · Part 2 (2/2)
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