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.



--