He had been waiting outside the café in an un-gentrified part of South London for around 15 minutes, feeling self conscious in his business suit. It seemed a strange place for a meeting. Though the flags and dual language menus indicated the café was run by Poles, it clearly catered to typically English tastes. A sign, repeated 4 times in the front windows, showed a huge plate of chips entirely covered by bacon, eggs, sausages, beans and burgers with the exhortation: “THE MEGAPLATE: FINISH IT AND ITS FREE!.”
He noticed the girl when she was still well over fifty yards away: all leather and piercings; hair all green streaks and complicated braids. He recognized the style as Cyber punk but expensively and beautifully done. It was hard to look away, though it never occurred to him that she had anything to do with his meeting.
She was no more than fifteen yards away when he felt a sudden presence on the pavement behind him. Before he could look around his world darkened as a soft cloth bag was pulled over his eyes. At exactly the same moment the cold steel of what could only be a gun barrel was pushed into his neck. His yell of protest was quietened instantly. A low female voice; Eastern European: “Listen, English man. You come with us. Not far. We ask questions. You answer. No problems. Understand?”
His immediate response was to struggle. How could he, an ordinary businessman with a family, be being kidnapped in a South London street? It was outrageous. The gun pressed hard into his neck and he felt sharp pain as he was hit hard on the back of his thigh with some heavy implement,a truncheon or police night stick perhaps. His heart pumping, fear paralysing his thoughts, he allowed himself to be pulled by one unseen person, pushed by the other down what felt like a narrow alleyway beside the café.
His captors guided him through a door and into what he sensed was a large space.
“Strip !” came the command.
He hesitated too long and felt the stick make contact with his thigh once more making him stagger to one side. He undressed, letting his expensive suit fall to the floor. Once he was naked he felt strong female hands pull him forward until he was up against a table. Heavy chains were wound round his ankles tieing him to the table. Only now was the hood removed allowing him to look around nervously.
He was in some kind of workshop, a glass windowed office in one corner. It could have once been a car workshop. The table was a six foot long steel workbench. His naked balls and penis were just above its surface making him feel totally exposed and vulnerable.
Into his vision came the startling sight of two almost identical women. One was the cyber punk girl he had seen on the street. The other must have been her twin; the same strong build, streaked hair, elaborate clothing, piercings and make up. The only way he could tell them apart was that one had a green streak on the left side of her hair and a piercing in her left ear, the other wearing the same details on the right like a mirror image. They were holding long, matching, leather covered riding crops which looked heavy. His fear grew, driven by their strangeness, the utter helplessness of his situation and their very obvious intent.
Right-Ear spoke in heavily accented but clear English: “So. Your name is Peter Smith. You have a personal account at Barclays Bank which has exactly £5,000 in it. What I want you to do is write down the password for on-line access to that account. Then you can go. No problem”. She slapped a pad of paper and a pen down on the steel table in front of him.
With a burst of bravado he protested: “You can’t have that. That is my personal money. I earned it.”
“OK. Play hard if you like but you will be sorry. You will only have the option to write the number when I decide to give it to you.”
When he looked back later, what happened over the next hours was stored in his mind as a series of snapshots, like scenes glimpsed through a door:
One after the other they are hitting him with the riding crops, all over his body. Stinging hard blows to his back, his buttocks, his chest, his legs and finally direct on his cock and balls. It is agony and makes him twist and turn never knowing where the next blow will land. After what feels like hundreds of blows Right-Ear pushes the pad at him. “You write the number now?”. He refuses.
He is gagged. His hand are cuffed to chains and a motor lifts them above his head leaving him spread-eagled, weight ballanced on his toes, stresses developing in his shoulders. Left-Ear brings a bowl of black, heavily sprung pegs. She attaches artful lines of pegs to the skin of his chest and back, the inside of his arms and finally directly to his cock and balls. Each peg adds new pain until he is shaking all over. Right-ear starts to strike the pegs off one by one with her whip. The pain becomes a continuous wall where he can no longer distinguish individual blows. It crescendos when she removes the pegs from his cock and balls. His legs collapse, leaving his weight hanging from the chains, his breathing ragged. “You write number now!” It takes him longer to decide but again he refuses, determined to hold on to his £5,000. While he is still stretched up they flog him with heavy multi-tailed whips all over his still sensitive skin. He shakes uncontrollably now. The whips make him feel as though layers of skin are systematically being removed from his body, rivers of pain running through him as his mind starts to drift.
He is lying on the floor, ankles still attached to the table. Seemingly he has been granted a rest and has a glass of water. He can see the two women through the glass wall of the office. They have stripped off, revealing matching tattoos of swirling plants and animals in green and blue ink. One of the girls is wearing a strap-on and is fucking the other hard on top of the office table while kissing her passionately. To watch these unusual, beautiful creatures enjoy each other on the other side of the glass wall is strangely erotic. The girl being fucked comes to a noisy orgasm and as they separate she sees that he is watching. His heartbeat accelerates with fear, thinking he is going to be punished but she looks intently into his eyes and pushes are fingers deep into her cunt then into her mouth, sucking in her own taste. Despite his fear and pain he feels himself harden at this blatantly erotic act.
He is bent over the steel table, hands tied to the far legs, immobilised. The girl with the strap-on enters him roughly, fucking him hard until the burning sensation deep inside him becomes overwhelming and he gasps each time she thrusts. She offers the pad, and again he refuses. They both pick up canes, weighty punishment canes that feel, after the first few strikes, as if they are hitting him all the way through to the bone. They strike him, one after the other, until he can no longer count the blows. He rides a huge wave of pain that penetrates though the clouds of subspace where the sensations have sent him. Again the offer of the pad; his refusal. He doesn’t know where this refusal comes from because he has no reserves left. He is exhausted, drained and feels like he is curled up into a ball inside himself.
He is stood up at the table. Left-Ear and Right-Ear are arguing in their foreign language. Left-Ear has the gun and is pointing it at him. He is screaming “N00000” into the gag in his mouth, begging for his life. They are shouting and gesticulating and the gun keeps moving across in front of him. Each time it points at him he thinks he is going to die. Left-Ear makes a final gesticulation, walks directly up to him, pushes the gun against his forehead and pulls the trigger. CLICK. It is empty. He collapses to the floor, sobbing in an outpouring of emotion and relief. Both women leave the workshop slamming the door behind them.
After a while, (minutes? hours? he had no idea) he sat up, aching and sore all over but glad to be alive. He realised that the heavy chains round his ankles were not as tight as they had seemed and by carefully pulling parts of the chain he was able to free first one ankle then the other. Pulling his clothes on quickly, constantly looking around lest his punk tormentors should return, he got dressed and walked painfully out of the workshop into the narrow alley. He decided to seek shelter in the Polish Café but as soon as he entered he stopped short, a look of horror on his face as he saw the two women sat at a table.
But Left-Ear stood up smiling broadly at him: “Peter. Don’t worry you are safe now. It is all over. Come. Drink something, eat something. You will need it”
They both came over and kissed him on his cheeks. “I am Abinka” said Left-Ear. “And I am Amalja” said Right-Ear and then, in a bizarrely sing-song tone just like two 10 year olds at a school music show, they chorused: “And we are the Kidnap Sisters” giggling to each other.
Dazed he lowered himself carefully into a café chair. He noticed that it was 6.15 a.m. His confinement and torture had lasted all night. The owner came across with a mug of hot tea and a slice of cake. “Don’t worry about him” said Abinka indicating the café owner. “Is cousin. He owns workshop.”
“So, Peter” said Amalja brightly, “you got all the way to the end of the session which means you keep your £5,000 and the session is free! You are pleased, no?”
“So how many make it all the way?” he asked.
“Well we have been here three weeks with sessions most nights, say 20 sessions, and you are the third person.”
The accountant in him could not help but calculate that they had cleared £85,000 in three weeks from masochistic males who, despite all the warnings on FetLife from previous clients and the Kidnap Sisters themselves, had, like him, set up a new bank account with £5,000 in it. Like him they had all sent the account details and the bank statement to the sisters, believing they could survive a session with them without giving up the one missing piece of information, the on-line password.
Peter felt himself recovering, helped by the tea and cake. He was still sore and bruised, and suffering overloads of both adrenaline and endorphin but the sense of pride and achievement grew in him. The girls chatted away about how they were in Frankfurt next month and then Stockholm. He marvelled at their ingenuity, at the way they capitalised on the vain way in which submissive men tended to believe they were harder than they actually were and on their tendency to want to test themselves.
“So, Peter,” said Amalja, “I think you are OK now to go home maybe. Congratulations. We both enjoyed the session and you did very good job. Maybe next time we come to London you let us try to break you again. Yes?”
It was certainly too early for that decision. With a parting hug from both women he left the café heading for the early morning crowds on the underground. As he left he paused to smile to himself at the café window with its special offer: FINISH IT AND ITS FREE!
He had certainly achieved that.