Archive-name: Bondage/kidnap1.txt
Archive-author:
Archive-title: Kidnap - Part 1


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.

--