We’ve been away for a few days. Normal service is now resumed!
***It’s more difficult than you’d think, being kidnapped. Two weeks of emails, phone calls, planning, working out details and hard limits. Depravity being negotiated in my own little suburban flat, the computer on the dining table, the glass of red wine beside it, the vibrator beside that almost melted from over-use.
Do I need medication with me? No. Am I prepared to be fed from a dog bowl? OK. Have my face slapped? Could be a major turn-on. Hair pulled? Definitely a fuck-me-now turn-on. Fucked by complete strangers, safe sex only? Hell, yes yes yes.
So here was the deal: I’d leave work at five on Friday. I’d booked Monday off work. At some point, and I didn’t know when that point would be, I’d be kidnapped. No hints, no specified time, no agreed way it was going to happen. Just one thing. My kidnappers would recognise me by my outfit: a belt with a handcuff design on the buckle, and my bright red five-inch heels.
The anticipation was huge. My mind was racing and I couldn’t concentrate on anything for days – or for daze. Whichever.
On Friday I packed the belt and heels in a bag, took them to work. And yes, I told Cheryl what I was doing and left a printout of user-names and mobile phone numbers at my place, just in case… At five I went to the toilet, changes into the heels, put the belt on. Applied makeup – one always wants to look one’s best for a kidnapping, I thought – and decided that while I didn’t mind if my thong was taken off with scissors I wanted to keep my bra. So the bra went into my desk drawer. I stayed loose that evening…
I found myself acting like a secret agent, dawdling past shops, checking the reflections in the windows, doubling back on myself… Eventually I selected a bar, not my usual haunt, and had two large glasses of white wine. Figure the odds: single woman alone in a bar and not being chatted up. It was like I had a sign on my forehead: Do not approach, about to be kidnapped.
I wasn’t kidnapped. I went home feeling disappointed.
You know that combination of alcohol and fresh air, the way it makes the ground under your feet spongy, especially if you’re wearing high heels? I was feeling that way, reaching in my bag for my house keys, and then the world was black and I was falling.
Being grabbed by several guys who put a hood over your head, knock you off your feet and carry you bodily had that kind of disorientating effect. I was so surprised I forgot to struggle, which was something I’d thought about doing.
Handcuffs held my wrists behind my back. I was sitting in a car, a vehicle of some kind anyway, and there was a guy each side of me. One had a hand up my skirt, the other ripped my blouse into shreds and squeezed my tits until I gasped. And they were making smalltalk.
You’re ours now. We’ll strip you, string you up and beat you and mark your body until you’re screaming and begging to be our fuckpet. We’ll keep you in a cage, use every part of you until you ache. You’ll choke on our cum and like it, because it’s the only protein you’ll be getting. We’ll make you crawl on all fours, lick our boots, bark like a dog. We’ll keep you in chains and spit-roast you. Then we’ll stake you out and give you a pussy-whipping and fuck you unconscious. And we’ll take pictures and video for the website and when we’re done with you, we’ll auction you off or trade you for another slave.
There was more. Much more.
After a while the vehicle stopped. Cold air as I was bundled outside and stripped. It felt weird being handcuffed, hooded, naked except for the heels, and in the open air with the wind playing over breasts and between my legs. It felt weird and hot being in that state, having no idea where I was, who the men were, and waiting helplessly for whatever would happen next.
The small talk wasn’t just empty promises. They did everything they’d said. I had no idea where we were, but it was large enough that my screams bounced off the walls. I begged and pleaded to be their fuckpet and then the sounds of my orgasms, plural, bounced off the walls.
When they finally took the hood off, I couldn’t work out where I was. The place wasn’t a proper room, more like a workshop. There was a small cage in the corner, the right size for me to kneel in, the bars wide enough for them to reach in, play with me, fuck me. Later, when I’d been properly exhibited, fingered, made to crawl and generally aroused by my vulnerability, I was laid over a small workbench table for a flogging on the ass and then given the spit-roast treatment with one cock in the mouth and another between my thighs.
The thing they didn’t do, or at least I don’t think they did, was auction me off as a slave. Because I did, eventually, get home. I was deposited on my doorstep in an oversize second-hand T-shirt, welts on my body, the taste of cum in my mouth, and still wearing my heels.
The next day Cheryl – remember Cheryl? – was eager for every last depraved detail. I know my stories turned her on, because otherwise why would she have insisted her boyfriend went out and bought handcuffs? And then demanded to see the pics and videos, which came a day later by email?
The marks faded but the intensity of the experience didn’t.
That’s why I’m being kidnapped again next week.
The pic used in this post is by a friend of ours, Jon Wilson. His website isn’t online at the moment but if you like his pic and are interested in buying prints of his work we can put you in touch with him. Use the contact form on our ‘About’ page.
If you liked this story, you might like to know Fulani’s novel The Secret Circus of Pain and Degradation also starts with a kidnapping, and contains numerous scenes of bdsm and rough sex…