Abduction (29 page)

then he was forcing my legs apart, wide apart, and got my other leg into the fourth restraint. Then his hands were off me.

"Naughty Devan. See the position you're in now? Quite inviting, from my vantage point."

I heard him step close. Then I felt him, raising the back of my skirt.

"No!" I screamed it, desperate.

I was thrashing hard, terrified, pulling at the ropes. I felt him come down over me, his groin against my ass, his chest on my back. He put his mouth by my ear. I felt his hot breath.

"Shhh, Devan. Don't struggle like that. There's no getting out of your bonds.

They're designed not to chafe, but if you thrash about that way, you'll bruise yourself."

Then, his body still pressed to mine, he laid my diary down, right in front of me, and opened it to one of several pages he'd marked with a little yellow plastic tab. Then, his hot breath on my ear, he read out loud words I had never admitted to anyone, confronting me with his knowledge of something much more intimate, much more embarrassing that the trite fact of my pathetically complete virginity.

"So," he sighed, closing the diary on my humiliation, pressing his groin threateningly against my ass, "you not only gave up on the probing tongues and awkward fondling of fumbling boys, but even stopped your own exploratory touches, because even awareness of your own furtive caresses under your bed covers intruded on the fantasies in which your mind was immersed. And finding yourself pulled unwillingly into reality, consciousness that you were merely laying there, in your own bed, your hand pressed eagerly between your thighs, was such a pathetic contrast to 257

the arousing images, the imagined sensations that felt almost real, that you abandoned the physical for the conjured dream."

He slid his hand down my side, over my ass, along my thigh, then raked his nails up the bare skin at the back of my leg, sending a buzzing aching tickle into my groin and belly.

"Well, sweet Devan, among other things, during our time together, I promise I'll demonstrate to you just how closely reality can reflect your fantasies."

Then he got back up and his fingers slipped under the elastic of my panties.

"Please." I was crying. "Please Conrad. Don't."

He tugged at my panties, pulling them down, off my hips, down my thighs. For a minute, nothing happened. I just heard my own panicked breathing, my arms stretched wide, the cool surface of the desk under my face, my breasts, my belly, my legs spread, my thighs and ass bare.

"What a lovely bottom."

He touched me. Just above, one of his unbearable, light caresses. Then his finger trailed softly down the center, barely grazing my two cheeks, then up. He sighed.

"You know, Devan, when you're in a position like this, I suggest you arch your back and offer your cunt, unless you're hoping to get fucked in the ass."

The thought that he might rape me that way hit me with sudden, violent shock.

My terrible fear jolted harder as I lay there shaking, sweating. He was offering me a choice—a terrible, cruel choice. I felt as though to do anything, even to choose the less frightening thing, was a kind of consent, and I didn't want to do it—to offer him a part of myself, even to avoid the worse thing. But the fear, the humiliation overwhelmed me, 258

and finally, in desperate resignation, I arched my back, crying, waiting to feel him on me, waiting for pain, waiting to be raped.

"Before I can give you the kind of pleasure you've been imagining all these years, sweet Devan, I'm afraid I have to teach you a bit of reverence for this special relationship of ours."

There was a loud noise: the first smack of his hand hitting my ass, then stinging pain and sudden heat spreading from where his hand must have left a reddening print on my skin, then the warm flood of adrenaline washed over me. Fresh tears started to my eyes. I gasped. He struck me again, landing the second blow on the other cheek. I began to whimper. Another slap, another, another. I was silently sobbing, more from relief than pain, but still, flexing my butt muscles in a pointless effort to lessen the sting of his blows. Each lash landed with the same cruel, stinging pain. The sixth, the seventh, the final blow. Between sobs I gasped for breath.

"Now, Devan. Are you going to be a good, obedient girl?"

"Please," I heard myself sob, not caring anymore how fucking pathetic I sounded.

"Please untie me."

"Promise me you'll be a good girl."

"I promise."

I almost forgot to feel humiliated, I was so desperate to get out of those ropes.

"Good. You do just as I say now, with no protests and no hesitation, and I'll free you from this compromising position. But any naughtiness, it will be more of the belt, until you learn to behave. All right?"

"All right."

He reached down and picked up my defiled diary, and the sound of his footsteps faded off in the direction of the living room, then grew louder again as he came back to me. Where the diary had laid he set a thin, stapled stack of papers.

"Have a look, darling, and tell me who wrote this."

I looked, and went limp with a fresh wave of unbearable humiliation. It was a short story I had written years earlier. On instinct I almost denied authorship, but my ass still stung from his belt, reminding me to 'be a good girl,' as Conrad so loathsomely put it.

"I did."

"Ah, how refreshing. A bit of forthright honesty, at last. Now, Devan, my darling girl, you're going to read your pretty little story aloud, word for word, from beginning to end. I shall keep busy by turning the pages at the appropriate moment, and busying my hands elsewhere. Now, please begin."

An hour before, I could not have imagined what would have persuaded me to do it, but now, my ass stinging, my wrists and ankles bound, Conrad looming behind me, I began to read my story out loud. It was one of the first I'd ever written, and the very first I'd had the nerve to publish online, under the first of many pseudonyms. Even though it was an old story of mine, and the prose was embarrassingly trite, making me cringe a bit every time I'd go online, pull it up and read it, it was a fantasy I continued to play through often, and it still got me terribly aroused every time. And now, as I started to read aloud, the embarrassment of Conrad's presence intensified my usual excitement.

And then, when his fingers trailed lightly up the insides of my thighs as I spoke, instantly an unbearable ache began to throb inside me.

"Mmmm," he sighed when his finger brushed over my sex, "so wet already. Was it your little discipline session that got you so aroused? Hmmm? How delicious."

Over the sound of my own voice I strained, wretched with fear, to hear the inevitable parting of his fly every time one or both of his hands left me. Then I'd see him turn the page of my little manuscript, or feel him hiking my top up, slipping the fabric from beneath my breasts so they pressed against the cold surface of the desk, making my nipples contract. In tune with the action of the story he touched me, simulating the caresses, the kisses, and the penetrations I quietly, obediently recited from the page.

He caressed my pussy, gently circling and stroking, lightly rubbing my clit, pushing his finger slowly into me. When I reached a certain point I read slowly, softly, with fresh dread and I felt his hands spread my cheeks, felt his finger faintly touch me, heard him tell me to go on, so I read on, and his finger pressed there more firmly, making me catch my breath, then he went on, teasing, rubbing me there, reaching around to finger my cunt with his other hand. Touching me like that, me tied beneath him, bent over his desk, Conrad made me come three times. Just like the story.

When I'd finished reading I felt his body brush against mine as he let me out of the restraints, and I tried not to cringe, not to do anything that would change his mind.

He held my shoulders and helped me up. I almost couldn't stand, I was just so emotionally wrung. He turned me to face him and put his arms around me. As he held me I cringed a bit at the realization that his embrace was comforting, that his tenderness as he pressed soft but lingering kisses into my hair soothed me after the intensity of all the fear and pain, the arousal and violent climaxes. I sort of didn't want him to let me go, 261

but to keep cradling me in his arms where I felt suddenly, strangely safe. But then he let me go, stepping back from me, and his eyes looked oddly dark. Guilty and hurt, maybe.

The next day I awoke feeling like I'd been pulled into some alternate universe, where I wasn't me anymore. I was no longer Devan, the quiet if secretly perverted nerd with a few close friends, who didn't date much or think about guys very often—at least not real guys, the men I knew. I was this other girl who had orgasms while reciting aloud pornographic fantasies she'd never shared with anyone, except anonymously. I felt kind of lost. At the same time, though, it seemed strangely simple to slip into this new role, into this unfamiliar reality. Looking at Conrad, my kidnapper, the man who had knocked me unconscious, who'd invaded my privacy and forced his caresses on me, I found him incredibly attractive, even movingly beautiful. I was torn between a readiness to surrender myself to his twisted fantasy, and a tormenting revulsion at having been moved to orgasm by this manipulative psychopath. And I was appalled, as the morning passed by, to note that I was almost anticipating our next encounter, growing…anxious…maybe disappointed…when afternoon arrived and he hadn't come near me.

"Why did you pick me?" I blurted at him suddenly, startling myself.

He smiled, amused by my confrontational question, tantalized by his recollections.

"I picked you, love, because of that fantasy. And the others. You posted them on the internet, in a way, I'm sure, that you thought they could never be traced back to you.

That first one captured my imagination. Then, when I came across another, I was 262

certain both had been written by the same person, though they were published under different pseudonyms. I did a little research, confirmed my suspicions. I wanted very badly to find out more about you. I have certain skills, certain privileges, and certain contacts which, when put together in a strategic manner, yielded a great deal of information. I accessed your emails, threads from chat room conversations in which you'd participated, entered your apartment while you were at school, read your diaries. I realized several things about you, love. One was that, as that first fantasy reveals, you've got a deliciously dirty mind. None of that making love on a mattress covered in rose petals crap. Mmmm?"

He looked at me for a moment, challenging me to face him, to acknowledge my perversion.

"Then, when I discovered that you were a virgin, and even for a virgin, rather inexperienced, I wondered at the incongruity between your vivid fantasy life and your flaccid personal life. I've performed something of a psychoanalysis on you, in absentia, and determined that you're an innocent introvert who yearns to be a dirty little slut."

His ugly words had the ring of admiring praise.

"I know the pejorative connotations of that word, love, but believe me when I tell you I mean it as a true compliment. The real you is a sweet, dirty little exhibitionistic slut who wants to be dominated. And darling, I believe that through all my surveillance, I've come to know you better than anyone else knows you. Not that any of your school pals know you all that well, from what I gather. And over the year and a half that I've been learning about you and planning this getaway of ours, I've come to care deeply about 263

you. And it is my hope that, in a short time, you will have embraced your real self—or, more truly, your multi-faceted self, and perhaps learned to like me. Just a little."

He smiled a big impetuous smile. I was, in part, won over by his rationale. But I was also indignant at his presumptuousness.

"I'm tired of you tapping into my secret fantasies. What about yours? Why don't you tell me your darkest, most secret fantasy frame by frame?"

"Certainly. In my darkest, most secret fantasy I transgress all moral and legal boundaries to discover a woman's deepest, most shameful desires, ones that she would keep to herself and never act on, and I go to unimaginable extremes to help her live them. Our last two nights together have been scenes right out of my waking dreams."

"So you kidnap me? Who are you to decide that I need to act on my fantasies?

And if I do, who are you to decide that now is the time? Did it not occur to you that in time I would have a normal first sexual encounter, that my sex life would catch up with my fantasy life naturally, as I grow older, more experienced? You fucking drugged me!

You've broken into my house, stalked me for over a year. Can you even imagine what that feels like?"

"I imagine, darling Devan, that it's infuriating. And frightening. And also rather thrilling. All your little secrets discovered. It's the ultimate undressing, isn't it? The secrets of the body pale rather pathetically beside the secrets of the psyche, hmmm?

And so the arousing fear of being stripped naked by a stranger is only a little thing, compared with being…discovered. Caught. My fingers touching your flesh is not so great a violation, or so great a thrill as my poring over your diarized confessions, your 264

prosified fantasies. And all the feeling aroused by such an exposure was made more intense, felt more deeply, because you did not choose it. Because I've forced you.

"I know how twisted that sounds. I do. But just think. You would have never surrendered yourself to me the way that you have if you hadn't believed you had no choice. And if you're honest with yourself, I think you'll come to realize that you would never have had an experience like the ones you've had with me without that level of surrender. As for a normal first sexual encounter, indeed that did occur to me. In fact, for some time I considered doing the much easier thing, and simply seducing you. I don't doubt that I would have succeeded. I could have approached you in the coffee shop that day—I'm sure you remember—and made some clever remark, made you laugh, chatted you up for a bit, asked you out on a date or two, and taken you to bed. I would have pleased you, made you come. But it would have been nothing, for you, compared with this."