His abduction had been planned for a month.
When I finally had him there before me, cowering, there was nothing that would stop me. I knew what I wanted, no matter how ruthless and degrading. I knew I had to do something to him to truly prove to him what he was to me.
Perhaps he was trying to make me feel sorry for him. I felt nothing, though, because I had planned for that. I had planned for those big, innocent eyes and the careful, calculated shifting of his shoulders.
This time, I used my new black straitjacket - an item that delighted me because of its sinister simplicity and complete functionality. Only four simple buckles made him so helpless.
The black hood, this time, didn't render me so completely distracted. I had taken time to get used to it prior to his abduction. I had done so by sitting, quietly, in my dimly lit bedroom while holding it between my fingers.
I had masturbated with it, the first time cumming quickly, the second time with a little more precision. Desensitizing myself to its ominous essence.
It smelled wonderful.
I wondered, as I paced around him, if he could still smell my scent on the inside.
*
I had him sprawled there on concrete ground. We were in a parking garage. He was in the black straitjacket and black hood, and so there were no weapons. I had disarmed him.
He tried. There is no doubt he tried. First by the way he tilted his head, trying to place it against my thigh for mercy. Then, how he breathed - purposely, deliberately. Loudly.
"Are you hyperventilating?" I observed. Casual. There was no sympathy from me this time.
"You're getting into the trunk of my car," I told him.
This, I assure you, he was not ready for.
*
It had taken some research and investigation, but I certainly enjoy planning a kidnapping. Only a few models of cars had a trunk that could safely be used for transporting a human being. I knew how much air he had.
And, remarkably, he cooperated. He did not want to upset me, I think, because he had seen a glimpse of the high heels. The painful spiked pumps. He had seen the black leather gloves. He knew I had removed all of my rings, deliberately, and that meant that slapping him, hard, was not going to be difficult for me.
Maybe it was my scent surrounding him, comforting him, that led him to step willingly into that dark place.
Or maybe he was already accustomed to the darkness.
*
The drive was about ten minutes long. I'm sure it felt much longer to him. When I lifted the trunk and eyed him there, I was surprised and pleased that I still felt no guilt, no fear, and no hesitation about what I had planned to do to him.
He had his knees tucked up close to his chest, his head down. Still covered with the black hood (which was so beautifully designed), I was not faced with pleading eyes, dampening of the lips or a clever announcement to distract me from my plans.
I wrapped leather around his neck. It wasn't a collar, really, as I never really pictured him as the type to wear a collar. I suppose because I never really imagined him as a slave, or even a submissive. He was simply someone I longed to dominate.
The leather around his neck was functional. Its purpose was so that I could yank him up, out of the trunk, to the floor, and direct him up the porch. It made it just difficult enough for him to breathe to keep him alert.
And he stumbled, just a little, trying to shake it off.
I imagine all he heard as we moved up the walkway was the sound of my heels and a slight hint of the wind in trees.
He still had no idea what was in store for him.
*
As part of my own little ritual, I took time watching him before I even began to remove the restraints.
I will admit, I enjoyed seeing him there, on the floor, straitjacketed and hooded. I knew he must look even better underneath all of that; his hair stuck to his face from sweat and tears, his eyelashes slightly wet.
I enjoyed watching him try, just once more, to see if he could find a way to make the straitjacket budge. I knew it frustrated him because he had found it, originally, not to be entirely too threatening.
After all, it was not white canvas. It was not real. Nor was it leather, covered with buckles, the metal jingling off of it ominously.
No, it was simple. It was so simple that he allowed himself to be put it in, much like the first time he playfully agreed to let me tie his wrists behind his back. After all, he probably thought, I could easily get out of it.
He couldn't.
And he couldn't now, either. No matter how much he twisted his shoulders, no matter how deeply he drew in his breath and held it.
But I certainly enjoyed watching him try. I enjoyed a single glass of wine, reclining in a big leather chair. I had my legs swung over the side, letting a single heel dangle from my toe. I sipped, tilted my head, and sighed softly to myself.
*
I snapped out of my pleasant daydream and decided it was time to get busy. When he heard my heels approaching he cowered a little, crouching down low, close to my feet.
Using the toe of my shoe, I pushed him, by the shoulder, so that he fell back onto his side, then eventually his back. Then, just for amusement, I placed that same heel right at the base of his neck, pushing through the hood.
"I could end your life right now," I commented.
The reason I said this, I still don't know. I wasn't really considering it, after all. I think I just wanted him to know that such sheer cruelty was even capable of entering my mind.
He tried to ease backward, and I could see the black fabric tightening over his chest with ever labored breath he took. Goddamn, I thought to myself, I love that fucking straitjacket.
"You probably want to know why I brought you here," I said to him.
He nodded. Carefully, gently. Cautiously.
"I brought you here," I told him. "Because I am going to rape you. Three times."
I don't know which affected him most. The tone of my voice on the word "rape" or the clarification that it wasn't going to just be one time. Or maybe it was that same heel, now angled right into his crotch.
"Three very different ways."
That definitely got his attention. And he tried to get away. He actually tried to get away. My boy sat up, fast enough to push my heel aside, and tried to get to his feet. I prevented him with ease and ended up sitting on his lap on the ground, my legs wrapped around his hips.
I felt his breath, even through the hood. It was tainted with the scent of my own pussy. I had no idea I'd soaked it so thoroughly. I imagine, for him, it was like being locked in a room with a pair of my wet panties duct taped right over his head. An idea for later, I pondered.
I nuzzled my face against the black fabric, closing my eyes, imagining where his mouth must be. It didn't matter, really, because he was wearing a black latex ball gag. I felt the dampness, though, and for a moment just enjoyed the pounding of his breath, through his nose, as it hit my face through the material.
"Do you want to see?" I asked him. "Do you want to see what I have brought to rape you with?"
Remarkably, he nodded. But it wasn't an encouraging nod, or a nod of excitement. It was a nod of trepidation, fear and hopelessness. It was a nod because he knew, based on how well he knew me, that anything other than a nod would get him beaten, beaten until he begged for the privilege of being able to nod.
He was, indeed, a very good boy.
*
I had the tools - the harness, the dildos (in several sizes), the leather contraption, all spread out on a small table in front of him. When the hood was removed, he actually didn't look at them.
Instead, he looked at me. I was surprised to see that he hadn't been crying; the wetness was from sweat. He was strong. Nervous enough to be visibly shaking, but only a little.
He looked at me, and I easily crouched down to give him eye contact. "It won't work," I told him. "I'm completely in a different place. You can save your strength. Do yourself a favor."
Then his attention turned to the tools, and he looked at them only briefly before closing his eyes and swallowing.
"Three times I'm going to rape you," I told him. I was walking to the tools, unzipping my skirt. I stripped down to lingerie and my heels only. I intended to be comfortable.
"Would you like a glass of wine, first?" I asked him. Just one glass, I added.
To my surprise, and disappointment, he declined.
*
I explained to him that the gag would be removed under the condition that he did not speak. The only words I allowed him to say were "yes" and "no." Even so, I warned him not to use them too much.
"Do you understand?" I asked as I unbuckled and removed the gag.
"Yes," he said. In a different state of mind, I'm certain he would have been a smart ass, and used his only other word instead.
Before starting with my project, I crouched down and applied some lotion to the corners of his mouth. He backed off, eying me suspiciously, confused by my demeanor.
I was watching my own fingertips. "Your skin. It's chaffed from the leather straps of the gag. I had it on too tight."
"Yes," he said, looking at me, now holding still.
But then I put the lotion away, and I picked up a leather harness. I said to him, "Which way shall I rape you first?"
*
I'm sure he knew I wasn't asking for his opinion. After all, with only having "yes" and "no" in his vocabulary, there wasn't really an appropriate response.
"No," he said. He said it when my back was turned to him, when I was picking up a bottle of clear lubricant and pondering it.
When I moved to him, he flinched and cowered, expecting to be slapped. Instead, I took him by the chin, lifted his head, and stared into his eyes.
