Abduction (30 page)

"I don't buy this benevolent sexual savior crap. You just get off on terrorizing me.

On raping me."

"Oh, I beg to differ, love. I haven't gotten off. And I haven't raped you. You will kindly recall that not only have I not fucked you or made you so much as stroke me, but during our little sessions I've not so much as masturbated. You've come again and again during our little getaway. I've not come at all. As for rape, you would undoubtedly have a case in court. But you have to agree that, except overcoming your shyness, I've not done one thing to you, or asked you to do one thing, that did not give you pleasure. I know you've had mixed, guilty, confused feelings about letting yourself enjoy my caresses. But I've been paying very close attention. To the damp crotch of your 265

knickers, to your barely suppressed moans, the wriggling you can't control when you're almost ready to come. Everything I've done, I have done to please you, not to hurt you."

"Yes, and why haven't you fucked me? Are you impotent? Were you castrated for past sex offenses?"

"My, she's feisty now. I assure you, I'm quite potent. I should be commended for my restraint, actually. It hasn't been easy, keeping things all zipped in down there these last couple of nights."

The next moment his whole demeanor changed. He got...slightly breathless, and he gave me a smile that was…well, even through my anger it was…sexy. Compelling.

"Give me your hand, Devan."

He held out his hand and waited patiently until I lay mine in it.

"I've not so much as kissed you, have I Devan?"

His eyes. They had, always, a strange power over me. They fixed me then, and I waited, already feeling I was bound to succumb to anything he might do. Slowly he drew my hand to his mouth and very softly pressed his lips to my knuckles. Then he gently turned my wrist, and with his two hands he coaxed my fingers open and placed a warm, lingering kiss to my palm.

Suddenly his grip on my wrist became rough and his rakish grin became…cruel. I tried to jerk free but he held my arm tight, watching with a smirk as I struggled.

"Let's put your doubts to rest, hmm?"

With one hand vice-like around my wrist he forced my hand down to his groin, and with his other hand he pressed my palm against him. I'd never touched a man that way, but I knew what I was feeling. He was hard.

"Do you still doubt my potency, love?" he whispered. He squeezed my hand a little, forcing it to curve vaguely around the clothed girth of him. "Perhaps you'd like to have a look? Maybe you'd even like to touch it. Or taste it. Hmmm, Devan? Do you wonder how it would feel to have the full, warm, length of me in your mouth?"

In that impossible moment I felt…no fear. Only a bewildering mixture of overwhelming arousal, and resentful humiliation. My cunt was absolutely throbbing and I wanted, wanted him to unzip his fly, show me what I felt through the confining, obscuring fabric of his pants and underwear, wanted to see it, wanted to touch it, to feel it warm in the circle of my fingers, wanted to put it in my mouth, feel it with my lips and tongue, taste it. But fuck if I'd tell him that. He knew though. He gave a little grunting laugh and let my hand go.

"Fear not, little Devan. No physical defects will prevent us consummating our special bond. But I've resolved not to put my cock inside of you until it is explicitly and warmly invited. A 'Fuck me now' will do, when you're ready."

"You have a fascinating morality."

"Oh no, dear. You're mistaken. My not fucking you has fuck-all to do with morality. It's pure ego. You begging me to fuck you will be a reward, a much-coveted reward for having opened a few doors of pleasure to you. Anyone can rape someone. It takes no skill of mind or body. Maybe strength, maybe catching someone while they're vulnerable, maybe some drugs or some rope. But to make someone ache for you, fantasize about you, beg you, means you've got something valuable to offer. That's what you did to me with the writing, fictional and biographical, that showed me an 267

intelligent, fascinating woman, at once lascivious and pure. You made me want you.

And that is what I hope, eventually, to do to you."

"And what if I tell you I've had enough 'doors of pleasure' opened to me? Would you let me go?"

"Not yet love. I've a little more I'd like you to experience first."

I'm sure he could see that I was torn between loathing and appreciating what he'd done to me. I felt a nauseating shame over my conflicted feelings. I wanted to hate him. Even if he were right, about everything, it didn't give him the right to break into my house, to kidnap me, to drug me, to terrorize me into letting him do those things to me.

But at the same time I sensed that I could never live out my fantasies, live them rather than play them, except with him.

That night, after the predictable routine of a gifted garment and a shower, Conrad did not make me lay on the bed. He said nothing as I emerged, warm and damp from the steamy bathroom, but guided me to a strip of bare wall and pressed me to it. Still saying nothing he pulled up the hem of my little night dress and ducked his fingers down, inside my panties. As soon as he touched me I knew—I was already wet. My body had betrayed me again. It wanted him, was inviting him inside. A despicable grin came over his face as he pressed his fingers inside my wet, wanting, traitorous cunt. He asked me for no story. He just watched my face as he caressed me, as my breath quickened with the pleasure of his touch. His power over me was strange-infuriating, intoxicating, arousing. I felt my shameful climax bearing down on me. At last he spoke.

"Shall I stop?"

What an asshole. I hated him. I wanted him. I didn't want him to stop. What I really wanted was for him to take me to the bed and fuck me. And he knew it. The fucker. His hand went still between my legs.

"Shall I stop then, Devan?"

I said no.

He resumed his caress, his fingers delicately teasing every sensitive millimeter of my sex, touching, spreading, filling. His face was so close to mine, our lips were almost touching. His hand was moving terribly, terribly slowly now. I was in agony, afraid at every second that he would stop, leave me wanting. I felt his breath, hot on my face. His eyes were boring into me. I wanted to give in. Let him win. Ask him to fuck me. I was dying for him to fuck me. As his finger pushed inside me, pumping in and out with taunting slowness, I imagined how it would feel to have the long, thick hardness I'd felt with my palm earlier that day driving slowly inside me, filling me with urgent, throbbing heat. Even the thought of the pain of that first penetration made me hotter, made me sigh. But I couldn't say it. Instead I moved the tiniest bit, and our lips touched, just for a second. He did nothing. His caresses had me trembling, and each time I exhaled I had to try very hard not to cry out. I was overwhelmed. Shame, resentment, unendurable arousal all mixed up together. I moved again, our lips touched, lingered. A little closer. A little longer. It was a plea, a clear invitation I would not be able to deny later.

He kissed me. His full mouth closed gently on my lower lip, then on my top lip, then his tongue pressed between them, caressing my tongue. The tender heat of his mouth on mine did something to me none of his caresses had done, made me 269

feel…close to him…joined to him. With a sudden, violent spasm I came, kissing, crying, crying out.

I was way too embarrassed to say anything, but the truth is, I wanted to spend the night in his bed. In his arms. I wanted him to hold me, to whisper to me as I fell asleep. But he put me in my own bed, tucked the covers close under my chin and all around me, kissed me tenderly…platonically, even, on the forehead, and left me alone in my dark little room, to think about him, and what he'd done to me, what he might do next.

The next morning Conrad seemed odd. His caddish little smirk never appeared.

He was only very tender, and maybe a little sad. Now, of course, I know why. But then, I was naïve enough to wonder if the kiss had thrown him off kilter, maybe derailed whatever vision he'd had about how I would behave, how I would feel. Around noon, though, his whole demeanor changed. Looking back, I guess he'd resolved to go through with his original plan. Until then, maybe he'd thought about skipping what he'd scheduled for the afternoon, but for whatever reason, he rejected his doubts and went ahead.

When he told me to, I showered, then dressed in the outfit he gave me. It wasn't a nightgown this time. Instead, I'd been given a little beige, short-sleeved blouse. It had to be pulled on over the head, but it had four little buttons running from the top of the low scoop neck to just below my breast line. It was tight around my waist, but a bit looser and slightly gathered about the breasts, revealing in almost obscene detail their natural contours. The other articles of clothing were a knee-length blue skirt and a pair of panties of a similar color.

"You look lovely," he told me with a gentle smile when I emerged from the bathroom. With an odd expression he tipped his head to kiss the crown of my hair, then took my hand and led me to my car, opening the passenger door for me and closing it. I think it's funny now, it didn't even occur to me to try to get away.

"Now, put this on."

He handed me a large black scarf which he had folded into a swath about four inches wide and several layers thick. Startled and enticed at the same time, I pulled the scarf across my eyes and tied it behind my head. I sensed that it aroused Conrad, seeing me blindfolded like that. There was a long silent pause, and I felt him looking at me. Then he started the car, and we were on our way.

My little car crawled over the bumpy forest floor until we emerged on the dirt road, went along for a while, then eventually I felt that we made a turn, and the ride got bumpier again. We went on for twenty minutes or so before coming to a stop. Conrad asked me to wait in the car. He got out, and came back for me a few minutes later. He opened my door, helped me out, and walked me for several minutes over uneven ground, then up some steps. Through the blindfold I sensed sudden darkness as he guided me through a door, into a structure. We walked across a wooden floor, our shoes clomping. He told me we were entering the bedroom, then told me to get on the bed..

"No, don't lay down. Kneel. This way. Good. "Now Devan," he said when he had me positioned and oriented the way he wanted me, "I'd like you to meet our hosts. This is Tom."

I heard a man's voice say, "Hello."

"This is Jake, and this is Peter."

"Hello Devan," came a second voice. "Hi there," came a third.

I started trembling, terrified to think what Conrad had planned for me. A physical enactment of my fantasy? I wanted to run. I felt Conrad's hands come to rest lightly, but firmly on my shoulders, a touch meant to reassure and to check me.

"Say hello to our friends, Devan."

I breathed out a hello.

"Devan, these handsome young men are here to enjoy the favor of one of your charming stories."

I finally realized what, beneath my immediate panic at my situation, had seemed weird about Conrad since we'd arrived. He was speaking with a perfect American accent. He sounded like any West Coast native.

"Now let me tell you the arrangement we have come to. You are going to be here, on this bed. They, meanwhile, are going to sit tight, right were they are, in their chairs about five feet away. They are here to watch, to jerk off if they want to. They are not going to touch you in any way, unless you expressly ask them to. All right?"

"Conrad, please. I can't."

"Don't disappoint me, Devan darling."

He'd said it tenderly, no note of threat in his voice. And I was actually moved, sad at the thought of letting him down, not living up to whatever strange idea he had of me. I can hardly believe it, writing this now, but I wanted to please him.

"All right," I whispered.

I felt my chest heaving with rapid, frightened breath and I was trembling, not with fear for my safety—I believed Conrad, that the strangers wouldn't hurt me—but out of a kind of stage fright, intensified by a feeling of being caught at something naughty, but also incredibly aroused at the thought of a room full of men watching what Conrad would do to me.

"Good girl," Conrad purred in my ear, "I'll bet you're wet already, thinking of those men stroking themselves while they watch you getting off."

His words sent a tingly sensation buzzing through my crotch. Then louder, so everyone could hear, he said,

"Tonight, love, we'll have a different story. The story of the virgin bride, hmmm?

But first, spread your legs nice and wide, and pull up your skirt so we can see your panties."

I did as I was asked, hiking up my skirt and spreading my legs.

"What a naughty girl, it looks like you've started without us. Those nice fresh panties you've just put on are already getting wet."

I felt myself blush for the thousandth time.

"Now, carry on with your story."

Nervous with the thrill of exposing my body and my fantasy to these unseen strangers, I began in a quiet, wavering voice, to narrate my story. My face was burning hot, I was unbearably embarrassed to be sitting there, my legs spread, knowing they could all see the stain of arousal darkening the crotch of my panties. But even more embarrassing was saying the words, telling the story. They knew it was mine, that I'd come up with all of it. Whatever they might have thought of some girl who'd let them 273

watch while her…what did they think he was? My boyfriend?...undressed her and got her off, my story gave away what a pervert I really was. After a while, though, as I told the story, I gradually forgot a little of my embarrassment, and more and more I drifted off, excited by my story, aroused by the thought of Conrad and the men listening to me, looking at me.

Conrad interrupted.

"We are all enjoying your story very much, Devan. Now, I want you to touch your pussy, very lightly, over your panties, the way I showed you."