Handcuffed and Tied

As always, my locations and descriptions are real, but the characters fictional. And yes, the reference to the Millway is completely real and accurate.

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All I knew in the darkness was that I hurt, hurt all over. My arms hurt, my legs hurt, my face and my ribs hurt, and I couldn't see anything, My lower lip ached, like it had been split, and the sour taste of old blood was in my mouth.

Still, while everything seemed foggy, I started to realize that I had been out, and was coming to. Wherever I was, it was completely dark, but there was a musty smell, like I was in an old, damp basement. As I slowly regained my senses, I concentrated on listening, hoping to get some kind of clue to where I was. Faintly, so quietly I wasn't sure if it was real or not, I heard, or thought I heard, the sounds of traffic in the distance. Not constant highway traffic, but intermittent stuff, like cars in a neighborhood. There was a sound like rushing water, but I couldn't place it.

And I also knew that I was restrained. My wrists cuffed to a steel pipe overhead, and my ankles well trussed with some kind of rope; it felt like the plastic stuff they sell at Lowe's, the cheap, bright yellow stuff, but cheap or not, virtually unbreakable by human strength.

It took pulling upward with my shackled wrists to raise myself to where I was standing. And even standing was difficult, with my ankles tied together; how many people stand with their feet together all the time? Still, it got the pressure off of my wrists, and that eased the pain. Reaching further up, I could tell that the pipe to which I was handcuffed was hot, and about an inch in diameter. It could be only one thing: the supply line for a steam radiator.

Looking around, I could tell the room wasn't totally dark; the faint sight of a small basement window, one which had been painted over, was off to my left.

As I became more and more aware of my surroundings and myself, I could tell just how bad my situation was. My pants seemed as though they had been drying from something, and I realized that I must have pissed myself. I tried searching my memory, and all that I could remember was walking out of Bonnie and Clyde's Pub on First Street. I'd had a beer or three, but what the fuck, but I'd walked there from my house on Fourth Street. A shame that it was all uphill to my house, but that didn't really matter.

I knew, I'd made it all the way up to Fourth Street, and turned left, and then, what the fuck, all of a sudden it was like I'd touched a live wire or something, everything went stiff and painful, and I think I fell down.

That was it! I remember that voice, like it was from a distance, saying something about 'you fucked my wife, and now she's pregnant,' before a cloth was pressed over my mouth and nose.

There was no escape from my bonds. If they'd used one set of handcuffs, maybe I could spin around and spin around, trying to put increasing tension on the slender cuff chains until they gave way, but my assailant used two sets of cuffs, so I couldn't try that without breaking my arms. And even though I could stand now, with my ankles tied together, there was no way to get any leverage.

I was thirsty. I hadn't had anything to drink since I left the pub, and beer doesn't really quench your thirst. Really, it makes you thirstier. And my too-expensive burger and fries were nice and salty.

There was really only one thing to do, and that was call for water, and hope that my captor brought me some. Part of me said wait, try to regain more of your strength, and the other part said that I wasn't going to get any stronger just standing here.

"Water," I tried to call out, though it was more of a croak than anything. A couple of minutes later I heard a door open, and then the lights came on, brightly, as footsteps started coming down some creaky wooden steps. One of the light bulbs wasn't that far in front of my face, which put my captor in a weird, hazy shadow, but there was one thing which I saw all too clearly: a hand, pointing a Walther at me.

oo0oo

It had been a really pretty day, sunny and a bit warmer than usual for April. I'd gone to the Giant Food Mart on Route 443, since I was out of just about everything, when I saw her. She was nothing like any woman to whom I'd have ever expected to be attracted: she was tall, not quite six feet, and strongly built. Her waist was smaller than her hips, but not by much, and her chest, well she was more muscular than anything, broad shouldered, tits much too small for the rest of her body, and broad feet in her Birkenstock sandals.

But what really caught my eye was her hair, or lack thereof. She had a very short layer of stubble really, as though she had shaved her head completely bald, but had done so four or five days ago. Her face was strong and stern, without a hint of makeup, and the only touch of femininity about her was a pair of dangling earrings.

The description sure doesn't sound attractive, does it, but there was just something about her, almost a presence, that was compelling. I watched her for a couple of aisles, and then I just had to do something. She was putting some toilet paper in her cart, not the soft Charmin shit, but the cheap Scott brand, the kind that would rub your asshole raw. That was when I made my move.

"I love your hair," I said, "just a perfect look for you."

"What the fuck?" she said. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Darren, hi, I've just been noticing you." Yeah, that wasn't coming out as smoothly as I'd have liked, but I extended my hand to shake.

That's a hard thing to ignore, an extended hand, and it seemed like she was a bit reluctant, but she took my hand with a firm grip and shook it. "Shannon," was all she said.

"I haven't seen you around here, and believe me, I'd have noticed you."

"Really? Why? I'm not exactly hot chick material."

"You know, I don't really know. It's just that something about you just clicks with me."

"Look, Daryl, I'm . . . ."

"Darren, it's Darren."

"OK, Darren, I'm really not used to guys hitting on me, and it's awkward."

I could see that this was difficult for her, really kind of weird for her, so I just got bold. I took her hands, which brought a look of shock to her face, step in and kissed her, gently, but the kind I know leaves girls wanting more.

"Darren," she said, just hanging my name out there, as though she just couldn't finish her thoughts. But I knew: she was hooked.

We just left our grocery carts where they were; the people at Giant would take care of them soon enough. I led Shannon out to my truck, opening the door for her as any gentleman should treat a lady, and she got in. My truck's an old one, a 1972 Chevrolet C-10, which I had gotten from my dad, and kept running all these years; the odometer had quit working at 435,623.7 miles.

Actually, it just said 35,623.7; that long ago, it didn't have a 100,000s place!

At any rate, once I got in, Shannon scooted over next to me. She was smiling, but that was interspersed with looks of, I don't know, confusion, curiosity, something.

Few words were spoken as I led her into my house. We both knew why we were there.

When we got to my bedroom, she kicked off her Birkenstocks and started to pull her t-shirt over her head. With her arms crossed above her head and her eyes covered with the shirt I stepped in, grabbed her arms and started kissing her.

Must've been the right thing to do, because Shannon went wild, kissing me with abandon, the slight mystery of not being able to see me really turning her on. I dropped my arms around her and pulled her sports bra up and over her head. Then, my hands around her waist, I started kissing her smallish breasts, sucking on, and occasionally slightly biting her nipples. Her hands, now freed from her t-shirt, wrapped around my head, pulling me more tightly to her chest.

Eventually we broke apart, as I was fumbling with the button and zipper of her jeans. She undid her pants and I practically ripped mine off. When I saw her standing there, completely naked, I dropped to my knees and started kissing her full bush, separating the hair as my tongue found its way to the promised land.

Apparently I was killing her, but she stayed on her feet, taking a wider stance for support, and again, holding my head tightly as I gave her the tongue lashing she deserved. It wasn't long before she was overtaken by her climax, her whole body becoming a tight knot of muscle. As it was passing she pleaded, "No more, no more," half way falling onto the bed, shaken to her core and needing a break.

I did let her rest a bit, to gather herself, as I got onto the bed beside her. She scooted up so that we were side by side, and was looking into my eyes, as though she was trying to peer into my soul. "Go easy with me," Shannon whispered, "I haven't done this very much."

So I did, I took it easy, in the very simple missionary position, entering her ever so slowly. It was a look of almost wonder as I slid my manhood deep within her, very slowly, but balls deep in that single stroke.

Oh, my God, a look of happiness, of pure joy, flooded her face, and I thought, yeah, she hasn't done this very much. I could see why: her looks were off-putting, and most guys would never have seen what a passionate woman was beneath that plain exterior. Another climax was building in her, and it washed over her, the same way as before, with her tensing up, almost straight as a board, her head back, her mouth open in a silent roar, and her hands gripping the sheets so tightly that I thought she'd rip them.

Me? I was still good for a while yet, and as she came down from that orgasmic high, I urged her to roll over, to get on top of me.

It didn't take her long to figure out what to do, her knees on either side of my hips, she raised an lowered herself as I stopped fucking her; she was fucking me. The angle she found put more pressure upward, toward her clit, and I could tell, she was going to get off again, and soon.

Then she did something I've never seen a woman do. She raised up, so just the head of my cock was in, looked down, and said "Look at that," watching my cock emerging from and then disappearing into her depths. That must've really turned her on, because she then speeded up, fucking me harder, almost slamming down onto me. Shannon was not on any slow boil; she was going at it at high speed, and that was it, my balls were boiling as well. When I erupted into her, that was it, she went over the edge as well.

Just a pickup at the grocery store, and it was one of the most memorable fucks of my life.

Even after we were done, Shannon was a woman of few words. Basically, she told me to take her back to Giant, because she still had to get the groceries she needed.

I thought that we had something good going on, but it was clear that Shannon did not. Her conversation got more and more terse, as though she wanted to file this away as a great time, but one never to be repeated. I began to wonder if maybe she was married, because that was the way she acted. I checked again to see what I had already known: she wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

The clincher came when she wouldn't give me her phone number. Again, married, I wondered, but that didn't make a lot of sense, because she said that she hadn't had sex very often.

My mind went down different paths, darker paths. Maybe she was waiting on a boyfriend who was in prison, or maybe she was a rape victim who just could never trust men. Whatever it was, she hurried out of the store as soon as she had paid for her groceries, leaving me waiting as the clerk checked out my stuff. By the time I got outside, all I saw was her car pulling out of the parking lot, down to the exit beside Long John Silver's and then onto Route 443. Other than the fact she had said she lived in Jim Thorpe, not Lehighton, I didn't know a thing about her. I never caught her last name.

oo0oo

The person holding the gun on me was a woman, much shorter than Shannon, when it all clicked in my mind. Shannon was a lesbian, and she was married to another woman. Behind her stood Shannon, looking like she was five months pregnant . . . which would be just about right if I was the one who knocked her up. I didn't know if that was better or worse for me.

Actually, worse was probably the right answer. A guy might have beat the fuck out of me, but there was no way this slight girl could . . . and that left that damned Walther as the more probably menace. I would (probably) survive a beating, but if someone puts a bullet in you, he, or in this case she, means to kill.

"Look, I didn't know Shannon was married. She wasn't wearing a ring, and she never said anything about it. I wouldn't have messed with her if I'd known she was married."

OK, that part was a lie; a wedding ring wouldn't necessarily have deterred me. But I kept that part to myself.

But the shorter woman just kept staring at me, and if I could describe in one word the look she was giving me, it was pure hatred. I could see Shannon behind her, and she has a sorrowful look, one of, maybe, helplessness, or pity for me. And even though she wasn't hugely pregnant, she was absentmindedly rubbing her baby bump.

I don't know, maybe this was stupid, but I was grasping at straws. "Look, I don't know, if you guys were ever thinking about having a baby together, well, isn't this for the best? I'm a strong, athletic guy, not terribly ugly, and pretty smart. Boy or girl, the odds are for you guys to have a strong, intelligent baby.

"And yeah, I'll step up with child support." I really didn't want to volunteer for that, but, like I said, I was grasping at straws.

The woman's look never changed, her eyes never flickered.

But Shannon's did. "Look, Cynthia, we can't just kill him and we can't keep him a prisoner. We've got to let him go." It was almost a whisper, but at least it was enough to let me know the other woman's name.

"Can I at least sit down? This is really hard on me."

This Cynthia chick looked like the wheels were turning and then she told Shannon to unlock me from the radiator pipe. But they still handcuffed me, and my ankles were still trussed together, though now I could sit on the floor.

"We'll feed you when we get good and ready." That was all Cynthia said, and then they turned and headed back up the stairs. I heard a lock click once they closed the door.

But they'd made a mistake. My hands weren't completely free, but they were in front of me, and I started picking at the know on the ropes binding my ankles. The know was cruelly tight, but I was motivated and managed to pick the knot down. I was just about to get it when I heard the door being unlocked, so I quickly gave up on hat and resumed my seated position, so it wouldn't look like I'd been worrying the knot. The girls came back downstairs, and Shannon was holding the handcuff key, while her 'wife' kept the gun trained on me. They moved me over, and then took the handcuffs and chained my right wrist to the 4 x 4 leg of a built in workbench. I guess that they figured I might somehow try to escape.

Then Shannon gave me a glass of water to drink, but there was still no food. Back up the stairs they went, and I could hear the door being locked again.

Thing is, they didn't know they'd left me with a chance. They just assumed that I was right-handed, but wrong, I'm a southpaw. There were a couple of old tools on that bench, including a pretty rusty screwdriver. With my good hand free, I was able to pick the rest of the knot away from my ankles, and though it hurt like a bitch, I was able to maneuver that screwdriver to break one of the links on the handcuffs. I guessed that they might have been bondageware cuffs, not real ones, that I could pick apart a link.

That left me locked in the basement, but by now I had figured out where I was and what that rushing water sound was. The Millway is a stream that runs through downtown Jim Thorpe, and it's underground in a man-made tunnel for most of its course, from the north end of Broadway to its end at the Lehigh River. Some of the houses along Broadway actually had hatches to it, and this one did. Heck, I'd heard that back in he fifties, some residents even threw their garbage into the Millway and lust let the water carry it down to the river; that was nasty. And the sewage treatment plant for the town was slightly upstream from where the Millway emerged.

The lid was heavy, but I was able to lift it. Still, I could tell that it was a drop, and it was pitch black; I had no way to judge how far down I'd drop before I hit the stream, and that made it a desperate leap.

But with a pissed off Cynthia and her pistol, I was desperate, and since she could come back down the stairs any second, I had no time to waste. I lowered myself as much as I could before letting go, and then I just went.

The blow was hard, no matter how much I tried to prepare for it, as the stream was very shallow, only a few inches, and the bottom stone. Slippery stone, very slippery stone. I looked both upstream and down, but there was no light either way, not that I could see.

I had a choice: upstream or downstream. Upstream might be a safer walk, as I was less likely to really slip, fall and hurt myself, but the upstream end would be harder to get out of the channel. Downstream had the bigger opening, and egress would be easy. But one thing was certain: I had to get away from the basement entrance: when they found I had escaped, they might use a flashlight and be able to see me . . . and shoot me. I needed to pick a direction and go, now!

Upstream only made sense: I couldn't see where I was going, and I could walk on all fours if it got too slippery, something that would be a lot more difficult downstream.

It actually wasn't far! The Millway made a slight bend, and then I could see the light, and knew exactly where I was: there was an open part of the Millway right across the street from Immaculate Conception Church. It would be difficult to get out of right there, because there were six foot or better stone walls on either side, but I might be able to call for help there.

As slippery as it was, I was able to make it in just half an hour. Even better, whoever owned the house right by the opening had put a ladder down; I guess that the kids there went down to the stream to play or whatever. When I climbed up, there were people there who yelled at me, and I said, "Call the police. I just escaped being kidnapped."

Well, Jim Thorpe is a quiet little town, and it wasn't long before two cops showed up in their cruiser. I gave them the quick version of what had happened, and they they started laughing at me.

"Hey, this ain't funny," said, but they couldn't quit laughing, and they took me up to the police station on the east side of town.

I know that I looked, and smelled, like shit. I was dirty, muddy, slimed up from the underground, wet, hadn't bathed and had pissed myself when I was unconscious. But the remains of that handcuff on my right wrist was evidence of my story, and they had to take it seriously.

It turned out that the police chief knew exactly whom I was talking about. Lezzie couples aren't all that common in town, and when a girl as cute as Cynthia gets hit on, and rejects advances because she's gay, word gets around.

So, the chief sends the cruiser down, and, sure enough they show up forty minutes later with Shannon and Cynthia in tow.

"Now, you three get in there" - the chief pointed to a conference room - "and work this the fuck out."

Well, what was there to do? Yeah, I'd fucked Shannon, and she seemed to enjoy it, but she'd completely ghosted me, so I figured she had no intentions on ever getting together again. Cynthia was really cute, but her eyes were full of anger and hatred.