## Archive-name: Kidnap

From: jfriday@ada.stat.uga.edu (Paul Stacy)

Subject: ARCHIVE: Kidnap (part 1) (1/2)

Newsgroups: alt.sex,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.bondage

\titleis{Kidnap}

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 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 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 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 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.

From: jfriday@ada.stat.uga.edu (Paul Stacy) Newsgroups: alt.sex,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.bondage Subject: ARCHIVE: Kidnap (part 2) (2/2) Date: 13 Aug 92 03:32:41 GMT Organization: University of Georgia Statistics Department Originator: jfriday@ada

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 hap- pened, 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 ex- tent. 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 your- self," but he was smiling as he said that.

I smiled back at him. "That's my real pay for running the busi- ness, 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 para- phernalia 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 contin- ued, "Hmm -- if we did manage to get some more evidence, could we use it for blackmail instead? Neither of us wants our proclivi- ties 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-hid- den? 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 re- mained 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, loving- ly 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 neces- sary. 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. Help- less, 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 chuck- led. "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 incrim- inating 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 hold- ing 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 wor- ried. 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 oppor- tunity 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 pleas- ure."

When we got into the barn, John tied a rope to my ankle cuffs, and hoisted me into the air up-side-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 ratch- et. 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 address? 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. Obvious- ly, 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 neighbours, we learned that he had never re- turned 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 kidnaped," 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 kidnaped," 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.

From: jfriday@ada.stat.uga.edu (Paul Stacy) Newsgroups: alt.sex,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.bondage Subject: ARCHIVE: Kidnap (part 2) Date: 13 Aug 92 03:35:37 GMT Organization: University of Georgia Statistics Department Originator: jfriday@ada

NOTE CROSSPOSTING!!!!

It was while I was tied under the car that I started wondering about my sexual preferences. Was this really a way to get my kicks? I mean, autoeroticism is one thing, but auto eroticism? This wasn't fun at all. Worse yet, it wasn't even arousing me. Hmm -- perhaps I should explain how I got there.

This all took place some time after the breakup with John. Roger and I hit it off very well, though not without a few strains. For one thing, we found that it generally didn't work well to spend the night together during the week; being together all day at work, and then all evening, was just too much togetherness. But weekends, and an occasional exception, were great fun, and our holidays together were marvelous. We tried to keep matters cool at work (except for the time I really chained him to his desk, but I'll get to that later); some of the staff knew what was going on, but it didn't seem to affect morale as best we could tell.

We switched off, in no particular order, between his house and the farmhouse. His house was great for me, because of all the new toys, and the farmhouse was great for both of us, because it was intended as a love nest. Not that his place was far behind -- Roger let his artistic talents really flourish. For example, at the moment he's building a genuine dungeon in the basement. I don't mean just a cell, like I have at the farmhouse; I mean as authentic-looking a dungeon as he can come up with. And I sup- pose I don't even mean "authentic," I mean something redolent of old B-movies -- after all, that's our image of what a dungeon is. So the walls appear to be stone, and there are stuffed rats in strategic places, one or two of which are even equipped to pro- duce sound effects. There are torches stuck in the wall, and "cobwebs," and so on. There are several cells, all fully func- tional and well-equipped with chains and ring bolts. Does he plan on bringing another woman down there with me? Another man? Another couple? He won't say; Roger hates to talk about a project before it's done. I wouldn't even have known about the dungeon plans, except that I went wandering around his house one of the first mornings I was there -- Roger was still spread- eagled to the bed, so he couldn't really stop me. The torture chamber, I'm told, will be in the laundry room -- games are one thing, but having clean clothes is still important. That's one of the parts that isn't finished yet; with Roger, though, I'm not worried about more pain than I find stimulating.

While waiting for the dungeon to be finished, we often played in his "barn," in the living room. Last time, I mentioned the haylift; I didn't realize all the ways he'd thought of to use it. A couple of weeks ago, for example, he tied my hands to my sides, tied my ankles together, and lifted me up by my feet. Different enough, and not too hard to take, till he told me I was staying that way all night. I was surprised, and a bit concerned; that didn't sound like fun. But he wasn't done. Next, Roger put a strap under my arms, and raised my body up to the underside of the beam. Another around my waist, my thighs, and my head, and I was nicely supported. Much better, but he still wasn't finished with me. Sitting on top of the beam, Roger adjusted the bonds on my legs, so that they were splayed on either side of the beam. Then -- and I'm not kidding -- he dragged in a makeshift scaf- fold, lay on it at almost my height, and started licking me. I barely kept from screaming; I was being stimulated all over, and I not only couldn't get loose, if I had I'd have fallen eight feet to the floor! After a bit of that, he went back to the balcony, crawled out on the beam, and caressed me from that side. Finally, he went back to the scaffold and tried for penetration, but without much luck. He settled for moving the scaffold so I could return the oral favor.

That was the pattern of our sex lives -- who could think of the most imaginative ways to tie up the other? Once, when I was a bit annoyed at him -- he was late for a dinner date -- I decided some mild revenge was in order. I waited until we were alone in the office late one night -- business had picked up, which is both good and bad -- wandered in, and announced a kidnap. Roger knew the rules, and complied when I told him to strip. He was a bit surprised when I started chaining him to his desk, but again, that was part of the game. I spread-eagled him on his desk, and after suitable foreplay mounted him. Then, and only then, did I tell him his fate: that I wasn't going to release him until the next morning! On that note, I left.

Roger, of course, was a bit upset, but he was also curious what I was going to do. He knew me well enough to know that I wouldn't let him be discovered like that -- that would be against our rules -- but would I do more than show up early? I let him stew all night. About 8:00, he probably started worrying seriously. His secretary seemed to be the type who thought ordinary sex was evil, let alone what we did. To be sure, I don't even know if that sort of naive mind would even recognize this as sexual -- but nudity was also bad; apparently, if we'd been intended to go around without any clothes, we'd have been born that way. No matter -- efficiency is what counts in a secretary, not personal beliefs, however weird they are.

I did more than time things carefully; I watched from my window till the secretary got to the door. Roger must have heard it open and really start to sweat! I then ran past the anteroom, shouting "Don't disturb us for anything; we've got an important meeting!" and on in to Roger's office. His desk was out of the line of sight, so there was no exposure. We did "meet," though we had to be rather more silent than was our custom. I jokingly threatened Roger with a gag, but it wasn't really necessary. About 10:30 or so, I finally let him go.

Such was the pattern of our lives. A few weeks ago, though, he told me he wasn't going to be around for the Fourth; he wanted to visit his sister. I was disappointed -- a four-day weekend sounded like fun -- but going with him didn't appeal to me; his sister is as straight as they come. We'd even have been con- signed to separate beds! So I drove him to the airport, and headed up to the farmhouse alone -- I figured I might as well work on some of my own construction projects. It was late when I got there, but I still took the time to play by myself with a few toys before falling asleep. And, as happened that time with John, I awoke to find my legs chained together, and my hand being fastened behind my back.

My first reaction, of course, was panic. I didn't waste energy screaming; I just kicked out. No dice; I was being held to well. But there was no cursing, no violence; instead, whoever was holding me was fondling me, gently, and in my favorite places. But I still didn't know who it was -- it was utterly and com- pletely black in the room.

If you're from the city, like I am, you're not used to total darkness. In the city, there are always streetlights, or passing cars. Out here, there was none of that. Usually, I could see a bit at night by the light from my clock, but my captor had un- plugged it. "Roger?" I asked.

No answer, just caresses in a way that only Roger had ever done -- a rhythmic sort of teasing of my nipples. I wiggled from pleasure, but decided to test things. "The anklecuff is hurting me; could you loosen it?" I added our release word.

Instantly, whoever he was -- no doubt that it was a male; I could feel that! -- released my body, and adjusted the manacle. That settled one thing -- it certainly wasn't John. But was it Roger? I'd seen him get on the plane, hadn't I? But if it wasn't Roger, who was it? And how had he gotten in, past my alarm?

I asked him who he was; rather than answer me, he rolled me onto my back, and used his lips for more important matters. My mouth, my breasts, the inside of my thighs -- I was practically deliri- ous with pleasure. But it didn't feel like Roger; the texture of his facial skin felt wrong, to say nothing of his style of making love. Finally, he rolled me up onto my knees, put a few pillows under my stomach, and put my head down. I knew what was coming next, of course, and moaned in anticipation. But he paused, just holding me gently.

It took me a moment to figure out what was going on. My captor, whoever it was, was waiting for my permission to proceed. I was certain that if I told him to stop, and used the release word, he would. But I didn't want to stop, not after a buildup like that. I told him to please go ahead, and quickly! Instead, he did something even more curious -- he let me down, got up from the bed, and vanished. The light went on in the living room, and music filled the house -- one of Roger's favorite pieces, on the stereo. The lights went out, and whoever it was returned. Again, he started licking and caressing me, while I writhed in my chains. I wanted to hold him, I wanted to lick him, I wanted to engulf him, but I couldn't move. I moaned, and pulled against my bonds, and pressed my body against his as best I could. Finally, finally, he rolled me onto my knees again, and this time he didn't stop.

We drifted off to sleep together, back to his front, my chained hands holding him where we wanted me to. My last thought before I dozed off was that in the morning, I'd be able to see him.

I awoke in the morning to find I wasn't going to learn who was in bed next to me -- I'd been blindfolded. I said, "Good morning, whoever you are. Are we going to play more games today?"

He was silent, but immediately unchained my legs and led me to the bathroom. It's an odd feeling to be treated like a baby, to have someone else tend you in the bathroom, but it was nothing new to me -- this was hardly the first time I'd awakened bound. And, of course, I wasn't surprised when his hand wandered towards my breast after wiping me. It's hard to make wiping someone erotic, but he manage quite well, thank you -- I was tempted to head back to bed.

I didn't, though; I wanted to satisfy hungers of another sort first. "Breakfast?" I asked.

He responded by putting a leash around my neck and leading me to the kitchen. He was considerate about it, though; when we came to a door or a turn, where I might stub a toe, he took my arm and guided me around the obstacle. Along the way, he ran his fingers up my spine, in just the way -- and in just the musical rhythm -- that Roger would do. Was this Roger? I was beginning to think it was.

Breakfast was already prepared; if it wasn't Roger, he'd been well-briefed, because everything was just as I liked it. He fed me, of course, even holding up the coffee cup whenever I asked for it. I decided to try a test. "Can I have some yogurt?" I asked. There were two containers, a large open carton of blue- berry that Roger had brought last weekend, and some vanilla. I despise blueberry, but would a stranger know that? I rarely eat yogurt for breakfast, but maybe that wasn't in the briefing. No such luck -- a moment or two later, a spoonful of vanilla yogurt was entering my mouth. A moment later came a blueberry yogurt kiss -- he knew it was a test!

Dessert was more fun, though I had to wait a while for him to clean up. There's that advantage to being bound -- someone else has to do the dishes. Of course, having to wait on your knees, with your legs chained again and a leash holding your head to the floor takes away some of the pleasure. And he wasn't quick about the chores, mostly because he kept pausing to rub or kiss my breasts and back. But it was worth waiting for; when he fin- ished, he carried me back to the bed, put me on my knees and lay down in front of me. I didn't need to be told what to do; I bent over and started licking and kissing him.

I don't know how long I spent at it; sometimes, I wiggled around to use my hands instead; sometimes, I lay down to use my whole body; sometimes, I just moaned and tried to pull my hands free to hug him. He wasn't just lying there, either; after the first few minutes, his hands and mouth were as busy as mine. Eventually, he gently laid me on my back, unlocked my legs, and brought us to a peak.

We lay like that for a while before I stirred. "These handcuffs are rather uncomfortable to lie on, you know; could you possibly chain me in a different position?"

Instantly, he jumped up and rolled me over. But rather than unlock me right away, he got out a few cable ties, and used them to bind my hands. Only when they were secure did he unlock the handcuffs. I groaned. Arms aren't that much better when you're laying on your back. And I expected to be laying on my back a lot that weekend; he seemed to have one thing in mind. In that I was both right and wrong -- he varied positions a lot, but about only time my hands weren't bound behind me was when he tied me under that stupid car. And his body still didn't feel like Roger's.

We lay there for a while like that, though he got up briefly to put on some more music. It was the radio this time, which pro- vided less evidence. We snuggled together; he read, and I thought. Was this Roger? Should I stop the charade, one way or another, and find out? I was certain my captor would honor a request to release me; I was less certain that he'd do it in a way that would let me learn his identity. Did I care? Should I care? Physically, I had no complaints; the sex was wonderful, and everything was according to my rules. And whoever that was next to me, Roger had obviously planned this, and presumably was deriving pleasure from it. Did it matter that it was indirect? If you make love in a forest and no one hears it, do you have an orgasm? The analogy doesn't hold up, but you know what I mean.

I came to no conclusions before lunch. The arrangements were much like those at breakfast, though with a minor new wrinkle: I was bound to the chair at my waist, and my captor actually put a bib on me! Don't laugh too much -- the strap was just more bondage, and a bib is simply practical when you're being fed by someone. But Roger never saw it like that -- he claimed that it seemed to him to be too suggestive of pedophilia, and besides licking any stray food off was fun. My captor had done that at breakfast, just like Roger would, but not at lunch.

Cleanup was as before; I was forced to kneel head-down while he washed up. Again, he kept pausing to touch and rub me; again, I was ready to explode by the time he picked me up. Instead of heading for the bedroom this time, though, he carried me down to the cell in the basement. He gently put me on the padded floor -- after the episode with John, I decided that bare cement wasn't acceptable even for playing -- unlocked my legs, and aroused me quite thoroughly. But I couldn't touch him, with my arms bound, and suddenly I heard a click -- he had locked me in, and left! I tugged at my bonds, to no avail, and tried to rub up against the bars. It didn't work too well, but I achieved some release, and sat down. While trying to get comfortable, I discovered that I'd been left a pillow; I managed to lay down with it between my legs, and satisfied myself a bit more. With that out of the way, I resumed my mental debate about my position -- while locked in a cell, blindfolded, and with my hands quite thoroughly bound behind my back.

I started out by listing what I was certain of: that my captor might or might not be Roger, that Roger was certainly involved in the affair, and that physically I had no complaints at all -- the sex was wonderful, and it was certainly an imaginative way to play. I tugged my hands again; they weren't going anywhere. I could, I suppose, have rubbed my blindfold free, but that would have been cheating in a sense. If I wanted out, I could simply ask; if I didn't, I should play by the rules. A blindfold like that is almost more a symbol than a reality. I had one in the toybox that was real, that I couldn't have pushed off. It was more like a tight-fitting ski mask that left my nose and mouth free, but locked behind my neck. A taut elastic band went down from the built-in eyepieces to the lock, so that I couldn't push it up off of my eyes. It even had loops for a pair of straps that would go down across my cheeks and fasten to the neckband in front, for use when I didn't need my mouth -- times like right now. That blindfold was much less comfortable; I left the cur- rent one alone. (Not, of course, that it would have slipped off easily; the strap in back was broad, elastic, and quite taut.)

Alone in the dark, I vaguely remembered a conversation Roger and I had had a few months ago. I didn't remember it well, because it took place late on a night when we were both very drunk. We were also chained to each other at each extremity, face to face, which made love-making quite a challenge, especially when that drunk. But in the aftermath and afterglow, we suddenly waxed philosophical. Two points stuck with me, among all the world's problems we tried to solve that night. First, we discussed the question of identity. Who, really, was a person? Was it their body? Their mind? The two together? What was the status of an agent with no free will of its own? (Imagine a robot for that last, if you will.) What about organizations? Did a corporation have a will, as opposed to the wills of the people running it? I don't recall that we came to any conclusions, but it certainly seemed to bear on my current situation.

The other relevant point was rather more immediate and personal. Was our relationship inherently monogamous, and would we ever want to play with other individuals or couples? To the former, I told Roger that I was, at least for now, content with him, but didn't mind if he had occasional encounters elsewhere. He said more or less the same thing to me -- which gave both of us free- dom to explore if and when we wished. In the past, when I had taken advantage of similar arrangements, it had been on the basis of pure, unadulterated lust -- and this interlude certainly seemed to fit that model. If my captor wasn't Roger, I'd cer- tainly be lusting for him now even if I hadn't before.

Roger was teasingly vague about the last point. Threesomes and foursomes can be fun, though too often I've seen them fail miser- ably with one person feeling left out. But what we were talking about was more complex -- we wanted others to play with us, to act out our fantasies. It's hard enough getting two people reacting properly; I'd never succeeded with three except once, a long time ago, when my then-lover wanted to play master to two "harem slaves." I said it worked, in that we all seemed to play our proper roles, but for whatever reason none of us ever tried that game again. I tried telling Roger how much fun that would be in his dungeon -- I really wanted him to finish it so we could try it -- but he just smiled. So I threatened to chain him down there with his secretary; he said that he was having more fun chained the way he was, and proceeded to show me how and why. The second time that evening went much more smoothly, and we fell asleep without resolving the question.

One more random thought came to my while I lay in the cell, bound and blindfolded. In Roger's serious art, as opposed to the commercial stuff he did for me, or the fantasy decorating he did, he liked to force people to take a variant point of view, to look at a situation differently. There was one painting, for example, where the perspective seemed wrong, where the viewpoint seemed to be at waist-level, and some of the people seemed to be fuzzily- drawn while others where portrayed with exquisite detail. You had to stare at it a long time, or perhaps glance at the title, before you realized that it was a toddler's view of the world. Was this all Roger's way of "sketching" our discussion?

I hadn't come to any conclusions when I heard footsteps. I stayed where I was; I was curious to see what he'd do or say. He bent down and started touching me, lightly and delicately. As I responded, he moved on to other areas. Finally, he leashed me again and led me to a broad armchair. He sat down and I strad- dled him, facing him, mounting him, until we were done. And then he led me to the kitchen and knelt me there again, while he cooked a long and elaborate dinner. Throughout, he hadn't said a single word. And so I knelt there, bound hand, foot, and neck, kneeling in my own kitchen, wondering if he really was Roger -- this time, the style did feel more like Roger -- and wondering if I should ask to be released.

Dinner went much like breakfast and lunch, though with two tell- ing points. The first was that the chicken was seasoned just as Roger would have. This was more significant than you might think; Roger disdained written recipes, but achieved a marvelous consistency through his skills as a cook. I didn't see how he could teach someone else how to do that. The other point was that my captor served me wine through a straw! Bound as I was, it was quite a practical solution; I could bend over and sip it when I wanted to. But Roger never would do that; he was the sort of person who preferred to bring fine silverware on a picnic instead of, as he once put it, "useless, garish, tacky, plastic forks." I'd never known him to compromise his principles for convenience before.

I knelt in my accustomed place and position while he cleaned up; then it was off to bed. We didn't do much besides cuddle a bit while he read and I thought some more. I was having lots of time to think about the contradictions inherent in bondage. I was utterly helpless, but I had a devoted slave who catered to my every whim, even wiping me on the toilet. I couldn't move much when we made love, but sex had rarely, if ever, been better. And, though I was completely in the power of a possibly-unknown man, I trusted him completely -- and I knew that if I asked, I'd be released. Curious as it may have seemed to an outsider, I was not being "had" against my will.

The next morning, I decided to try to take control, but within the game. I knew what I planned to do, but I never got the chance to try it. It was almost as if he sensed my mood, knew my limits, and blocked me. Rather than slowly and delicately arous- ing me, he was much more direct and almost forceful. The day before, our love-making was, if you'll pardon the strained analo- gy, like the slow, inexorable advance of a glacier. This was more like a volcano, sudden and explosive. Neither is resistible -- not that I wanted to resist! -- but they were quite differ- ent. It ended with me bending forward over the back of the armchair, gasping, with my legs tied to its legs while he entered me.

The rest of the morning was different as well. After we had regained our strength, he leashed me again and led me on a walk in the woods. It's odd, being led naked and blindfolded through a forest. Was something about to brush against me? What would it feel like? And he played a game with me, picking up different objects and touching me in different places, while I tried to guess what he was holding. I felt leaves brush my breasts, twigs caress my groin, a thorny branch pass ever so lightly across my stomach. A wrong guess produced nothing; a right answer was rewarded with a kiss or more. I'd been guessing right for a while, and was eager for bigger rewards, when he changed the game. He suddenly stopped, tied my leash to a branch over my head, gave me a quick kiss on the lips, and left, walking noisily through the underbrush.

I'd never done anything like that before. As I said, I'm a city person; I bought the farm because I wanted privacy, not because I liked nature. But here I was, bound blindfolded in the woods, not knowing who else or what else might happen by. Your skin becomes very sensitive at a time like that; you feel every little breath of wind, or skittering leaf. A few times, I thought I heard an animal walk nearby, while I held motionless. Was that my captor next to me? Was it a deer? Had I really felt anything at all? I didn't dare move. Then I felt something on my thigh, but it was furry? Or was it? And what large animal would come up to me like that? Had I even felt it? The phantom touches grew more and more frequent, until suddenly they weren't phantom at all, they were him, touching me, rubbing me, kissing me. At long last, he untied the leash, and we made love on the forest floor.

Lunch was as usual; afterwards, he conducted me to my cell again. He didn't arouse me first this time, but he did bind my feet, and fasten my neck by a short chain to a ringbolt near the floor. And the friendly pillow was gone as well. All in all less pleas- ant than the day before, but I scarcely noticed; I thought I understood the situation at last. It was a game, of course, but sexual pleasure wasn't the object; it was the means.

When Roger and I played our usual games, they were for one reason only: to stimulate and arouse us. This was a deeper game, though, orchestrated by Roger for a deeper pleasure. Yes, the sex was great -- for me and for whomever -- but there was another purpose as well. The prize was my captor's identity. He was to conceal it at all costs; I was to learn it. I could end the game at any time, simply by asking to, though that might or might not let me learn his identity. His strategy was to keep me from wanting to end the game; to keep me so aroused that I would want it to go on forever. And he was doing it, too; I had seldom been at such a peak for so long.

What were my moves? Crude physical violence seemed inappropri- ate; we had tacitly discarded that the first night, when I stopped struggling. Besides, it might not work; he seemed to be stronger than I was, and I was already bound. The obvious coun- ter to his moves was to ignore his caresses, to refuse to be aroused on his whim. Would that do it? That was more or less what I planned that morning, though I couldn't put it into ef- fect. And that was the weakness of the idea -- I quite possibly couldn't carry it out! Besides, it might not work; I suspected that he'd just keep at me until I yielded. Whoever it was knew me too well, and my body knew and desired him.

Did I have any other moves? Hmm -- what if I let myself get aroused, but refused to respond? Could I do that? It would be frustrating, but I only had to keep my conscious actions under control; my reflexes could do as they pleased. I'm sure it was stimulating to him when he worked on me; I'm just as sure that he wanted, even needed, my co-operation to make the experience as pleasurable for him as for me. I doubted that Roger or his friends were into necrophilia. When my captor came for me, I'd be ready.

He came for me at dinner time. Instead of leading me up the stairs this time, he carried me, leaving my ankles bound. And instead of seating me in a chair, he put me on my side, on the rug in the dining room. I half-expected that I'd be expected to feed myself like a dog would, but he knew my limits; he fed me again himself. And his hands were busy with me, though I don't know if he noticed that I wasn't trying to press against him. I gladly accepted his caresses, but insofar as was possible I re- turned none.

Dinner drifted into loveplay. I think he was starting to notice what was going on by that point; several times, he lay behind me, and wrapped his arms about me to touch my front. But unlike our past encounters, I didn't use my hands on him, even though that was the only time I could. Sometimes, he paused briefly after that happened, but then persisted. After all, I wasn't rejecting his advances; I wasn't resisting; I was quite visibly and audibly becoming aroused. Matters came to a head, so to speak, when he rolled me onto my back and squatted near my face, and I did: nothing. I didn't turn my head away; I didn't even close my mouth -- but I also didn't say anything and didn't do anything.

That surprised him for moment, but only for a moment. He un- locked my legs, positioned himself between them, and started to lick me. That has always driven me wild; he brought me to my peak, and beyond, and held me there. I was practically delirious with pleasure by the time he reversed his angle, licking all the while, but I retained enough presence of mind to stick with my plan. If he'd had any more doubts, that ended them; he got up, and slowly walked to the couch.

Matters remained that way for a few minutes. He could have mounted me, of course, but that wasn't the point and we both knew it. It also wouldn't have been much fun for him, since I was firmly resolved to play dead. I wouldn't have closed my legs, or struggled -- that would have been active rejection -- but I knew he wanted more than just an inflatable doll. It was his move, and I wondered what it would be.

In retrospect, it was fairly obvious. He had to express dis- pleasure, but do so within the game. And he couldn't say any- thing; that was exactly what I wanted. But punishment was legal, as long as it didn't hurt too much. I've mentioned before how I felt about pain: a bit of a symbolic sting is fine, but nothing serious, since it doesn't turn me on at all.

For whatever reason, he chose to use the whipping position that John had used. He tied a rope to my wrists, and ran it through a ring in the ceiling, pulling it fairly taut, and fastening it below. I was thus bent over, in a very vulnerable position. I also started worrying a bit, especially when I heard him take a few practice swings with that riding crop I keep around. But he stayed within my bounds, only stinging me a bit when the whipping started. He was good at it, too; he hit me at irregular inter- vals, never letting me know when he was done. Once, he even let two or three minutes go by before he came back with a small flurry of strokes. By the time he was finished, I was getting quite uncomfortable. Inwardly, though, I was thrilled -- was he actually genuinely angry? That was certainly worth a few points for me. And I was even more aroused. This was a game we were playing, a sexual game, and the "beating" would be followed by another round of foreplay.

How much pain do I like? It's hard to explain just how hard a blow I consider acceptable. I define it as hard enough to be unpleasant, hard enough that you genuinely don't want it to happen -- but not hard enough to draw an exclamation. The best analogy is clapping your hands together hard -- if you do it a few times, you're not going to like it. Well, each blow should be a bit harder than that.

I remember trying to teach Roger my limits. He has a greater liking for pain than I do, and it seemed to take him overly long to learn where my threshold is. The man who was beating me this time knew just how hard to hit me. He only went over once, near the beginning; I warned him with a code word, and he honored it scrupulously. Was it Roger? Could a stranger pick up on my moods that well?

Finally, it was over. He removed the rope, led me to the bed, and fastened me to it via a rather long leash. He joined me, and tried to arouse me again. He succeeded, too, but I refused to return the favor. Being bound to the car was the end result, though at the time I didn't know what was happening.

His first move was to lead me out to the barn. I had left John's winches in place, but I didn't think my captor would use them; that whole memory was so traumatic I would have aborted the game had he even tried. Instead, he knelt me down inside the barn without fastening the leash to anything, puttered around a bit, and left. That struck me as curious until I heard a car start, at which point I nearly panicked. Was he going to leave me in the barn, nude, bound, and blindfolded, with no recourse but to try to find the road and seek help? I jumped up, ready to run after him and beg for release; I wasn't aroused at all, I was scared. But this wasn't John, and I needn't have worried; the car pulled into the barn, not away from me. I wasn't being abandoned.

My captor got out of the car, and -- perhaps irked that I had stood without permission -- urged me to my knees and pushed my head to the ground. I heard chain noises then, metal rattling against metal, from the direction of the car. Finally he came for me, and lay me down on some sort of dolly. My legs were manacled; to my great surprise, he cut the cable ties on my arms as well. I was so happy to have a chance to stretch after a day and a half that I barely noticed the new restraints being locked on each wrist.

I was jerked out of my reverie by a tug on my legs; I was being pulled underneath the car. My leg chains were pulled tight and fastened to something; he pulled out the dolly from the other end and locked my wrist chains over my head as well. Last, he did something else that surprised me: he released the strap holding my blindfold in place. Had I won? Not quite -- he tied a loose- ly-knotted scarf around my head, one that I could easily remove but not until he had a chance to leave the barn. It was clear that I was supposed to remove it; to what end wasn't clear, but I was eager enough to find out.

It was when I could finally see again that I realized I was under a car. A lot of cars, especially some imports, have a pair of tow rings at either end. I was spread-eagled between the them. He had driven the front of the car up onto jack stands, giving me a bit more room, but all I could see was the underside of the engine compartment. Obviously, I was being disciplined; I was supposed to think about my "stubbornness" while laying there. I had often found the tow rings suggestive -- actually, I find any sort of chain suggestive, and I love looking at the locks section of hardware stores as much as some men like the lingerie section -- but I never could figure out anything erotic to do with them. Judging from my response, my captor hadn't figured it out, ei- ther.

It took me a little while to figure out the second part of the message. My eyes were open for a reason; given the lack of interesting sights under the car, it had to be so I could see how light it was. My captor wasn't going to come back until it was pitch-black outside, and I wasn't going anywhere until he did return. Based on the sky and my hunger level, it was no later than six o'clock; full darkness probably wouldn't happen until around nine or thereabouts. And all I could do was to lay there -- bound by my captor, condemned to stay there until I was will- ing to give pleasure as well as receive it.

I was in a fairly foul mood by the time my captor returned. "What kind of stupid stunt do you plan to pull next? Tying me to a tractor instead? Seeing if I like being lashed with wet noo- dles? Did you really think I'd find the underside of your car sensual?" Naturally, he didn't say anything, but after I crawled out -- he had unlocked my legs, and lengthened my arm chains -- he gently touched my face. "I assume that that's an apology," I said as he put my hands behind my back and handcuffed them that way. Again, the gentle touch on my face, followed this time by a brief, fleeting, touch of my left nipple. "No, I'm not aroused, and not likely to be," I told him. He locked the leash around my neck, released the manacles holding my arms to the car, and blindfolded me anew. Finally, he touched my breast once more, and started towards the house. Perforce, I followed.

I wasn't joking when I said I didn't think he could arouse me. Sex isn't a light bulb; you -- or at least I -- don't rise to a peak that easily. And the last few hours had blown the marvelous mood my unknown captor had built up during the weekend. Besides, I was dirty and hungry from laying on the barn floor under the car. But he sensed that. There was no explicit sex play; rath- er, we headed straight for the bathroom, where I received a crisp, almost business-like shower.

A less sensitive man might have tried for a sensual shower. That wouldn't have worked, and he knew it. When your car has been in an accident, you don't go ahead and install a new stereo. First you fix the damage, repair everything, make sure it still works -- and then you start adding enhancements. That was my mood -- I wasn't going to be the least bit interested in sex until I'd calmed down and relaxed a bit. And as I thought that, I smiled to myself: this might have won the game for me. If he couldn't arouse me again, there was no point in keeping me captive -- he'd have no choice but to release me and leave. Hmm -- should I even give him the chance to arouse me again? Or should I just end things after dinner? I decided to let him try; anything else was almost cheating. Besides, in some sense I'd win either way -- I'd either win the game if he couldn't arouse me, or I'd have a marvelous time again if he could.

Dinner was simple, though with an excellent wine. He fed me again, and went through his usual clean-up ritual, with me chained on my knees near the sink, head held low by the leash. There were only a few touches, almost more to let me know that I wasn't being forgotten than to turn me on. Eventually, we headed to the bedroom; I found myself wondering what he had in mind. Something new and different?

He started by removing the handcuffs and replacing them with long leather cuffs that went almost half way up to my elbow. There were straps on each of the cuffs, on the end away from the wrists; he used these to bind my arms tightly against my sides. This tie gave my wrists a lot of play, so he secured them by very thin straps -- cords, almost -- that ran from the cuffs around my thighs at crotch level. If I'd pulled on them, it might have hurt, but if I stood still I hardly noticed they were there. He then put me gently on the bed, on some sort of thin silk cloth, and tied my ankles together with ordinary leather cuffs. Final- ly, he threaded a strap under one arm at the armpit, across my chest above my breasts, and down under the other arm.

So far, nothing out of the ordinary was happening, though I had a bit more freedom to wiggle than in some ties. I enjoyed the position, but it was nothing special, nothing to weaken my re- solve. But he had indeed found a new way to bind me, one that was powerful indeed. At the time it was happening, I couldn't figure out what he was doing, it was only after he was finished that I figured it out. And a few details escaped me until I saw the device later on -- he left it for me as a present, for which I was quite grateful!

He began by putting another silk cloth on top of me, covering me from neck to ankle. Odd. He then bent to my ankles and started doing things, working first on one side of me, and then the other, pulling the cloth around. Eventually, I realized that he was lacing the two pieces of silk together, sewing me up quite tightly.

He proceeded this way for quite a while, taking special care to keep the silk smooth, even and taut. There were darts at my hips, waist, and breast so that it fit quite snugly. Who had measured me that carefully?

It took quite a while for him to finish lacing me up. By the time he was done, I could barely move. Even my fingers were held tightly against my thighs. Definitely new, and definitely arous- ing. Was there more to this? Indeed there was. When he started to caress me through the silk, I nearly jumped off the bed, the feelings were so intense.

It is a truism that the right clothing is often sexier than nudity. Clothing can tease the eye, and direct it to points of interest. It is less-often appreciated that contact through thin cloth can be even more stimulating than skin-to-skin contact. The fingers can tease, outline, glide. The cloth acts as a lubricant, allowing one's hand to float lightly above your partner's skin. There are few things I enjoy more than shower- ing, falling onto a bed with crisp, clean sheets, and tracing the contours of my lover's body through the top sheet.

My captor either knew this about me -- not surprising at this stage -- or felt the same way. His touches were driving me wild; when he reached my breasts and started running his palms lightly over my nipples, I couldn't take it any more, and rolled towards him.

That wasn't to be; I then learned the purpose of that strap across my chest. He pushed my onto my back, and used it to tie my upper body down. It was only the work of another minute for him to put another strap over my legs, and a third at waist level. I was fastened to the bed, and squeezed by him and a silk cocoon.

He continued his caressing and teasing, paying no heed to my moans and pleas for release. He swung around to where I could have taken him into my mouth if I chose; I remained firm in my resolve. But he continued his touches, continued arousing me, and then slowly approached my crotch. I was frantic with the desire when I realized that he couldn't satisfy me, that the silk was so taut all he could do was to arouse me even more. I thrust my hips up hard towards him, ignoring or even relishing the pain from the wrist cords. I didn't care, I wanted him in me, and even though I knew that unlacing me would take as long as lacing me had I begged him. Still he touched, still he rubbed, and as I writhed and moaned I did use my mouth, I did lick him, I forgot all about games and knew only his body and mine. Finally, in- credibly, I came. And he didn't let it end there; then, and only then, did he unlace my lower body and untie my ankles, and lick me and enter me until we couldn't move.

I lay there, all but motionless. Not that I could move much, of course; my arms were still bound to my sides, my waist and shoul- ders were still fastened to the bed, and the cocoon imprisoned my upper body. But it didn't matter; I could have been free and I wouldn't have moved. I barely noticed as he removed my bonds, rolled me over, and fastened new cable ties to my wrists. He did my ankles, too, though he left a few inches of slack; I could tell I'd be able to walk, albeit with difficulty. At the end, as I was almost asleep, he shut the light. My last thought as I drifted off was that I had lost but loved doing so.

You're probably wondering how he unlaced the cocoon so fast. I didn't find out until later, when I played with it with Roger. When you think of lacing something up, you normally visualize putting a cord in one side of a hole, and out the other. That's the way the bottom piece was laced, but the top was more clever. The cord came up through the hole, around a flexible rod, and back down through the same hole. (This is much the same way that a sewing machine works, incidentally.) If you remove the rod, the loop just falls through. Of course, there was enough tension on the cords that one single rod didn't cover a whole edge. Instead, there were a series of them, each about 8 inches long, with a loop in one end to make withdrawal easier. So he had to remove a few on each side -- but that's much faster than unlacing the whole thing.

I woke up the next morning with the sun shining in my eyes. Eyes? The blindfold was off! I rolled over quickly to see who was next to me; at least, I rolled over as quickly as I could, given the state of my arms and legs. It was Roger! I kneed him awake, but not before I noticed that he was bound the same way I was. That was odd -- cable ties are hard to fasten one-handed; it wasn't at all clear that he could have bound his hands behind his back that way. In fact, on closer inspection, his arms were held together even more tightly than mine; the connecting tie was extremely tight. Could he have done it to himself? I had no idea. Of course, I immediately asked him when he'd arrived, and what was going on. Alas, I got no satisfaction.

"I got in late last night. Staying at my sister's place was no fun, so I left early and headed out here. When I got here, you were sound asleep. You were tied up, but that's not unusual; I know you like to play by yourself when you're alone." I nodded; that was quite true. In fact, he does to. Sometimes we amuse each other by each binding ourselves before we try to make love. Roger continued, "I was tired enough that I didn't feel like waking you. So I just went straight to sleep myself. I have no idea who tied me up."

A lovely story, but was true? I told Roger what had happened to me. He was visibly turned on by my description, but denied any knowledge of it. And that was patently false; whether or not my captor was Roger, it was obvious that Roger had planned it. I could ask his sister where he was, I suppose, but she doesn't like me -- I represent all that she thinks is wrong: I'm suc- cessful, single, sexually uninhibited (some would say ag- gressive), and I utterly refuse to give even lip service to conventional morality. I only let a modicum of practicality govern my actions; my exact bedroom habits are the business of my lover, and only my lover.

We went back and forth like this for a while. Eventually, we agreed that I should try to free myself. I hobbled out to the kitchen, where I found some wire cutters left on the table. I brought them back to Roger; he got my hands loose. But I didn't free him; I decided to show him just how much fun it was to be bound for two days. So I slipped the blindfold on him, and proceeded to have my way with Roger. It was, after all, a four- day weekend, which gave me plenty of time to reenact the whole thing. Of course, I threw in a few variations (and I omitted the car entirely); by the time Tuesday evening rolled around, Roger was sore but sated -- utterly sated. But that's another story, for another time.

And my captor? To this day, I don't know who it was.

Diana Carroll Rensselinstipolytech- nitute '89 d_carroll@tle.dec.com "Help, help! I'm being repressed!"

Last modified (10/09/96 12:15:13) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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