Idnap

Hello. My name's Tracey Robinson, I've just turned 20 and I'm a media studies student in the leafy suburbs of Surrey. I'm five-foot one tall with short red hair, a fair complexion with freckles, green eyes, a pretty smile and a petite figure, although I've got a nice pair of knockers. I know boys are attracted by my looks, and I freely admit I've played up to that in the past. I lived the first 11 years of my life in Northern Ireland, and I've never lost my accent -- a soft one, not the Belfast twang even I find grating. My daddy's a businessman. He's also a Big Man in the Orange Order. I hate all that bigoted religious shit; perhaps that's why I've always been attracted to Catholic boys.

I know my daddy does some dodgy dealing too. Whether through that or the religious politics, he pissed the wrong people off and decided we'd be safer in England. Behind a big fence and gates that are controlled electronically from the house. My mother lives there too, but she's a mouse, wouldn't say boo to a goose. Well, not unless Daddy told her to, anyway.

My Daddy's a bit paranoid about security. Apart from the fence he has security guards wandering around the perimeter with big, vicious dogs at night -- I was always too terrified to go out there after dark. And he never drives anywhere unless there's secure parking. He uses the same taxi firm all the time, and they have to send the same couple of drivers. He'd have liked to wrap me up in cotton wool as well, and have me escorted to and from college every day, but I wouldn't stand for it. That's what gave me the idea.

As I'm a student, Daddy gave me an allowance, but it was only 500 sodding quid a month. Honestly, a decent pair of shoes costs 150, he has no idea. I was complaining about it to my then boyfriend, Jimmy Flynn; despite the name he's Scottish, not Irish. We were joking about how I could get more cash of out of the tight-fisted old bugger, and I said, "Just think how much I'd cost him if some bastard kidnapped me." We laughed and Jimmy moved on. I thought about that conversation later though, while he was shagging me, and a little seed was planted (not by Jimmy, thank Christ!). I saw an old TV show once, The Sweeney, in which this upper class berk arranged with one of his mates to pretend to be kidnapped, to rip his parents off. Regan and Carter saw through him of course, but the idea was sound if he'd had the balls to do it right.

Jimmy nearly shit himself when I told him what I was thinking. At first he refused to believe I was serious, then he said he wanted nothing to do with it. He always was a weak-willed little soul though, and after I'd sucked his dick and licked his balls for a few minutes he began to think maybe it wasn't such a bad idea; after all, he could use 25 thousand pounds too. We agreed 50 grand was the amount to go for. He thought I'd just disappear and we'd send a ransom note, but I told him we had to do it properly -- soon too, I had some exams coming up at college that I didn't want to miss. I decided I'd have to be bundled into a car. I picked a road which was quiet enough that no have-a-go-hero was likely to be around to interfere, but which I knew had security cameras to pick up the drama. When Jimmy asked how he was going to bundle me into a car on his own, I breezily replied, "All right, we'll increase the ransom to 75 -- you must have some pal who'd be up for helping you. It's just a prank, after all." That suggestion -- involving a friend -- was my biggest mistake.

Well, actually my biggest mistake was letting Jimmy choose the friend. I knew a couple of girls who would have gladly helped me and could have used the money. Anyway, on the evening we'd agreed, I strolled along the designated street as I do most evenings going home from college, my belly clenching with nerves as I worried it might be too dark for the cameras to pick us up clearly, and wondered what car Jimmy would use. I checked my watch and started cursing the stupid bugger for being late. Three times I wandered up and down the part of the road we'd agreed on, like some hooker peddling her wares, my hands thrust deep into my pockets -- it was bloody freezing.

Finally a car with no headlights began to drive slowly along behind me, like a kerb crawler looking for business. After my last thought I hoped it wasn't a sodding kerb crawler! The car pulled level with me and I heard a foreign accent, a female one, asking me directions. Swearing under my breath I bent down to the rear window. At that moment the door opened, a strong pair of hands grabbed my arms and I was bundled off my feet. The car accelerated with a screech of tyres with the door still flapping open and the person who's knee I was sprawled over made a grab for it and slammed it shut, hissing "Arschloch!" at the driver. Both she -- I could feel her boobs pressing against my face -- and the driver were wearing hoodies that zipped right over their faces, with plastic goggles built in for their eyes.

I struggled on to my bum on the seat beside her and, leaning forward to the driver, asked, "Jimmy?"

The guy glanced at me over his shoulder as he took a corner on two wheels and said in a flat South London accent, "Jimmy's not comin' darlin'. 'E bottled it, so we're doin' the job." I rolled my eyes. Honestly, Jimmy really was a useless wanker, I wasn't sure what I saw in him.

Even then I wasn't worried, if he didn't want his share that was his lookout. Like some upper crust deb coming out I held my hand out to the woman and said, "Well, hello, I'm Tracey, and you are...?" A goggled grey-fleeced face stared back at me, ignoring my hand. The next thing I knew, one of her hands was clamped to the back of my head, and a thick, sweet-smelling cloth was pressed over my nose and mouth.

I woke with a splitting headache and feeling as if something small and scratchy had had a dump in my mouth. An electric light was shining into my eyes from the ceiling and, squinting, I turned my head to one side. There was a glass of water on a cabinet beside the bed I was lying on. I tried to reach for it, and realise with a shock that I was manacled to the bed. A figure came into view. She was a bit fuzzy at first, but as she sat on the bed and lifted my head, pressing the glass to my lips, she swam into clearer view. She looked tall, maybe a foot taller than me, I guessed mid to late 20s, a long, plain face with prominent cheekbones, shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes. She was still dressed in the black jumper she'd worn when I was lifted.

I sipped the ice cold water and coughed a little as it went down. Then I thanked her and checked out my situation. Both my arms were stretched above my head; by craning my neck I could see they were secured by handcuffs to an iron bedstead. I looked down and realised, with a shock, that I was naked. I couldn't prevent a gasp emerging, and I felt my face blushing. There was a harsh laugh. I raised my head and saw a man sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, staring at me. I clamped my thighs together as hard as I could. Trying to keep my rising panic out of my voice, I quavered, "Look, this is all very dramatic, but do you think you could let me get up now, so we can discuss how we're going to play this?"

The bloke leapt to his feet, went round to the side of the bed opposite the woman, and grabbed my chin, very hard, between the fingers of one hand. "How we're going to play this, darlin', is you're gonna stay chained to this bed until your fat bastard daddy pays us a quarter of a million to let you go."

He had an evil, angry look on his face. He was younger than the woman, early 20s probably, with curly black hair, flinty eyes and a big chin that hadn't been shaved for 24 hours or so. I suddenly felt more scared than at any time in my life before. The man stood, releasing my sore chin. Trying to hold back the tears I felt brimming, I squeaked, "Do you know who my dad is, dickhead? He's not a man to cross."

He gave another harsh laugh, and replied, sarcastically, "Yeah, we know who your dad is. That's how we know he could afford a million, except he probably wouldn't reckon you were worth it. But he might just shell out a quarter-mill for you, and he probably carries that as pocket change."

Desperate by then, I spat, "You're never going to get away with this. Jimmy would never go along with it. Do you think he's just going to stand by while you lock me up here?"

Another laugh. "Jimmy's a tosser. He shits himself when I so much as look at him. He tried to rope me in on this to show me he was a player, but as usual he didn't have the brains to think on the right scale. He won't dare say anything, he knows what I'd do if he did." I squeezed my eyes on my tears, and heard myself give a rasping sob. What the bloody hell had I done to myself, I was thinking. The man muttered, "Oh for fuck's sake", and I realised that I was pissing myself, literally.

I flinched as the woman stroked my forehead. With a slight accent, I assumed German, she said, "It's okay, I'll clean her up."

The man was staring at me with a look of disgust; then something seemed to change on his face. Without taking his eyes from me, he said, "Yeah, later. Why don't you nip to that takeaway now Goodie, and get us all a nice curry?"

The woman -- it took me a moment to realise that Goodie must be her name -- gave him a long, cool look then stood, shrugged and said, "Okay" and left the room. A minute or so later I heard a front door close. The man never took his eyes off me. Then he walked to the bottom of the bed and began to undo the belt of his black jeans.

It was obvious from the look on his face what he intended. I scrambled backwards, pressing myself against the cold bedstead, and hissed, "Don't you dare fucking touch me."

He grabbed my ankles and pulled me flat on the bed. I shivered as he held one of my feet, stroked the sole with the palm of his hand. Grinning, he said "Or what?"

My moment of false courage faded away and, tears streaming down my face, I begged, "Please, please don't do this." I sounded like a seven-year old begging her mummy not to smack her.

The bastard's grin widened and he climbed onto the foot of the bed. His cock was already erect, long and thick. I made a desperate attempt to kick out at it, but I was too late and my flailing legs just made it easier for him to grab them and thrust them wide apart. As he lay on top of me I tried to kick him again, but the only effect of that was to wrap my skinny legs around his hairy ones. He grabbed one of my shins, holding my leg around him, and laughed, "Ooh that's it darlin', I love it when a bird's enthusiastic." Then his fingers touched my gash and a moment later I felt his cock slam into me.

I've read that some women get sexually aroused during rape. There was no chance of that in my case. The bastard hurt me, hammering at me with as much force as he could manage, banging my head against the bedstead with each thrust. I was screaming and sobbing, begging him to stop, but if anything it had the opposite effect. He started to mutter things like "That's it, you love it don't ya, you little slag." I was tugging at the handcuffs to try and free my hands, vaguely aware of them cutting into my skin, distracting me slightly from the pain between my legs. To my utter shock the fucker bent his head to one of my tits, licked it then actually bit me. I screamed even louder. Mercifully, he came straight after that, with one final huge thrust which pushed me right up the bed. Then he pulled out of me, wiped his sticky cock in my ginger pubic hair, and pulled his jeans on.

As he left the room, he turned back and leered at me. "You an' me are gonna have some fun till daddy pays up." If I could have killed myself at that moment I would have happily done so. He flicked off the light, closed the door, and I heard him say to Goodie, "Don't worry about her, she says she's not hungry." I lay back whimpering with pain and the absolute terror that had knotted my stomach. It was only later that I began to fear that the cunt might have made me pregnant, or given me some horrible disease.

Sometime later, Goodie came in and changed the bed sheet under me, without releasing my hands. She did wipe blood off my wrists though, and gently mopped her friend's spunk out of my sore pussy. As she did it, I croaked at her, "You know what that fucker did, don't you."

She didn't look at me but, as she left the room, without turning to me she half-whispered, "I'm sorry."

I cried at her, "Why are you helping him to do this to me? If it's the money, I can get you money. Why?"

She paused, and began, "I...", but, apparently unable to come up with an answer, left me alone.

I lost track of time over the next few days, sleeping when I felt tired and lying staring at the ceiling and weeping most of the rest of the time. They often went out for hours at a time. The first time I screamed until I was hoarse, but nobody came to my rescue. There was a window in the room, but a grey blanket was secured over it with drawing pins. The man, Paul, brought me occasional meals, and let me get up now and again to go to the loo and get some blood back into my aching hands. I also lost track of the number of times he raped me -- four or five maybe. Once he turned me onto my front, hurting my arms, and buggered me. I only saw Goodie once a day, when she came in to clean me up. She even bandaged my bloody wrists, to stop the cuffs biting into them. She never met my eyes, never smiled, and ignored me if I tried to speak to her. I vaguely wondered if they had contacted my dad, and whether he was going to pay the ransom. Once I heard, some rooms away, a radio blaring "Concerns are growing for missing student Tracey Rob...", then the sound was cut off.

I had been abducted on a Wednesday. A few days later -- I thought it must have been Saturday, because I could hear a football crowd somewhere in the distance -- Goodie entered the room with a plastic bowl and a wash cloth. She sat beside me on the bed and said dully, "Paul's out for a while." She washed my face and chest with the cloth, then pulled a tube from her pocket. She squeezed some pink paste from it onto her fingers, and began to rub it into the bite marks on my breasts. I flinched at first, but the feel of the cool cream and her soft fingers massaging my boobs felt comforting and I tried to relax.

As she stroked my flesh Goodie's face moved closer and closer to my boob. I felt her warm breath on my skin, then I shuddered and squeezed my eyes shut as, shockingly, her lips made contact with my nipple. My immediate thought was that it wasn't enough for that scum to rape me, now his fucking girlfriend was getting in on the act. I abandoned myself to yet another violation. It didn't feel like that though. The feel of Goodie's soft lips and tongue on my nip, and the flat of her hand stroking the other one, was strangely soothing. With her other hand she stroked my belly with her fingertips, and I twitched with the unexpected beginnings of arousal.

I think that, after the sheer brutality of Paul's attacks on me, I welcomed, longed for, any sympathetic human touch. Despite my situation, in spite of my terror -- or perhaps because of it -- I actually felt myself getting turned on as Goodie's hand slipped between my legs. My pussy was tender from the treatment Paul had given it, and she didn't poke or pull at me. She just stroked her fingers across my slit, again and again. Then her mouth left my boob and I felt her tongue slip between my vulva, licking me gently. I could hear a growl rising in my throat, and my legs wrapped around Goodie's back.

For the first time in days my stomach was churning with lust rather than fear. As she began to enjoy my taste Goodie scooped her hands under my bum and lifted me to her, pressing harder against my slit as she lapped at me. It was starting to hurt but I didn't want her to stop. Boys had gone down on me, but they were amateurs compared to this woman's gold medal performance. It felt as if my insides were beginning to boil, and I screamed and bucked as the biggest orgasm of my life swept over me, making my eyes bulge and my bruised pussy throb painfully. As the tremors ceased I burst into tears and Goodie hugged me, kissing my face gently and stroking my belly with the flat of her hand.

When I'd calmed down a little, she rested her hand on my belly and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't know he was going to do this to you. He's behaving like a depraved animal."

I felt a moment of hope. I whispered, "If he's not here, you could let me go."

Goodie's eyes widened with fear, and she said, "I can't, he would kill me."

I shook my head. "You can come with me, my father'll protect us."

She laughed cynically. "Your father? You know what your father is doing? He's negotiating your fucking price! We asked for 250 thousand pounds, he said he'd give us one hundred thousand. It's thanks to your goddamn father that you're still here."

I tried not to believe it, but I knew it was exactly what my daddy would do. I could almost hear him: never accept the other guy's first offer. Dismissing that, I tried again. "Why do you stay here if you're so scared of him?"

Goodie turned soulful eyes to my face. "If I wasn't here, do you think he would wash you, cook for you? I stay to help you."

I felt myself beginning to cry tears of angry frustration. "Help me escape then, and we can both get away."

She stood, a flash of anger on her face. "I told you, no. I don't even have keys for the handcuffs. I'm sorry but no. Only your father can help you."

A couple of days later I was woken from a drowse by the light flashing on and Paul bustling in with a portable TV. "Her, darlin', you've made Crimewatch."

He plugged in the TV and switched it on and I stared in amazement at grainy black and white footage of a small figure walking along a dark street. The creamy smooth voice of the show's female Scottish presenter provided a commentary. "Tracey walked up and down the street several times. It appears she was waiting for someone. Who? Did you see her? This is the abduction itself -- the car, a grey Renault Espace, was stolen, and was found two days later burnt out on waste ground in Wandsworth." She gave the registration number. "Did you see anyone driving this car? Did you see it parked anywhere?"

My jaw dropped in disbelief as they cut to an interview with Jimmy Flynn, my so-called fucking boyfriend. Tearfully, he told someone off-camera, "Trace was supposed to meet me that night, but she didn't turn up. If she had, she'd be safe now. I'm so worried about her." Spineless, lying little turd.

They then showed my parents, Daddy looking stoic, Mummy tearful. In a gruff voice, Daddy said, "Someone out there knows who's holding our daughter. Please, get in touch with the police, anonymously if you like. But I'm offering a reward of ten thousand pounds for information leading to her safe return."

Paul snapped the set off with a whoop. "Well, ten grand, eh darlin'? So that's what you're worth to Daddy." I barely resisted as he raped me again, then I lay sobbing bitter tears of defeat through the night.

The next morning Goodie came in again, dressed in a bathrobe. She dropped it to the floor and was naked beneath it. Her breasts were smaller than mine, pointing upwards with tiny brown nipples, unlike my big red spongy ones. She licked her way down my body, and brought me to another painful orgasm. Then she pressed her nipple to my lips and breathed "Please, liebchen." I opened my mouth and sucked her breast in. She began to rub her pussy against my thigh, and I could feel it was wet. After a few minutes she whispered, "Will you suck me? Please?" I'd never had any interest in women sexually, but I wanted her to stay with me, I wanted her warmth against my skin, so I nodded.