Ah, Therese, how sweet and delightful it is to be the wanton of all those who desire you! What delirium! What joy!
Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade, "Justine" (original 1791 version)
"Breathe...breathe..."
Fighting down panic, I stopped pulling against the straps that bound me to the chair and concentrated on breathing slowly through my nose. *This isn't real,* I told myself. *This is my dom fulfilling my abduction fantasy. It has to be.*
My first mistake, I realized, was choosing "Grasshopper" as my Literotica username. It must have been so easy for him to find my story about the subbie-girl who wished her sweet, affectionate Dom would be rougher with her, more brutal, and who fantasized about being kidnapped and used by two men in a remote cabin. (Although, if I'm honest, I'm not sure that was a mistake at all.)
My second mistake had been including painful, degrading tortures in the story that I wasn't 100% sure I was ready for in real life, and emphasizing the absolute importance of my being taken by surprise if I were going to get off on the ordeal. I had to be scared and uncertain, or it wouldn't be exciting.
My third mistake was allowing my captors to get a locking leather panel gag and blindfold onto me; once those had been secured, they could take their time doing whatever they wished to me, and I could neither scream for help nor offer any real resistance.
So I found myself strapped to an armless wooden chair--my ankles and calves to the legs, my wrists and upper arms to the banisters, with two straps crisscrossed between my tits and passed around the banister rail and crest rails in back, and two chains securing my neck to the finials by loops in the leather collar they had locked me into. I was naked except for my knickers, which were, humiliatingly, soaking wet.
This is exactly the way I had described my predicament in my story. (I had even Googled the names of the parts of a chair.) Surely random strangers wouldn't have restrained me in that precise way, right?
I had also included nipple clamps in my scenario--the horrifically painful Japanese clover clamps that bit into the sensitive flesh with tiny, evil teeth that tightened when the connecting chain was tugged on. I was shocked at how much they hurt, and dreaded the inevitable agony when they were removed. My dom would have known how much these clamps would hurt, and how unprepared I would be for that level of pain; he would have used some more humane instruments like tweezer clamps, I was sure of it. But then, I had written that I wanted more painful and degrading treatment than I usually got. Careful what you wish for.
What I had not included in my fantasy was the remote-controlled vibrator egg my captors had inserted after strapping me to the chair, and which had been buzzing inside me on a low setting for what seemed like a very long time. Keeping me on edge like that until I was ready to abase myself, begging for release, was my dom's signature torture.
So, doing my best to stop squirming under the combined searing pain in my nipples and the maddeningly low buzzing of the vibrator, I made an effort to calmly search my memory back to the moment of my abduction.
It was Friday evening. I had stayed late at work to help with an event, and by the time I turned the key in my apartment door, it was already dark outside. Hanging my keys by feel on their hook by the door, I reached for the light switch--but before I could flip it, someone had pinned my arms behind me. Opening my mouth to scream, I felt a leather gag slide in, and the buckle being tightened at the base of my skull. Hearing what sounded like a padlock clicking shut, I began to panic and struggle in earnest.
Before my eyes had time to adjust to the dark, one of my assailants had buckled and locked the blindfold into place, while the other had cuffed my wrists behind me. Mmph-ing frantically, desperate for a clue as to who these men were and what was happening, I continued to fight them as best I could until I felt a leather strap forcing my elbows together in back, and a large, meaty pair of male hands pawing at my thrust-out tits. Their owner laughed when he discovered that, in spite of my shock, fear, and confusion, my nipples were fully erect.
"You little slut!" his unfamiliar voice growled. Incandescent with humiliation and anger, I still fought to get away, but the stranger picked me up effortlessly over his shoulder, and his accomplice strapped together first my feet, then my knees. I felt myself being carried down the hallway to the back stairs, which led directly to the alley where the trash and recycling went.
Once we were in the alley, the one carrying me set me down on my feet, and I heard the sound of a car-trunk being opened. No way are they going to put me into the trunk of their car! I mmph'd my frantic protests, crouching in on myself so as to appear small, helpless, and non-threatening. "Please, no!" I screamed unintelligibly into the gag. "Lay me in the back seat! I promise I won't give you any trouble! I'll be so good! Please!"
"Sshh," said the other, grabbing me by the hair and yanking my head back. Stunned into momentary stillness, I felt him tap my nose twice, then tap my forehead. Unexpectedly, he pulled me into a tight embrace. Inhaling, I smelled the familiar mélange of sandalwood, Old Spice, and freshly oiled catcher's mitt that was wound around so many erotic memories already. Releasing me, he again tapped my nose and my forehead, as if saying, "Get it?" Relieved, I nodded excitedly.
Planting the familiar chaste kiss on the top of my head, he scooped me up into his arms and laid me gently in the trunk. Renewing my struggles and protests, I heard the hatch close over me. Bastard!
Strapped into the chair after a drive that could have been one hour long or six, I made a mental list of reasons not to panic.
1. I had seen no signs that the apartment door had been forced, which argued for my dom having let himself in with his key.
2. He had let me know who he was in the alley--before shutting me in the trunk of the car. (I'm going to make him pay for that, I thought.) He is evidently keeping an eye on me for signs of full-blown panic. I'm almost sure if I were to start thrashing and screaming now he would unbind me, or at least take the gag out so we could talk. The reason I haven't done that yet is...
3. I am so fucking horny! It's like my body knows something my brain doesn't.
4. So far, this is nearly all just as I wrote it (except for the car trunk) so my dom has my own words to guide him. And my chick parts don't lie; this is incredibly hot.
The rational, evidence-gathering part of my brain slid off the tracks when the low, steady buzz of the vibrator changed to a series of swelling and receding waves. I whimpered into the gag and gave myself over to sensation.
A different pair of hands--not the ones that had groped my breasts back in my apartment--began massaging my shoulders, gently but firmly, timing the pressure to the waves of sensation building inside me until, still moaning, I tried to rub my head against him like a cat, only to find myself checked by the chains connecting the collar to the chair. Frustrated at finding myself thwarted, I felt him caress my cheeks with the backs of his hands in that way he had--that caress that always calmed me when I was upset.
The waves of stimulation from the vibrator changed to pulses, and I moaned continually and unabashedly, writhing in my bonds, eager for release. Both his hands slid down my drool-slick, sweaty body to rest on my squirming belly. No one had ever delighted in my belly the way he did.
"Please!" I mmph'd, rolling and bucking my hips hungrily. The pulses from the vibrator became more intense and closer together as he slid a finger onto my clit and pressed. Gasping as a fierce climax built within me, I was incredulous when both the pressure and the vibrations suddenly ceased. Willing them to resume, I continued to moan and buck my hips. *No! You can't stop now!*
When it became clear that he was, in fact, stopping, I whined in frustration and gave up struggling for the time being.
For what felt like hours, they tormented me in various ways: turning the vibrator back on to its original low setting, tickling me, nibbling on my earlobes, running a pinwheel over my breasts and thighs, kissing my belly and pressing their mouths onto my mound through my undies; at one point one of them tipped the chair back and the other sucked my toes while running a hand over my labia through my wringing-wet knickers. All the while, the vibrations increased in intensity and changed stimulation patterns--but whenever I showed signs of being close to getting off, everything stopped, and I was left alone, panting and livid with frustration, to sort myself out as best I could. Then, eventually, some new torture would begin.
I had never been so desperately horny.
Here's something good to know about nipple clamps: most of them, including the tweezer type I was used to, stop hurting after a while, at least until the moment they are removed. (That always hurts.) But those ungodly Japanese clover clamps just keep right on hurting--in fact, the longer they stay on, the more painful they become. So when one of my captors tugged on the chain that connected them, causing their evil spring-loaded hinges to tighten and their depraved little teeth to bite harder into my tender flesh, I screamed into the gag and shook my head emphatically. "Mercy!" I mmph'd as distinctly as I could. "Please take them off! Mercy!"
After a moment of silence, ham-pawed gropy guy wrapped his right arm around my shoulders from behind, as if to steady me, and his left arm around my middle, and growled into my ear,
"Well, the boss says OK. I think he's going too easy on you, little slut, but he's in charge." He tightened his grip on me, and 'the boss' removed the first clamp. I screamed again and lunged against my restraints, ready to claw my way out of my skin to get away from the pain.
Almost immediately, 'the boss's' lips and tongue were on my throbbing nipple, kissing the pain away gently but urgently. I continued to whimper until his mouth was replaced by an ice cube, the cold wetness soothing and numbing as he held it in place. Then, as if wanting to prepare me this time, he ran his fingertips slowly from the waistband of my underwear to my still-clamped boob before removing the torture device. Again, the blinding pain, the scream, the lunging, the kissing, the ice. Once I had my breath back, I mmph'd, "Thank you, Sir." (I wonder if clover clamps are against the Fourth Geneva Convention? If they're not, they should be.)
I sat for who-knows-how-long, trying to collect myself and whimpering when the vibrator started up again. (I didn't remember when it had stopped.) Eventually, the ham-paws were back on my tits, and the gruff voice said,
