Idnapped

Chapter One

Ollie

Slater slams his long body between Mikey and I on the ratty sofa with an 'oomph' of exhaled air.

"I'm screwed!" His face is twisted in dismay as he plucks the joint from Mikey's elegant fingers before sucking in a heavy drag.

The motion highlights the strong bones of his face, his deep-set brown eyes narrowing as the smoke rises. I'm a little surprised -- Slater doesn't normally indulge in anything stronger than light beer.

Slater and I were roomed together in our first year and have a strange relationship. We're not alike, not really, but there's something deeper there that connects us, gives us an understanding, I think. The fact that we're both on scholarships is the least of it, as is the fact that we come from poor-ish backgrounds; his more so than mine. I find people difficult, I understand them too well. The motivations for the actions they take, their dark thoughts, the things that make them happy. I can't read Slater, and I think that's why I like him so much -- he doesn't exhaust me with unasked for demands. People are hard edges, draining holes -- I'm not about to reject a person who doesn't make me feel that way.

"Something wrong at practice?"

Despite our friendship, I'm tentative in my question. Slater can be volatile -- up so high one minute and aggressively withdrawn the next. I think, though I'd never dare ask, it's to do with feeling out of place here, in this wealthy, leafy enclave. So, questions that threaten his hard-won status at the college are not to be taken lightly. Failure isn't tolerated at Greenholt College, even from their top ball player.

"Not practice," Slater's deep voice is a growl, "assignment. Didn't get the grade I needed, again." He sucks again on the joint before passing it off to Mikey.

"Can you resubmit?"

Mikey is hopeful -- even here in the very-nearly-real-world jocks get special treatment every day of the week.

"Nope. Professor's a witch. Hates all the sports teams, tells us at length how many resources it takes away from academics. She says there's no chance, and if I fail this course that's it for me. I don't know how much longer I can keep my head above water, training just sucks all the time I should be spending on my degree."

Slater looks utterly dejected. He's a smart guy, and I know he'll have covered all the legitimate bases already. Though, with his penchant for parties, and hooking up with anything with nice legs and a short skirt, I'm not sure his dropping grades can be entirely blamed on the pressures of basketball training.

My own scholarship doesn't cover living expenses, meaning any difficulty I have with my grades, which is thankfully not much, yet, has been caused by working every spare minute just to try and keep up with myself financially, and I'm starting this new year already dog-tired.

"Hey," Mikey is always cheerful, and he pats Slater's shoulder, seemingly unconcerned by, or at least not fearful of, the foul mood, "we'll help you study. Get your grades up for the next assignment."

"Thanks buddy."

Slater pulls Mikey in for a bro hug, mussing Mikey's sun kissed surfer-boy hair. He glances at me over Mikey's head and I see the concern in his eyes. Mikey doesn't have a scholarship, doesn't really understand the pressure that is laid at our feet to perform. Though Slater will probably manage to pull it together for this class, with our help, there are always new classes and new pressures. Mikey, who gets by perfectly well with a 3.0 GPA and only works a job during school because he likes to meet new people, is an ingenue. He seems to have boundless energy for sport and socials wrapped up in his lean six-foot frame and is always supportive, but maybe not the most perceptive of friends when it comes to the subtleties.

* * * * *

I'm at work at an upscale bar downtown. The tips are good and the number of students that pass through the door is minimal, but the hours are late and my focus in lectures suffers from it.

I get hit on during my shift a few times. This is usual, it goes with the territory, although I always stay smiling but calmly aloof, which works for me; tips improve but it doesn't cause drama. I know I sound like a social reject, like someone who hates people, and sometimes I am that guy. But mostly, they just tire me out.

I know people respond to the way I look, and I suppose I understand that, though it doesn't mean I always like it. My mom was an elegant African-American woman, proud and sharply intelligent, and one of my favorite images is of my dad, all six-four blond leanness of him, twirling her in a complex dance move, her eyes sparkling as she spins the room, before pulling her back to him close; and they just stop, unaware of anyone else, to look into each other's eyes, brown into gray.

I can do that now: think of my parents with happiness. It's taken a long time for thoughts of them not to be accompanied by a vortex of pain, a sucking sensation deep inside me, that I always kept to myself. I still get that sometimes, but the happy thoughts are starting to outweigh it, finally.

Anyway, warm as that thought is, I need to focus: tips and repeat customers are the order of my boss, and my back pocket.

Those responses I get? Having one now. I got my dad's height and eyes, and more of my mom's skin, plus her megawatt smile, which is rarely broken out for anything but the purpose of illusion, like now. At six-three I tower over the petite blonde hottie trying to get my attention from the other side of the bar, but oh boy, does she love it when I flash that smile.

"What can I get you ma'am?"

She flutters her eyelashes and asks me what I would recommend in a twinkly voice. I lay it on thick, making suggestions and throwing in some light flirting, being rewarded with a great tip and the less welcome gift of her number on a napkin. She's missing a crucial appendage to genuinely get my interest.

* * * * *

I roll home at four in the morning, whacked after finishing clean-up duty. I made good money tonight -- even on a weeknight the bar is popular and has a seemingly inexhaustible supply of wealthy drinkers ready and willing to throw their cash around -- but with the way rent prices are in the city, even this pit between the three of us is more than I can truly afford. I work four nights per week, including weekends, just to make rent, bills and occasionally buy the kind of food that will give me the odd vitamin. That's in addition to working as a TA for several classes during the week, although I drew the line at a third job this year. Though I guess working every spare minute isn't really a problem when you have zero spare funds to do anything else with it anyway.

I get up after about an hour of sleep and am perched at the breakfast bar, desperately clutching a black coffee and trying to motivate my thickened mind to move for a 7:30 a.m. lecture on Enzymology, when Slater swaggers in in nothing but a pair of boxers.

"We have a plan."

He announces it confidently, as if I'm supposed to be aware of what he's referring to. I am not in the mood for this.

After some confusion we manage to work out that he's talking about a solution to our money problems and the fact that they are preventing us from having any kind of life.

"We kidnap the Winthrop kid."

He looks pleased with himself, though I'm not sure if it's because of his amazing 'plan' or because he's stunned me to silence with so few words.

My jaw is gaping -- is he joking? Surely, yes. But he looks serious, his thick eyebrows straight and stern as he waits for my response. I decide to go deadpan.

"Okay, is that before or after we rob a bank and murder the Dean?"

"Don't be dumb. We're not murdering anyone."

"Yeah, sure, I'm the dumb one," I mutter and turn to Mikey who's entered the kitchen fresh from the shower post-morning run.

I catch my breath a little, because Mikey is always cute, but Mikey still wet from the shower wearing nothing but boardshorts is something else. I catch his light green eyes with my own gray ones and glance away in embarrassment.

There's definitely an unspoken agreement for me not to perv on my roommates and as a result they never act uncomfortable around me or have any issue with me bringing people over. I don't want to get caught breaking that golden rule, but Mikey just grins at me and I hope he missed my transgression. I sometimes wonder if the reason I can't read Mikey is because he is such an open book -- my skills lie with seeing beneath the walls people put up to hide their true selves -- Mikey is gloriously himself all the time.

"So, Mikey, please tell me Slater's not serious about this."

"Sadly, he's entirely serious," Mikey responds with a raise of his eyebrow.

Filled with excitement, Slater fills me in on his plan for kidnapping Sebastian Winthrop III, veritable WASP, member of Pi Kappa Alpha, and captain of the lacrosse team, and swapping him out for great big wads of cash provided by his wealthy old-money family. It seems like he's thought this through, the plan isn't all bad, though obviously just the worst idea for far too many reasons.

"I have to run." I patronizingly pat Slater's thick black hair. "You stay here in fantasy land while I'm gone."

The day is uneventful, and I manage to stay awake, just, with the judicial application of much black coffee. Trying to focus during my lectures, though, I find my thoughts being pulled to Slater's plan, which was good, with only a few ironable kinks, on which I do the ironing in my head, for fun I tell myself. I don't even know who Sebastian Winthrop III is, other than the frat boy jock with expensive clothes and a brand-new car that Slater described. I might not know him, but I've already decided he's a total douche.

* * * * *

I'm working again, cleaning a glass with a cloth, channeling my best wild west bartender for the guy on the other side of the bar. It's what he needs, leaning over his arms, just a little worse for wear, bitching about women, or more specifically the one woman who slept with her boss, leaving him this emasculated husk. Besides nodding and smiling, tacitly agreeing with his assessment of the tragedy that has befallen him, I'm evaluating the best way to part him from a big tip. He's smartly dressed, designer suit, expensive watch -- but sullen faced, wondering why those trappings weren't enough to keep his woman faithful. I spot my solution further down the bar.

"Excuse me, Sir, just let me serve this lady, I'm afraid she must have been stood up."

He glances up, at me and then to the woman, who catches his eye with a practiced coyness.

"Uh, send her a drink from me," he mutters, still watching from the corner of his eye.

I pour a champagne and serve it to her, and she mouths a 'thank you' to the man. Within a few minutes the two of them are flirting hard and it's only a few minutes more before they're leaving together, the man paying his tab with a tip even larger than I could have hoped.

Sandy sidles over to me, "You know she's a hooker, right?"

I look at her pityingly. Sandy is such a part-time feminist.

"She's a very high class call girl, which is exactly what he needs right now. There's no one better placed to make him feel like a man again. He'll be certain in the knowledge that he's the best she's ever had within the hour."

"Fuck, Ollie, you're twisted."

Yeah, maybe I am.

* * * * *

The quarter continues to pass with very little of note. I keep studying, keep working, and keep not sleeping. Slater keeps struggling and fucking anything that moves, though Mikey and I help him out with the former and he just manages to stay afloat. Mikey continues as a ray of sunshine, permanently warm and happy.

I'm making ramen for the third consecutive night before my next shift at work, pondering the field work necessary for the last group assignment that's due next week, when Mikey bursts into the kitchen, uncharacteristically breathless.

"You have to talk some sense into Slater, dude. He's talking about nothing but this damn kidnapping plot. Thinks it will solve everyone's problems in one go. He's obsessed."

"Huh? He's not mentioned it in weeks."

"Dude, have you even seen him? You've been working all the time -- you didn't even come to the Sigma party last week. Plus, well, I think he was pissed cos you said it was a dumb idea. But he's told me he's been following the kid around campus, working out his movements. I think he's gonna do it man, you have to stop him."

"Listen, I have work now. I promise I'll speak to him tomorrow."

"He's got Jason involved."

That's enough to make me stop in my tracks. I'm going to have to solve the problem soon.

* * * * *

Chapter Two

I'm on early finish tonight, only one in the morning. I don't know if my body clock is adjusting itself from all the late nights, but I'm buzzed and not feeling like going home. Katya finishes at the same time as me and throws me a look as we sip a couple of celebratory bourbons.

"Club?"

Her eyes are bright, expectant. She only started working at the bar a few weeks ago and I realize she probably doesn't know I'm gay. It's always awkward to brush someone off with my particular excuse, maybe more so because I've been getting on well with her; we've been having fun working together and she hasn't shown any uncomfortable signs of interest.

"Um, I'm not sure you'd want to go to the same kind of club that I'd want to go to."

"Oh, no, you're not into EDM are you?"

Her tone of horror is perfect, and she has me for a moment before she bursts into laughter at the look on my face.

"I presume you want to go to a gay club, Ollie. I'm down with that, I have no desire to get picked up and just want to go for a dance and a drink, if you're interested?"

Hmm so much for my ego, and for my assumption that I'm masculine enough to pass unnoticed if I want to. But then she settles my ruffled feathers.

"Sandy told me you were gay the day I started. And if it helps make your mind up, my best friend is the manager of Apollo Club -- so no cover and free drinks...?"

Now that's an offer I can't turn down.

* * * * *

Apollo's is one of the most popular clubs in the area, and woefully full of students, many of whom are clearly flashing fake ID. It's a bit rough around the edges, but the bar staff are friendly and the music's good, so Katya and I are having a great night, dancing and drinking. I'm just coming back from the bathroom when I bump into him, literally; an adorable college boy, freshman I guess, with floppy brown hair and wide excited eyes.

It's been a few weeks since I connected with someone, physically at least, so I don't take much internal convincing to invite him to where Katya and I are sitting, taking a break from dancing. Katya must recognize the look in my eye as she gives me a wink and makes her way to the end of the bar to engage with her best friend, a strapping guy in a multicolored tank with a shaven head.

My new friend calls himself Sammy, and we make the usual small talk and dance to a couple of songs. I don't question my desire to kiss him, he tastes good, surprisingly minty with a tinge of sugary, fruity drinks. I'm laying on the full charm offensive just to stay in practice, though it's not really necessary; he's very sweet, very eager, and, I suspect, not that experienced. It's pretty apparent that he's only just come out, and that college is opening up more than just his mind.

He's keen to come back to mine and luckily Slater and Mikey are either out or in bed when we get back. The apartment is dark and silent as I pull Sammy into my room and into my arms, mashing my mouth on his, forcefully parting his lips to explore his mouth with my tongue. He sinks his small body into mine, kissing back with passion. I run my long fingers to the nape of his neck, holding him to me, as I flick his buttons open with my other hand, giving each nipple a tweak before sliding his shirt from his narrow shoulders.

I want this. It's been too long since I felt a carnal connection with another person, but I'm held back by a lack of something, I don't know, maybe a spark, maybe it's a physical thing? It's true that Sammy isn't really my type beyond the basic look of him. He's too young, eighteen and fresh into college, and too innocent. He is definitely attractive though, so I guess you could say that's 'type' enough, and he holds a certain glint in his eye that speaks of promise. I suppose that sometimes I have to take some responsibility for the training process.

I disregard my qualms, pushing him back onto the bed and divesting him of his tight jeans, running my fingers along his side, tickling and exploring. I'm still fully clothed as I kneel, taking his long, narrow cock into my hand, firmly jerking it as I lap the head, before rolling my mouth wetly down the head, down the shaft, taking him with ease.

I always pride myself on doing a good job, giving a better than average fuck, and, although my heart isn't in it, I do that now, pushing his length into my throat, using the muscles to massage him as he gasps while I hold his slender hips firmly. I pull back when I can feel he's getting close. The noises from his throat make my cock stand inside my pants, desperate to get in on the action.

I strip quickly, no time or desire for seduction here, no need for it. He's looking up at me with lustful eyes and pounces when I'm naked, staring intently as he slathers my thick cock with moisture, sloppily planting kisses along the length with pursed lips before sucking the tip between his lips while he jerks the base. He has that sweet mix between inexperience and enthusiasm, and I hold as still as I can while he shows me what he can do.

With my eyes closed, I can embrace the sensation of having someone want what I have. It feels good, and now it's me who wants more, so I push him back, hard but not too hard; it's my turn to be in charge again. The lube is easily accessible on my nightstand and I scoop a little, gotta see what I'm working with here. I push one sticky finger inside him, it's accepted eagerly but, as expected, his passage is narrow, constricting.

He whimpers in slight discomfort as I add a second finger and more lube, delicately twisting, scissoring my fingers to encourage his tense walls to relax. Soon, he's whimpering again, in desire this time, thrusting his hips to meet my hand, ready for me. I roll on the condom, lining myself up with his small hole and leaning forward -- I want to watch his eyes as I enter him. I do that now, pressing the head until I feel it pop inside, his eyes snapping wide with the burning stretch. He groans, a low, guttural sound, as he shifts, searching for comfort.

I hold still for a moment, oh, yes, he holds promise in his reactions. He's loving the feeling of being taken, I can see in his parted lips, being coated by his small pointed tongue, in the way he clutches my upper arm, tipping his hips to meet my gentle movement as I slide forward with precision. He pulls my neck down, forcing a wet tongue into my mouth before whispering harshly into me.

"Fuck me, hard."

He cries out as I cover the last couple of inches without further warning, pushing deep inside and drawing back to then slam home again. I twist his head to the side, nibbling and sucking down the veins on his exposed neck as he writhes beneath me, cursing in pleasure. It's only a few minutes before he's claiming his desire to come, begging me to touch his cock, which is springing against his pale stomach. I grasp it firmly, jerking as I maintain the steady forceful rhythm, until he calls out as his juices splash against his chest.

Time to finish this, and I easily flip his delicate frame so he's on his front, head burrowed into the pillow as I tightly grip his hips, smashing into him until I feel myself swell and fill the condom with thick cream.