I have a bit of a fantasy for the idea of kidnapping. It plays to those parts of my kink that are about loss of control and non-consent and I very much enjoyed writing a kidnap story early in the life of my blog. This new story plays with the same dynamics.
Warning: This story contains scenes of sexual violence that will not be for everyone.
Slowly Peter became aware that he had been unconcious and was now awake. He also became aware that he was naked and lying face down on a towel over a cold, hard, floor. Other realisations hit him in a rush: a face mask shutting out the light and smelling of old leather and someone else’s sweat; hands cuffed behind a metal pole; legs also cuffed. Stretched out, he couldn’t turn upright. He tried to pull a memory together but all he could muster were fragments: a damp North London street; the sense of someone close behind him; a needle prick in his neck; strong arms stopping him from hitting the ground.
Oh, Fuck. He’d been kidnapped.
But for what possible purpose?
He tried to calm his panicked breathing, only to feel his heart rate spike as a door opened and heavy footsteps came towards him down a flight of stairs. He realised he was in a basement.
“Let me go! You have to let me go!” He’d wanted his voice to be strong but it sounded weak and scared.
A man’s voice, from the Midlands somewhere: “Ha. Sure. I’ll get right onto that, you cunt!” Peter yelled in surprise as a foot connected with his naked backside. He felt his fear grow, becoming a real, living breathing creature that crawled through his insides. What were they going to do to him?
More footsteps, lighter. A woman’s voice. “So this is the fucker you knocked out! Ha! He has no idea what we’re going to do to him, the poor fucking bastard.”
As fear pumped through his veins Peter’s senses blurred and he lost track of time. Later he recalled only a set of images, disjointed and seemingly unrelated:
He’s still on the floor. Both of them are flogging him with leather multi-tailed whips. They bite into his backside and his back. At the start he’s yelling to be let free but the pain is too much and dealing with it absorbs all his resources. He desperately tries to curl up and protect himself but the cuffs hold him to the floor. They laugh every time he yells.
The mask comes off. It’s a dungeon: medieval stocks, a cross, lines of punishment implements on hooks, dildos, a bucket of canes and whips. There’s a bed with chains and restraints. The realisation that he’s here solely so they can enjoy inflicting pain makes him isolated and afraid.
A punishment bench; wide straps holding him tight to it, completely immobile. A whip across his backside – sudden flash of intense pain. The woman lies below, looking up into his eyes; fire in hers as she feeds off his pain. Each time he cries out at the impact of the whip she laughs. The man reaches down, grabs her nipples, twists and pulls until she’s whimpering and crying out. Standing up, he whips Peter again. The woman works her hands under the straps to grab his nipples. “You enjoyed watching him hurt me, cunt? Well how do you like this?” as she crushes his nipples between her sharp finger nails. He yells in pain.
She wears a leather harness with a full-size black rubber penis poking obscenely from the front. “She’s going to fuck you. She’s going to fuck you till I tell her to stop.” To Peter’s horror she pushes the cock into his arse, overcoming his body’s resistance to it, pushing deep inside him till every part of him feels too full. It hurts, an intense, almost burning sensation. He feels violated, defiled. “When I said ‘fuck him’ I meant ‘fuck him properly’, not piss about, you lazy tart” the man shouts at her. “Lets see if this works” and he lands the whip hard on her backside. She yells and jerks forward. The man laughs “this is fucking great”. He whips her again; again the hard rubber cock penetrates deep into Peter as the whip causes her to lunge forward. She yells. Peter yells. The man laughs. He swings the whip again. And again. Countless times he swings the whip.
The bed. Peter’s stretched out, wrists and ankles restrained. The sweaty leather mask is back on, but holes allow him some visibility. She’s tied a rope tight round his balls and cock, making them swollen and sore. She puts a strap round the base of his cock and a sharp tingling feeling tells him it’s connected to some sort of electrical device. She makes an adjustment and the tingling becomes painful throbbing and pulsing that starts at his cock and runs all through him, making him panic.
As she sits on the edge of the bed, her bottom pushed against Peter’s thigh, the man forces his cock into her mouth, deep into her throat, a hand behind her head pulling her onto him, forcing his cock deeper. She makes both choking and moaning noises. He flips her over so she’s kneeling on the bed, enters her from behind, fucking her hard. The man reaches forward, grabs Peter’s nipples and squeezes roughly, making him gasp. The woman grabs his cock with one hand and digs deep into his swollen balls with the sharp nails of the other. He can’t process it all: the sight and sound of their fucking, the man brutally crushing his already sore nipples, the woman working over his cock and balls, the painful throbbing from the electrical stimulator. His whole body shakes from the overflow of sensations. She’s pulling on his cock, trying to make him come, as both she and the man come noisily and together, but he can’t. It’s too much.
Just. Too. Much.
“If he’s not going to come, why don’t we just beat him?” from him.
“Ooh Yes” from her. “Can I beat him, please let me beat him,” like a little girl offered a new toy.
Strapped to the bench again, the electric strap still sending agonising pulses through his cock and balls. They’re on each side of him, both with canes. A streak of fire across his arse, followed by another from the other side. Again and again – pain on pain on pain.
“This is fun! Let’s give him twelve each.” They’re playing with him, high on the sex they’ve just had and high on his pain. This violence is their drug. The strokes keep coming; six from one side, six from the other; no pause then the same again. The pain build and builds. His whole body is jerking forward against the restraints.
The woman: evil laugh; “lets do that again.” The strokes come faster. He’s desperate for it to stop, yelling with each stroke, all control gone. It’s agony. When it eventually does stop he’s sweating and panting like he’s run up a hill, waves of pain running through his body.
“Right” says the man – “let’s leave this sad sod here and go for a drink”. They put their clothes on and head for the door. The woman turns, “hang on, I’ve left my lippy”, and comes back to the dungeon. To Peter’s amazement she undoes the straps holding him down. “Give us ten minutes then run for it,” she whispers in his ear.
Peter was in so much pain, breathing so hard, that her offer of release barely registered, but ten minutes later, clothed again, he limped up the stairs and into the damp London air, not really believing that the terrifying ordeal of pain, sex and more pain was finally over.
Minutes later we all met up at a nearby bar to have a much needed drink and talk about the session. I was shaking when I walked in. As you may (or, of course, may not) have guessed, this isn’t really a story. This is a description of an actual role play BDSM session I played out with Elita and her man a few days ago. The key elements of the session were all specific things I had asked for. Two hours earlier I had paid for the dungeon rental, left the door ajar, stripped off and, nerves jangling, tied myself up on the floor. The rest was real; painfully, frighteningly, erotically real*.
But Hot. As. Fuck.
And, in case you should doubt that this all happened, I’ll show the bruises I was left with on Sinful Sunday.
*Well, it was all real apart from the bit where the educated, cultured Elita uses the word “lippie.” That NEVER happened, obviously!
Post script: this session had quite an effect on me and took a while to get over. Once I had got my head around it I wrote about it again here.