Abduction (9 page)

She is still unaware of him, still reading the words never meant to be read.

Silently he comes forward, silently pushes the door to. Then, his eyes on her, he leans back and the door closes with a snap of the latch—a small sound that rings like a shot to destroy their separate tense silences.

The sound turns her from her reading, and by the time she has faced him every trace of color has left her skin. Had she been caught just sneaking into his room she would have been merely startled and embarrassed, but she understands that the gravity 73

of what she has read means she is in danger. She does not try to make excuses. She does not try to rush past him. She is silent. She is still. Grave with justified terror.

He steps toward her and takes his journal from her hands. His eyes move over the page she has been reading, and as he sees his words, as he is confronted with the vivid detail of what she knows about him, he thinks he will kill her. With frightening calm he closes the book and sets it on the dresser before turning back to her. Though no particular expression alters his features she sees the depth of his hate for her, and in that moment her fear is greater than any fear she has ever felt.

A length of rope materializes in his hand. His fist brutally clutches and squeezes the coils. Suddenly he has caught her wrist in his other hand. She looks. From the iron grip of his huge hand on her small wrist, to his other hand, loops of rope hanging down.

She understands that he will tie her up and her maxed-out terror doubles and doubles again, crushing her, collapsing her lungs. She starts crying and struggling frantically to pull her arm free of his monstrous fist, but the desperate motions of her entire body cannot even force his arm to move the least bit.

He drags her to the bed, throws her down and straddles her. Pinned under him she sobs in helpless terror as he ties her wrists together, the rope rubbing and burning her skin as she struggles. He lashes her bound wrists to the headboard then begins on her ankles, tying first one, then the other to opposite corner posts at the foot of the bed.

He looks at her. She is hysterical and does not seem to even see him. He goes out and shuts the door, leaving her alone to imagine what he will do to her.

When he returns three hours later she is calm. She has convinced herself that this was her punishment—just a trick, terrifying her. But then he shows her the knife. A 74

thick-handled hunting knife with a gleaming and jagged blade. He climbs up on the bed, kneeling between her splayed, bound legs as she cracks and falls apart. She thinks he is going to cut her. Torture her. He knew she would think that. Her terror gives him no thrill.

He reaches down and grabs the waistband of her sweats and with a sudden stab and jerk of the knife he splits them up the front, snapping the drawstring in two like a worn thread. Now that he is stripping her, not stabbing her, she returns to her senses, only crying. He rips the blade down one pant leg, then the other, then gripping the fabric in his fist he tears the rent sweats from her body in one violent movement.

He watches her. Crying. Hyperventilating. Still futilely struggling against her bonds. Her wrists and ankles are red and welted where they are being chaffed by the rope. He looks from her tear-smeared face to her crotch, invitingly exposed between her naked parted thighs. Her cunt visible in surprising detail through her panties which have ridden up, pressing themselves into her creases, revealing in mesmerizing relief the hills of her mound and lips, the valley of her slit. The pale cheeks of her ass left uncovered.

The sight of that soft flesh makes his cock rock hard. He wants to stroke himself, but he doesn’t want her to see. Her eyes on him are a violation. Like the diary.

He goes to the top dresser drawer and gets a handkerchief, folds it, and sits on the edge of the bed. As he presses the fabric to her face and lifts her head to tie the blindfold she speaks for the first time, her voice trilling desperation, smeared and blurred with tears.

“Please. Please don’t do this. I’m sorry I came in here. I know I violated your privacy. I’m sorry. Please. Please don’t hurt me.”

He finishes tying the knot, making the blindfold tight, then stands and gets another handkerchief from the drawer. This he ties over her mouth, gagging her. He watches as the folds of fabric sink between her lips as he tightens the gag, forcing it between her teeth. He notes the change in the sound of her squeals and sobs.

He stands once more and looks down on her. Bound. Gagged, Blindfolded. She cannot move. She cannot see. She cannot speak. He can do anything to her, and the feeling of absolute power is a thrill beyond anything he has ever felt. His dick is aching, throbbing painfully and insistently, urging him to do something.

He wants to go slow, to savor this incredible feeling of omnipotence.

He wants her naked. He wants to strip her. But he is so enjoying the way her panties are showing her to him that he starts with the t-shirt. She squirms and struggles with renewed desperation as he straddles her hips. He sets the knife down, laying it next to her on the mattress, and puts his hands on her breasts. He just cups them gently, taking in her reaction at feeling his hands on her. There is no muffled scream coming through the gag. She knows there is no point. She just stiffens involuntarily beneath him, tensing against the ropes.

Slowly, softly, he caresses her breasts. Full firm flesh yielding to his palms and fingers. God he’s hard. He hasn't even touched her nipples yet, but they rise up and poke at the thin cotton, pointing upward from the circle of his curved thumb and forefinger. He pinches them gently and he hears a muffled whimper tangling up in the folds of the gag. He likes that whimper and feels his cock flexing against the tight barrier of his pants as he pulses his fingers closed again, she whimpers again, as he tugs, gently, teasingly.

He started out wanting to scare her. Even hurt her. But her reluctant arousal turns him about seventy degrees. He knows first-hand that her pleasure will punish her.

And wanting to punish her, he will please her.

He slides his hands up inside her shirt, feeling her hot skin under his palms, feeling the frantic rise and fall of her belly and ribs with each panicked breath. He cups her tits again, squeezing them as he rubs her ever-hardening nipples with his thumbs, feeling her writhing beneath him, squirming defiantly as he excites her body.

He takes the knife from the bed and slits open first one sleeve, then the other before slicing through the ribbed collar of the tee. Then, setting the knife aside, clutching the rent collar in his two fists, he moves his hands apart in a sudden, violent motion.

The threads screech in chorus, three bursts as the shirt tears open, uncovering breasts, revealing belly, then torn completely in two, and the limp garment falls indifferently from her body, onto the bed, leaving her torso naked.

He just sits over her, still and silent, letting her feel his eyes caressing her body.

Pale skin. Nipples dark as cherries and hard as pits. Triceps and abs flexing futilely, her full breasts swaying slightly with her body’s struggle.

He is enjoying the pain of his anxious cock.

He is not going to stroke it.

He is going to fuck her.

But he is still taking his time.

He gets off of her, shoving her thighs apart and kneeling between them. She begins her struggle anew, squirming and thrashing violently but pointlessly in her bonds as he grasps her thighs and hoists them over his, spreading her wide and lifting her ass 77

off the bed. Two quick swipes with the knife and her panties are off. He buries his fingers in her fur and his thumb in her cunt, fucking her a little before smearing some of her slippery juices up and down her slit, rubbing her clit, forward and back, then round and round in circles before plunging into her soft yielding wetness once more. Her breathing has altered from tense, fear-filled anticipation to fervent denial of sensation.

She is trying to pant through his pleasure, like panting through the pain of childbirth.

His cock is swollen to bursting with impotence-inspired fury and omnipotence-inspired lust. Kneeling between her splayed thighs he takes his hands off her. He is still and quiet, letting her wonder. Then he undoes his jeans, knowing she can hear the scratch of the zipper being dragged open, knowing she knows what this means.

He shoves his shorts and jeans down to his thighs and his cock is aimed at her like a spear. He contemplates this image—her deep pink, wet and open after his fingering, his paler pink, hard and seeking, seeming to stretch toward her inviting slippery warmth. So close. One small movement and he will be inside her. And he will never be the same. Forever and ever, he will have done this thing.

He plunges into her.

Not suddenly. Not violently. But with a quiet, calm slowness that forces her to feel everything. The moment that the tip of him moves and settles against her, just at her opening. Knowing he is about to enter her, and that with her legs bound and splayed wide, with her arms tied over her head, she can do nothing but lie there as he drives his hard cock deep inside her undefended pussy. Through the gag he hears the softened sharpness of her gasping intake of breath. Then quivery panicky panting as she waits, 78

knowing it is coming. Her nipples are pointing at the ceiling with enthusiasm that mimics that of his cock.

Oh yeah, I'm going to love the sound she’ll make when I sink in to the hilt. I’m
going to fucking love watching those tits shudder with the jolt of my hips against her.

And that juicy little cunt of hers quivering around my prick when I make her come.

Slowly he lets the head of his prick push in, just the tiniest bit, wanting her to want it to go quicker. Knowing her body’s excitement is loathsome to her, knowing she wants it to be done quickly so she won’t have to suffer her pleasure. He sinks in, just the littlest bit deeper, watching her body tense more and more with each bit of progress.

Then, with a sudden forceful thrust he gives her the rest, his cock driving up into her deepest depth, his groin crushing against her, forcing that sucked in gasp of hers back out in a gag-smothered whimper that makes his rigid cock twitch in a new surge of arousal.

Still filling her fully, his hips pressed hard up against her, he teases her clit with his thumb, feeling her freeze once more in her effort not to feel. This he does terribly gently, with cruel skill. Then, softly, he pushes her lips together there at the beginning of her slit, slowly rolling and kneading her sensitive clit in those warm moist folds. Then, knowing her nerves are sparking, he leaves off what he is doing with his hands, using them for support instead, and begins pounding that throbbing, swollen, wet cunt with his cock, feeling and hearing his balls smacking her bottom, her tits rolling like waves that never crash, swelling up and riding shoreward, over and over and over, never breaking.

He lowers himself onto her, letting her feel his heat, his sweat, his body all over her—pressing against the tender flesh of her inner thighs, his belly on her belly, his 79

chest flattening her tits and rubbing her stiff nipples, his rough stubble chafing her delicate cheek between the blindfold and the gag, his panting fucking breath bursting rhythmically in her ear. His groin grinding over hers, rubbing her aching little clit with every thrust of his cock into her embracing cunt.

He whispers his pain, his ecstasy, his degradation, his exultation into her ear as he fucks her. When she tries to pull away, straining with her neck to preserve this tiny freedom, he sinks his fingers into her hair, closes his fist, and brings her ear back to his lips.

He is going to come soon.

But not before he has wrung a humiliating orgasm from her.

He slows his thrusts, staving off his own climax. Writhing slowly against her inflamed pussy, still clutching her hair in one fist, his lips still brushing her ear as he torments her with a flowing stream of cruel words, he reaches beneath her with his free hand, grasping a handful of ass, squeezing it, kneading it, spreading her, letting go, grabbing that sumptuous handful again, pumping, pumping, fucking, whispering, clutching, writhing.

Then he wriggles his middle finger between her two plump cheeks. He feels her clench, desperately trying to bar access, but her cunt juices have streamed down, slick sliding over the tender middle ground, soaking her vulnerable second hole, greasing up that luscious cleft. His finger squeezes between those firm flexing muscles, lubed and clenching him in a violent embrace.

His fingertip finds her tiny opening and rubs it, massaging it with her own oil, teasing it with the miniscule motions permitted by her flexed ass. The hiddenness of this 80

second hole, only just accessible behind her, underneath her, beyond the barrier of her strong flexing muscles, is a delicious challenge, an exquisite contrast to the inviting openness of her cunt between her bound legs spread so wide. His dick and balls feel ready to explode.

He wants to hear her.

He lets go the fistful of her hair and yanks the gag from her mouth. Her lips are red and swollen. Delicious. Almost kissable. He reclaims her tresses with his fist and whispers.

“You want it to be over. You want me to finish.”

He lets her feel a few more pulses of his hips driving his cock into the depths of her cunt, lets her feel his finger wiggling between her cheeks, the tip brushing over her anus. A desperate little moan bubbles up from between those parted, swollen, flushed lips.

“I’m not going to finish until my finger is in that tight little ass of yours.” Three brutal thrusts shake three resonant breaths from her.

“Ask for it.”

He goes on rubbing her back there, spreading her gradually, forcefully with his other fingers, tapping and rubbing and gently prodding those million nerves ringing that tight little pucker. He lets go her hair and cups his palm over her breast, squeezing it up through the shrinking “c” of his hand, rubbing his thumb over the nipple that has jutted skyward with the rising swell of her tit.