Ch. 1: Capture
The clock on the wall told the man it was 3am. He should have been tired, but he wasn't; the naked woman on the table in front of him kept his attention focused. Never mind that she was drugged and unconscious, she represented a year of his life. He felt like he knew the woman, even though they had never had so much as a single conversation. Still, he knew her better than most people did. She was a social creature, the alpha female of every circle she ran in. She also, and he found this most intriguing, carefully compartmentalized her life. She socialized with no one from work. Those she played softball with were not in her economic or social bracket, and beyond the casual sexual liaison, never socialized with them, either. Only her inner circle of friends got close to her true nature, but even they did not see all the little pieces of the picture. He did, however.
But now, as he sat there and watched the object of his obsession slowly regaining consciousness, he wondered if he had done the right thing, made the right decisions. Not that he was concerned about the moral and legal implications of drugging and kidnapping a woman for one's own sexual amusement, mind you. Those considerations never crossed his mind. No, he simply wondered if this was the right woman. She was beautiful, that he could not deny. If he had a type (personally, he hated the phrase,) it would be those women who fell under the category of voluptuous. He liked hair, no matter the color so long as it was long and full. He liked curves, round hips and firm buttocks and large ample breasts. This woman, while by no means skinny, was hardly what one would call curvaceous. He knew from observation that she exercised five times a week. He had no doubt that if he dropped a quarter on her stomach it would bounce. Her breasts, though hardly small, seemed to be immune to the natural pull gravity exerted on them. At first he was convinced they were augmented, a fact which if true, would have run contrary to her nature, but now he knew the truth: they were supported underneath by a healthy layer of muscle, and like their owner, defiant of gravity or any other law imposed upon them. He considered her limbs: lithe, the muscle tone well-defined with little hint of the softness he so adored in womankind. Yet her hands and feet were well manicured and soft, the color of her fingernails so purple they were almost black. Her toes, on the other hand, each had its own bright color, and several were adorned with rings. He turned his attention from one end of her to the other. The blond mop on her head was always cut short. During the day it was trim and professional, at night buoyant and playful. She had a boyish grin that was at the same time strong and delicate, but the set of her jaw portrayed only one attribute: defiance. That was the attribute that most worried him, but it was also the one he found most alluring.
...
Sara Kierson sat at the bottom of the pool. Not the grown-up, adult Sara, but the ten-year old Sara in her favorite bright orange two-piece. She remembered the game she played with her friends: they would jump in the deep end and sink to the bottom, a trail of bubbles flowing from their mouths as they sank. Once they reached the floor of the pool, all the air from their lungs expelled, they would count down from ten with their fingers. The last one to swim to the top won. Sara never lost.
Sara sat at the bottom of the pool, her legs jutting out in front of her. Her friends were gone, and she was alone. She looked around. It must've been night, because the pool lights were on, and she loved the way the shadows danced across the floor of the pool at nighttime. She realized her lungs weren't burning, weren't screaming for air the way they did when she played the game. She had no reason at all to leave the bottom, except for curiosity's sake. Even at night she could see outside, beyond the surface of the waters, the lights around the pool, people moving around, even the moon when it was bright. But now she could see nothing, not even the edge of the pool. It was as if someone had laid a thick, black blanket right over top of the water. It frightened her, but it also sparked her curiosity. She had to
see,
to know what lay just beyond the blackness over the waters. She kicked off the bottom of the pool, and shot through the water like a dart, erupting from the surface with a gasp.
Sara Kierson opened her eyes, and discovered she couldn't see.
In that moment all the nerve endings in her body came to sudden and adrenaline-fired life, all of them screaming to her sleep-addled mind that something was terribly, terribly wrong. The skin of her back and thighs informed her she was naked and lying on a cold metal table. Her legs were spread-eagle and raised,
like a gynecological table
, she thought, but different. There were no stirrups for her feet, which dangled freely. She then realized she was bound; strapped to the table at the arms, shoulders, hips, thighs and calves She could feel pressure along the ridge of her nose that wrapped around the top of her face and enclosed her in a prison of blackness.
I'm dreaming. This is a dream.
Sara lied to herself.
This is no dream,
replied the voice in her head,
and we're in trouble.
The voice was usually comforting. Sardonic maybe, but comforting nonetheless.
For a long time, Sara did nothing. She waited, expecting
something
, but that something didn't happen. She was fully aware now, no longer in denial of her situation. She told herself not to panic; she wasn't sure why, but the voice assured her that it wouldn't accomplish much, aside from attracting the attention of her captor. She studied her surroundings instead, employing those senses that had not been denied her by the straps and the blindfold. Someone had lit incense, not unlike the kind she burned at home. It had a clean, earthy smell that she found comforting. The air was cool. There was an oscillating fan nearby, and she felt its caress across her naked body in even, measured increments. Orchestral music was playing quietly in the background. She couldn't pinpoint the source, and so guessed it must be playing over some sort of surround sound system. She could hear nothing else.
She tested her binds one at a time, searching for a weakness, but found none.
Screw it,
she thought, and threw all her might against them, screaming in her exertion, but the straps did not so much as budge. She realized then that the chair was made to deny leverage. That was why there were no stirrups, she couldn't use her feet to push against chair. She slumped back against the cool metal table. She was blindfolded, terrified and utterly exposed. Sweat flowed freely from her body. She felt the cool breeze of the oscillating fan from across the room. It chilled her, causing her skin to prickle and her nipples to harden, which made her feel even more exposed. Panic, like some feral beast, was clawing up her throat and threatened to consumer her. Her breath came in dry heaves.
Well, that was pointless, observed the voice,
why not try using your mind instead of your muscle? It's not like we're going anywhere.
Someone had kidnapped her, that much was obvious, but who? She replayed the events of the past couple of days in her mind, but nothing out of the ordinary stood out. It was Sunday, or at least it was when she went to sleep, and Sunday was TV night. She recorded all her favorite shows throughout the week on Tivo, and Sunday night she watched them. Sometimes she had some girlfriends over, but not last night. She only had her cat for company. She remembered setting the alarm before she went to bed, but absolutely nothing stood out to her as strange. She just went to sleep in her own bed, and woke up here, wherever
here
was. She thought back even further, days, weeks, searching for a face or encounter that stood out as odd or unsettling. Again, nothing. She had not even the slightest idea who might do this to her.
God, I hope this isn't something like Hostel or Son of Sam or the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Didn't that guy use incense or something to hide the smell in Seven?
Maybe slasher flicks aren't the best thing to dwell on at a time like this,
suggested the voice.
She forced herself to remain calm. Remembering yoga classes from a couple of years ago, she steadied her breathing and centered her mind. For the first time she realized she was thirsty, terribly thirsty, as if she hadn't had a sip of water in days.
Or perhaps
, the voice in her head suggested,
because you were drugged
.
Reflexively, Sara licked her lips.
Seconds later she felt something touch her lips, and she quickly snatched her head away, her heart beating in her chest and pounding in her ears.
Just moments before Sara had mistakenly believed that she couldn't possibly feel more vulnerable, more exposed than she was, now she knew she was wrong. Whereas before she only
