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My Mistress and I had talked, every now and then, about my having to endure a kidnapping. I had agreed to it because She wanted it, but we hadn’t figured out the details yet.
So one day a couple of weeks ago, She took me out for dinner. A surprise, and at a fancy new restaurant, too. Not knowing where we were going, I hadn’t dressed up, but She assured me that everybody dressed casually anyway. So we had a wonderful dinner, some wine, some laughs.
Afterwards, we were sauntering across the parking lot, I leaning against Her, Her strong arm holding me snug, slightly giddy and buzzed, still laughing. Without warning, hands suddenly grabbed me from behind, ripping us apart, pinning my arms, lifting me off my feet. I tried to scream, but the arms held me so tight I couldn’t get enough air to yell. I heard other screams - my Mistress? - but a hand covered my face with cloth soaked in something medicinal, and I was falling, falling, falling . . .
I woke maybe an hour ago now. My head was encased in some kind of bag, through which came a faint amount of light and air. Very disorienting. My mouth was packed full of something, perhaps my own panties. I had gagged at the thought, trying to suppress the nauseous feeling that made my stomach squeeze and jump. Tape sealed my mouth shut, and something, perhaps more tape, held the bag tightly shut around my neck, not tight enough to suffocate me, but enough that my nasal panting made a hoarse wheezing sound in my throat.
My arms were bound behind me with more tape, as were my ankles. Thank god it wasn’t rope, or I would have been sawed in half by now. As it was, the edges of the tape edges made tiny surgical incisions into my wrists and ankles with every move I made.
I really didn’t want to move, but the bouncing and swaying told me I was in a truck or van of some kind, being driven at high speed over a very windy, bumpy road, spinning me over to roll and bang up against the walls. This was terrifying, given that I couldn’t see - the world would just suddenly roll over in the most revolting way.
My reaching fingers quickly figured out that I was half naked - I suppose the only part that matters to men - and the burning between my legs, well, I didn’t want to think about that.
My breasts, too, had that swollen and over-sensitive feeling they get when people beat on them too long, though whether I had really been abused or just banged around in the truck I couldn’t tell.
But the worst part was the other girl.
On some of my spinning rolls I’d thump up against her softness. And sometimes she would bump up against me, pinning me to the truck wall. She was bound as I was, but seemed limp. Too limp. I was terrified that it was my Mistress. I tried feeling it - her - when the bounces took me over there, but she - it - wasn’t responding. Was She OK? Was She dead? The thought of being trapped in here with a dead body made me gag and I very nearly threw up.
The truck finally bounced badly two or three times, then jerked to a halt. For a moment, I felt relief, trying to suppress the fear that the worst was now about to happen. Metal doors slammed open. I could hear men laughing, talking in some kind of guttural Spanish that I could barely understand - except for “puta”, “chichis”, and “nalgas”. What they had in mind for my poor bare nalgas I tried not to think about.
Suddenly hands grab my ankles, lifting, hauling me backwards. Not in one smooth motion, but a series of little jerks that scrape my thighs and breasts on the floor. My pitiful howls for them to stop come out as a series of muffled grunts. I tried to arch my back to pull my chichis up off the floor, but the smack when they fall back again is worse.
When my crotch slides across the end of the truck, they drop my legs. Other hands grab my arms, hauling me upright. Hands begin groping me, forcing between my legs, lifting my top so my titties are hanging out to be squeezed and slapped.
I’m terrified, both of them holding me for the groping hands - and of them letting go, to fall helplessly onto the ground. I hang there twisting and straining, groaning into the gag, trying to evade the hands pummeling my breasts.
I hear something that translates roughly as “fat meat,” and then a sterner voice saying “Put her on the frame.”
Someone pushes me, and I fall, sickeningly, until my arms are jerked up behind me with a painful wrench and I’m hanging.
My Mistress and I had talked, every now and then, about my having to endure a kidnapping. I had agreed to it because She wanted it, but we hadn’t figured out the details yet.
So one day a couple of weeks ago, She took me out for dinner. A surprise, and at a fancy new restaurant, too. Not knowing where we were going, I hadn’t dressed up, but She assured me that everybody dressed casually anyway. So we had a wonderful dinner, some wine, some laughs.
Afterwards, we were sauntering across the parking lot, I leaning against Her, Her strong arm holding me snug, slightly giddy and buzzed, still laughing. Without warning, hands suddenly grabbed me from behind, ripping us apart, pinning my arms, lifting me off my feet. I tried to scream, but the arms held me so tight I couldn’t get enough air to yell. I heard other screams - my Mistress? - but a hand covered my face with cloth soaked in something medicinal, and I was falling, falling, falling . . .
I woke maybe an hour ago now. My head was encased in some kind of bag, through which came a faint amount of light and air. Very disorienting. My mouth was packed full of something, perhaps my own panties. I had gagged at the thought, trying to suppress the nauseous feeling that made my stomach squeeze and jump. Tape sealed my mouth shut, and something, perhaps more tape, held the bag tightly shut around my neck, not tight enough to suffocate me, but enough that my nasal panting made a hoarse wheezing sound in my throat.
My arms were bound behind me with more tape, as were my ankles. Thank god it wasn’t rope, or I would have been sawed in half by now. As it was, the edges of the tape edges made tiny surgical incisions into my wrists and ankles with every move I made.
I really didn’t want to move, but the bouncing and swaying told me I was in a truck or van of some kind, being driven at high speed over a very windy, bumpy road, spinning me over to roll and bang up against the walls. This was terrifying, given that I couldn’t see - the world would just suddenly roll over in the most revolting way.
My reaching fingers quickly figured out that I was half naked - I suppose the only part that matters to men - and the burning between my legs, well, I didn’t want to think about that.
My breasts, too, had that swollen and over-sensitive feeling they get when people beat on them too long, though whether I had really been abused or just banged around in the truck I couldn’t tell.
But the worst part was the other girl.
On some of my spinning rolls I’d thump up against her softness. And sometimes she would bump up against me, pinning me to the truck wall. She was bound as I was, but seemed limp. Too limp. I was terrified that it was my Mistress. I tried feeling it - her - when the bounces took me over there, but she - it - wasn’t responding. Was She OK? Was She dead? The thought of being trapped in here with a dead body made me gag and I very nearly threw up.
The truck finally bounced badly two or three times, then jerked to a halt. For a moment, I felt relief, trying to suppress the fear that the worst was now about to happen. Metal doors slammed open. I could hear men laughing, talking in some kind of guttural Spanish that I could barely understand - except for “puta”, “chichis”, and “nalgas”. What they had in mind for my poor bare nalgas I tried not to think about.
Suddenly hands grab my ankles, lifting, hauling me backwards. Not in one smooth motion, but a series of little jerks that scrape my thighs and breasts on the floor. My pitiful howls for them to stop come out as a series of muffled grunts. I tried to arch my back to pull my chichis up off the floor, but the smack when they fall back again is worse.
When my crotch slides across the end of the truck, they drop my legs. Other hands grab my arms, hauling me upright. Hands begin groping me, forcing between my legs, lifting my top so my titties are hanging out to be squeezed and slapped.
I’m terrified, both of them holding me for the groping hands - and of them letting go, to fall helplessly onto the ground. I hang there twisting and straining, groaning into the gag, trying to evade the hands pummeling my breasts.
I hear something that translates roughly as “fat meat,” and then a sterner voice saying “Put her on the frame.”
Someone pushes me, and I fall, sickeningly, until my arms are jerked up behind me with a painful wrench and I’m hanging.
Being dragged. . .
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