I could tell something was wrong as soon as I opened the door the apartment. Jasmine, the love of my life for the past two years, always had time to straighten up the house despite the demands of her job. I helped as well, of course, believing that the best relationships are based on equal responsibility. On the weekends, I would wake up early and quietly tidy up the place before making breakfast for us both and bringing it in to my sleeping beauty.
The living room was a shambles. The cushions from the furniture were tossed about the place. The collection of magazines and bowl of candies that normally adorned the guest table were strewn across the carpeted floor. The telephone was pulled out of the wall and lay in a jumbled heap on the other side of the room.
"Jasmine?" I called out as I entered and shut the door. "Honey, are you here? Are you all right?"
Silence was my only answer. I set down my briefcase and removed my tie, letting the richness of its silk fabric ebb through my fingers as I looked into the kitchen. My gaze was drawn to the block of unfinished wood that held a set of kitchen knives. I stepped over slowly to it, pausing to finger the sole empty slot in its display of sheathed blades.
"Serrated bread knife," I murmured to myself. It was big and menacing, I mused, capable of inflicting a wicked wound on exposed flesh. My brow knit as I glanced at a small scar on my left index finger where that same knife had left a reminder for me to be more careful in the future. It was the perfect weapon to intimidate someone. I called out for Jasmine again, a little louder this time, but there was still no answer.
The apartment's bedroom was less disturbed than the living room but the bed covers were thrown akimbo and the lamp from the nightstand lay on the floor, its bulb broken. The covers were darkened by spots of dampness, especially near the head of the bed. The top drawer of the dresser was open -- the place Jasmine stored the fancy lingerie and delicate negligee she would wear for my eyes alone.
While we were equals in everything else, Jasmine ruled the bedroom. She must have sensed that need in me, that basic insecurity due to lack of experience in such matters. She was patient, comforting and yet subtly demanding, always taking the lead. The year before, she bound me to the bed with scarves and stockings and had her deliciously wicked way with me for the better part of a night and a day.
Since then, we spent much of our available earnings on a large plastic tackle box and had filled it with various toys and restraints that she gleefully used on me time and again. I had spent many happy weekends as a helpless prisoner of that bedroom, squirming in cat's cradles of rope, while expressing my wanton desire and climatic pleasures in smothered moans through gags of various types.
The box now lay open next to the closet door, its contents spilling out onto the carpet. My eyes widened in realization as I studied it. Several lengths of silk rope and a ball gag were missing. I felt my panicked pulse quicken as I drew shallow breaths, desperately suppressing an urge to cry out her name at the top of my lungs. I issued a bitter, shuddering sob before noticing the bathroom door was slightly ajar.
I slowly pushed the door open. A sodden bath towel lay on the floor, amid the scattered contents of Jasmine's cosmetics and toiletries. Her wooden handled hairbrush lay in the sink. I picked it up, remembering the time she had turned me over her knee and applied its back to my posterior with several firm but loving strokes when I arrived home late from the office.
Hot tears burned my cheeks as I clung to my memories of her -- of her long dark hair framing green eyes and night-pale features smiling at me just before we embrace. I relished the warm touch of her lips when we kiss, just before she forces her hot, wet tongue between mine. I longed for the pleasant swell of her bosom against my chest, the delicate scent of perfume on her skin, the music of her laughter...
The cell phone in my pants pocket warbled, snapping me out of my longings and back to the present. I fumbled it out and checked the number and saw that it was Jasmine's cell phone. I hastily flipped the phone open. "Jasmine?" I practically yelled, "Honey, are you all right?"
"No, Jonathan," said a calm but firm feminine voice at the other end. "I am Jasmine's kidnapper."
It took several rapids beats of my racing heart for that to register. With that realization, came an unnatural calm. I took a slow, trembling breath and blew it out before speaking. "Is Jasmine all right?" I asked in a lower tone of voice.
"While she is not entirely comfortable," replied the woman's voice, "she is unharmed."
"What do you want?" I asked.
The woman chuckled softly a moment before answering. "You are surprisingly focused, given the situation," she said. "That is good. You will need to be focused if you ever want to see her again."
