Its Quite The Predicament

(Content Warning: Kidnapping, reluctance)

I'm on my way home from the grocery store, doubling ingredient portions in my mind as I prepare to bake an obscene amount of cookies. Half-focused, I decide to take a shortcut through a small nearby park while working out precisely how much butter I'll need to add.

I'm pulled from my recipe reverie about halfway through my detour when I notice that two neighboring street lamps are both out, submerging a significant portion of the path before me in total darkness. Now fully in the moment, I decide to circle back, and to pay better attention to where I'm going -- but before I can take another step, a previously unseen individual grabs me.

It's my captor's strength I notice first. It's in the grip of his fingers, which wrap around my elbows and cause me to drop my bags on the ground, before he fully encircles me in long, unyielding arms; and it's in the way he effortlessly pulls me backwards despite my thrashing about, to an unlit patch of grass where, to my horror, an open and idling car awaits. His height is also an advantage -- I'm shorter than most people, but this individual towers over me, giving them additional leverage.

Within seconds, I'm inside the back of his vehicle -- the masked assailant tells me in a direct but calm voice that, if I know what's good for me, I'll stay inside and buckle up.

It's the last detail that pulls me up short. This small expression of concern for my well-being amid my literal kidnapping serves to still my swirling mind, just for a moment. I weigh my odds of escaping with the mental clarity this affords me -- then decide it's in my best interest to comply with his wishes for now. Once I've made it clear with my body language that I won't run, even if I avoid the seatbelt for the time being, he picks up and tosses my groceries in his trunk -- another small gesture of kindness that further serves to soothe me -- before getting into the driver's seat and whisking us away, onto a service road and into whatever the night will hold.

As a fear response, the questions begin to flow from me: Who are you? Why did you take me? Are you going to hurt me? Where are we going? "Clearly I won't tell you who I am," he responds wryly, gesturing to his mask as he turns out of the park and onto the main road. "But I can tell you that I took you because you look good enough to eat."

The answer is shocking enough to keep my fear at bay a moment longer -- though contemplating how vulnerable I am in my soft, pale pink dress and strappy sandals does get my heart pounding once more. All day, the sensation of breezes against my exposed cleavage and bare legs and flowing hair had felt like freedom; now, they've played a part in my capture. I can't help but smirk a bit at the irony -- especially once I'm calmed further by my kidnapper's next disclosure, which he offers in a far softer tone: "I'm not going to hurt you."

What about my last question? "Where we're going, is going to be up to you."

We drive in silence for a stretch of time, to the industrial outskirts of one of my city's less visited neighborhoods, as my mind continues to assess my developing situation. That's when I notice that the entire backseat of the car has been draped in several soft, large matching towels. In the rearview mirror, he sees me regarding the set-up, and offers, "Those are for you. Just in case." He gives me time to let the possibilities percolate in my mind -- his earlier comment about my appearance tells me that his intentions aren't harmful, but they're hardly pure, either.

He brings us to a stop and turns off the car entirely once we've arrived in the darkened corner of a sizable, empty parking lot. "Stay put," he says, as he comes around to join me in the backseat. Once inside next to me, he locks the doors using a button on his keychain, his gaze burning into mine. Then, he explains his plans at last: "I'm going to set a timer for 10 minutes. If you can resist having an orgasm before it goes off, I'll drive you back to that park and let you go. If you do cum, however ... you're mine until morning, and you won't stop cumming until then."

Of all the responses I might have anticipated having to my kidnapper's plans, once revealed -- arousal was not on the list. Yet I can't help how turned on I am by the idea of this little game. Plus, I tell myself, most men aren't nearly as gentle with my sensitive sex as I'd like them to be, at least to start; it may not even be difficult to free myself quickly from this predicament.

Perhaps I should have thought a bit more about those carefully laid-out towels, and what that level of planning might have implied about my captor's sexual prowess. But I didn't -- so, confident in the knowledge that I'd be home within the hour, I nod in agreement at his terms. He sets a timer on his phone, then tosses it into the front seat.

But then, I realize how tricky resisting an orgasm might be in practice as he starts to prepare me for what's next. My captor gently leans me against him -- arms at my sides, hands against the seat, back flush against his chest --- and whispers in my ear to spread my legs wide for him, "like a good girl." I sigh a little -- before remembering myself. Then, I follow his orders. But as I do, I also remember, with alarm, another detail about my outfit: That I'd decided to forego underwear on this particular day. I'd intended for it to remain my dirty little secret...

Clearly my captor notices -- and makes a real meal out of the discovery. "Where... oh where... are your panties?" he asks in a torturously slow, sly voice, while rubbing the insides of my thighs and blatantly staring at my trimmed, exposed pussy -- forcing me to swim in my wanton ways. I can't even bring myself to answer.

"No matter -- just makes my job easier." With this, glides one hand to true north, finding my clit with ease and beginning by making agonizingly slow circles around it. I'm shocked by him making actual contact -- and such skilled, careful contact at that. His touch is considered, laser-focused. As I begin to writhe a little at this constant, languid assault, I realize just how much trouble I might be in, after all...

"So excited, so quickly..." he notes, before taking things to the next level. His fingers continue to bring me to an especially slow boil, while his lips and tongue find their way to the spot where my neck and right shoulder meet. His careful kisses and tongue flicks there, combined with the gentle onslaught of pleasure at my center, and the way his other hand presses my thigh outward, making me feel even more exposed -- I can't hold back. A moan escapes me.

My kidnapper is thrilled. "Be as loud as you want," he says. "Nobody can hear you anyway. Nobody but me -- and the louder you are, the harder I get." At this, he grinds into me, allowing me to feel his stiff, throbbing cock through his sweatpants. The tangible evidence of his own arousal does, indeed, draw another moan from me.

All I can focus on, as he continues to tease and torment me, is how good it all feels -- and how much more I want. I begin circling my hips with more intention, hoping to create more pressure with my motions. At this, he stops altogether. "No -- I decide how fast we go. Not you. Unless you want to ask me for more, that is..."

That's when I remember something he said to me earlier. That my fate was going to be up to me. And now, I truly understand his game: He wants me to ASK to remain trapped. He wants me to beg to cum, to beg to extend my sentence in his captivity.

I can actually feel wetness flow from me at the idea.

And so can he. I can tell, because he stops his circling just long enough to slip two of his fingers deep inside me, making me gasp at the sudden, wonderful fullness, before bringing his lubricated fingers back up to begin circling once more. Just as slowly as before. I groan in frustration. "Just ask," he replies, before adding: "We've only hit the halfway point."

The thought of enduring this for another 5 minutes makes my head spin. My fear surrounding the fact that I've been abducted has now been fully eclipsed by how desperate I am for more, every inch of my body crying out for any sort of uptick in attention. The muscles in my calves and thighs are tensed, as are my arms, as I force myself to keep them where they belong; my hips are constantly moving; my nipples are stiff and grazing my bra with every wriggle.

For a moment, I get stuck on this last detail -- the idea of my captor unbuttoning the front of my dress to take in my soft, lace-covered tits; imagining his piercing gaze glued to the way you can just make out the sight of my pink nipples through the sheer fabric. Without thinking, I move my hands to reveal myself. He stops me - "If those hands move again, I'll stop."

I put my arms back. "But what if I did slow down, now that I mention it? Or, what if I did stop entirely?" At this, he takes his hand away and presses it to my other thigh. Everything in my being cries out for him to start once more -- especially being held wide open like this. I can almost feel the heat and want emanating from my extremely sensitive, extremely wet pussy, out into the open air. "In fact, I'm not going to start again. Not unless you ask me -- no, BEG -- me to do so."

With that, I'm officially placed at a crossroads. The more rational side of me tells me to resist the pleasure. To simply hold out a few minutes more, before getting safely home where I can work out my own need for release. But that side of me is so fully drowned out by how desperate I am to follow the darker path into the night -- to give myself and my body and my desires to this utter stranger, who touches me as though he's studied how best to tease and please me.

He asks me plainly: "Do you want this? Do you want to cum?"

I give in: "Yes."

"Then beg for it. Beg for me to make you cum, and to trap you in this car, at my mercy for the entire night," he tells me. "Please," I whisper. He replies, "Again." It's the only word I can think of at this point, so I offer it to him once more, louder this time: "Please."

He wants the full pound of flesh. "Please what?" I relent once more: "Please make me cum."

At this, he goes to work, with an alacrity that makes me cry out loud. His dominant hand finds my clit once more, and begins to rub at a deliciously fast pace. With his other hand, he puts two fingers inside of me once more, and pumps them in and out of me repeatedly. He orders me to show my breasts to him; through my spiking arousal, I happily, rapidly comply. I can feel his eyes traveling all along my body once I finish...

Or, I'm at least somewhat aware of his looking, at least -- but admittedly, most everything in the world fades in the background, pushed to the periphery of my mind by the rush of pleasure that comes from being so thoroughly worked up by this man. It feels as though his hands have completely taken over my sex; as though it's now his, and he knows exactly how best to handle it. I wish I knew this stranger's name, so I could scream it out -- though, my mind concedes, not even having that information makes this all the more erotic.

My orgasm begins to approach -- he reads the moment like a book. Burying his fingers deeper; rubbing my clit harder and faster, still. My begging and pleading reaches a fever pitch; he could kidnap me forever, so long as he doesn't stop what he's doing at this moment, I think to myself.

"Cum for me," he growls. "Give in to this."

At his urging, I do precisely that. I lean into him fully as I positively erupt, swearing at the top of my lungs as the orgasm takes over me. My arousal leaks down the hand still buried within my folds, soaking both the towel beneath my ass and the sleeve of his shirt, as the fingertips working my clit press down harder still, in the most satisfying way. Air gets caught in my throat, as though the pleasure of cumming for this strange, masked individual is so acute, it suspends my ability to breathe. My captor's excitement is evident, too -- he grinds his erection into me while groaning in delight at my total surrender, bringing the moment to new heights.

The first things that break through the spell of relief and endorphins are the ringing of the alarm he'd set, and my kidnapper's gentle, warm laugh. "That settles that," he says, bringing his hands up to rub my shoulders as I come down. My breaths are still shaky, and my body continues to weather the after-effects of a soul-stirring release, when he adds: "By the time I'm done with you, these towels will be soaked through."

"Now," he continues, "turn around and lean against the car door." I'm fully lost to him, and this moment -- all I want is to feel more of that searing pleasure. So I comply immediately, knowing to keep my legs spread as he moves to position his face at the apex of my thighs. I start to drip once more in excited anticipation of his tongue teasing my overly sensitive clit, of covering his face in my slick arousal.

"Good," he adds. "Now, as I told you before: Buckle up." And with that, he leans forward to catapult me into a night of breathless, overwhelming orgasms. I'll take this over cookies any day.