Bondage a la Carte

by Jurgen von Stuka

  VII – The Squirt Gun Kidnapping

  Houston, Texas, USA

  The gag worked better than he’d ever expected. There was no sound except the humming in my own head. I tried to scream and heard only a muted hum. There were no words and no possibility of anyone knowing what I wanted to say. He had packed my mouth with a cloth bag made out of some slippery material like Lycra. It was stretchy fabric that allowed him to stuff the bag into my mouth one part at a time. It was filled with what at first seemed like sand, but then I tasted the salt. It was rock salt. The more I drooled into it, the dryer my mouth became and eventually, I’d make no sound at all.

  Once the bag was stuffed in and my jaws were bulging from the intrusion, he used heavy, rubber-covered wire to hold it in place. He had a large roll of household “zip” wire and cut the insulation off the ends, wrapped the whole length of wire around my face three times and then tied off the bare copper ends. It wasn’t going to break and it wouldn’t stretch. I’d learned that when I’d helped my old boy friend, Ed, rewire some of the lamps in his apartment. His nasty male cat, Fellatio, had chewed on the wires and raggedly severed them. Initially, Ed thought that just the rubber covering had been chewed through, but examination showed that the copper core was still cut as well, a point proven by the fact that the lamp would not illuminate. Yet it was amazing that Fellatio hadn’t been fried in the act of chewing the wire. Ed had then said then that zip wire was pretty strong, even the cheap stuff.

  Now I was finding out another use for the stuff. It wasn’t a use I wished to know more about. It was terribly tight and forced my mouth wide open, my teeth and jaws apart. My tongue was jammed into the bottom of my mouth and wasn’t going to move either. I had begged him not to gag me, fearing that I’d suffocate if my nose got blocked. He didn’t listen to me. The wiring of the gag was especially cruel, but the rest of the sound sealing was just too horrible.

  Over the wire went strips of duct tape, from ear to ear, from the bottom of my chin to under my nose. It stuck and held, like duct tape is supposed to do. It sealed my mouth shut and made my face into a flat surface. I looked into the mirrors that surrounded the room where he kept me and saw an odd face; one with no lips, no teeth, nothing showing through the silver surface of the tape. My mouth was plugged, wired and sealed shut. I buzzed away only in my head. The salt began to soak up the moisture in my mouth. I stopped making noise and tried not to salivate at all. The taste of salt got stronger.

  He played Mozart day and night. Always Mozart, he told me. I don’t know Mozart from Bach, but he told me it was Mozart. “Think of it as white noise,” he said. “You can hum along with the orchestra.”

  I thought of it as noise and not very good noise either. If he were going to kidnap me and keep me here in this cage, in a room full of mirrors, the least he could do would be to play some rock music. But the Mozart was part of the torture. He wanted me to make the video tape and I had refused. He asked me three times, taking the gag out and giving me a drink of bottled spring water. The water was Evian, but it didn’t kill the salt taste in my dry mouth. It took a long time for me to even get enough water to allow my tongue to work. He waited. He was patient.

  “Come on kid, make the tape. It’s no sweat for you.”

  “Fuck you,” I’d muttered with dry mouth and a squeaky voice.

  The gag went back in and he had to really struggle to get it back between my teeth. I even bit him one time. He howled and pulled his hand away, then hit me with the same hand, hard across the face. I went down and he was on top of me, stuffing the salt baggie into my mouth while I cried.

  “That will teach you who’s the boss, sweetheart,” he said

  The second time he didn’t take the gag out, he just demanded that I do the tape. I tried to ignore him and he threatened about the cage and the chains. I turned my head away, sitting there in the chair; my hands and feet tied with clothesline, my skirt up around my thighs. My arms were over the back of the homemade chair with the top rail holding my elbows high and wide apart. He had tied my hands to the vertical parts of the back and bound my lower arms there as well. The strain forced my chest forward and my breasts out towards him, their nipples hard and pointing through the satin bra and shirt. My ankles were pulled back on either side of the big square chair, toes pointing downward with rope around the ankles and under the instep, firmly secured to the chair. More rope held my legs apart and to the sides of the chair so that I could not bring my knees together and affording him a good view of my panties and upper thigh. More rope was tied around my waist and another length ran from front to back through my crotch, neatly cutting me in half below the waist. My skirt was too short anyway, but now it was bunched up behind my butt and I was sitting on the heavy two-by-four slats of the crude chair. The slats ran from front to back with a wide three or four inch gap in the center. The chair was fastened to the floor with steel braces and large shiny bolts. I had tried to move it but it was very well attached and sturdy. He hadn’t bothered to sand the wood when he built the thing, so it was full of splinters and rough edges that dug into my flesh, especially where my arms and legs were bent to match the chair’s angles.

  Around my neck was a leather collar, locked at the back. There were several metal D rings at various locations around the collar’s outside surface. The collar was snug, but not too tight. When he put it on, I thought it was just a small nasty touch that he was using to get me to submit. It didn’t seem like much.

  Around my chest was a network of thinner rope, several bands above and below my breasts and a few more criss-crossing between them, breaking up the cleavage intended by the Wonder Bra I wore. (I wore these because two men at the office had said they thought I looked sexy when I wore one, not because I didn’t have enough in that area. The bra moved them, [my breasts, not the men], closer and higher and with some clothes on, it did look better). Now the Wonder Bra was under plenty of rope and anyone seeing me would have only wondered if the rope hurt, not if the bra was improving my measurements. The rope hurt; the bra was superfluous.

  “Make the fuckin’ tape,” he said, “or I’ll get nasty, really nasty.”

  I closed my eyes. None of this was really happening. It had to be a joke. It had to be one of Guy’s weird games and eventually, after they had their fun, Guy would show up and “save” me from this monster.

  “OK, bitch,” he said. “No video tape, no fun for you. Here we go...”

  He left the room and came back with a video camera, a large, commercial video tape recorder, a mixer unit, a tripod and some lights. These he set up and then went and got a second camera and tripod. I struggled and groaned during the half-hour it took for him to get the gear ready. Wires and connecting cables covered the floor and he busied himself making sure that he had two good shots with the cameras and that the recorder was working. Then he turned on the lights and started giving directions.

  “We’ve got lots of tape, hours and hours,” he smirked. “And I don’t give a damn whether you want to make the tape or not, but this is going to be a fine little production anyway.”

  From a small airline bag that had arrived with the video gear, he brought out several pair of steel handcuffs and leg irons, plus yards of chain. He put cuffs on my wrists over the rope, behind my back. This wasn’t easy because the cuffs had to be forced between the chair and my bound arms. The cuffs hurt before they were tightened. He put a pair of the leg irons on my ankles. They were very tight. The new restraints cut into my wrists and ankles, at the wrists and just above the anklebone. Any movement, any attempt to ease the pain only made it much worse. My hands froze. My feet stopped their twitching dance. I didn’t want to move a muscle because it would hurt even more. That was what he wanted. There was no way I could walk in the cuffs, I was sure of that. But then, after making sure he had everything on tape, he untied me from the chair and pushed me towards the hallway. I hobbled along, but I wasn’t going anywhere, so he picked me up and threw me over his shoulder, like a sack of grain
. His head was right along side my right hip and I swung my cuffed hands at him and caught him hard in the temple. He went down with me on top of him, dazed, but not out. He got it all on tape.

  Worming his way out from under me, holding his head, he went back and got the bag.

  “OK, no more mister nice guy. You want to play rough, we play rough.”

  From the floor near the bag came his big, callused hand full of new, silvery chain. One length was wrapped tightly around my waist. He locked it in front with a small padlock. The long end was pulled through my crotch, over the rope and up between the cheeks behind. He pulled it tight and I squealed into the gag as the rope and chain found their way between my lower lips, driving the cotton crotch of my panties and hose deep into the slit in front. He slipped the chain through the waist loop in back, pulled it tighter and then locked it to the handcuffs. The short extra length hung down behind.

  “Enjoying that?” he asked. I suffered the multiple agonies of my cuffed wrists and the horrible steel links chewing at my crotch through the thin panties.

  The next length went around my chest, just above my breasts and under my armpits. It fit nicely into the deep grooves left by the ropes. He pulled the chain until I couldn’t breathe. A lock closed the tight loop in front, and then the rest of the chain wound again around my chest, this time under my breasts. He pulled the end through the top loop and opened the padlock long enough to enclose the new loop and then locked it again. It was very hard to take a deep breath and the chains were digging into my skin, right through the cotton shirt and bra. I wiggled and twisted my body against the restraint of the chains, but he held me by the hair and made threats about hanging me from the rafters if I didn’t stay still. I thought he probably would do that, so I stopped struggling and let him continue with the chain. My ankles and wrists were bands of pain; the steel dug in deeply. It was like the beginning of an amputation I thought; only the skin hadn’t been cut yet.

  My breasts were now enclosed in a figure eight of chain, their fullness exaggerated by the squeezing chain, the nipples were still hardened from the tight restriction and they stuck out even through the soft, upholstered bra and the ribbed Gap jersey. He looped the long end up from between by breasts and around my neck over the leather collar and then put another heavy padlock on it. The rest of the chain hung down in front, soon to become a leash, I was sure. Another set of handcuffs went on my arms, just above the elbow. I howled into the gag. I twisted and pulled to keep my arms away from what I knew was coming. He won. He locked the first cuff on the right arm, then slowly pulled the left arm towards it and locked the second cuff. He pinched the skin in the cuffs and I screamed silently into the salt gag until he undid the one cuff and then reset it again. My arms and shoulders ached from the strain and my breasts shot out even more in front because of the tension on my arms.

  “OK, Kid. Now, we head for the cellar. If you behave, I won’t put any more chain on you...for now. OK?” he said.

  I was thinking about the time when I was still in high school and we had played “burglar” at a slumber party. The guys had come over, more or less uninvited, and marched in through the unlocked back door. They had taken the three of us girls captive than night, tying us up with wrapping twine and gagging us with handkerchiefs and pantyhose. We had squealed and struggled and enjoyed the game. Guy had warned me in advance and he had given me the “safe word”.

  “If it gets out of hand, just yell or grunt or stamp your foot twice, then twice again,” he’d told me, “and we’ll stop.” The other girls didn’t know this, but the thrill of being tied up and handled a bit roughly by three guys we all knew was kind of fun. They stuffed us into the closet for a few minutes, tying our hands behind us and then taking the rope up and knotting it to the clothes hooks in the back. Our feet were bound closely and more twine was wrapped around our legs just above the knee. They used handkerchiefs to blindfold us and then turned out the light and closed the closet door. We jiggled around in the close confines of the closet, bumping into each other and grunting and groaning through the gags. One of my friends, a cute brunette with long, thin legs and a nice chest, began to cry, sobbing so loud that I thought the neighbors would hear her, but nothing else happened and we stood there, well tied, waiting for the guys to release us.

  Finally, they took us out one at a time and handled and fondled us, three or four guys on one tied, gagged and blindfolded female teenager. It was fun and they were gentle, making lewd remarks about our bodies and saying they were going to do worse things to us. The boys had brought beer in with them and as the night wore on and they drank more, the play became more and more sexual. In the end, they’d taken all of us out of the closet and played with us for a couple of hours; literally. One girl was tied to the couch with her arms over her head and her feet bound to the legs of the couch. They put a vibrator between her legs and tied it there. We could all hear it buzzing and the eventual moans from her as the vibrator got her excited. As her cries become more and more urgent, someone turned the thing off and she moaned through the gag for several minutes, deprived of the final exciting climax the boys had promised.

  Meanwhile, there were lots of hands on breasts and legs and other places and we were exhausted by the time they left. We stayed there, tied on the carpeted floor, drooling from our loosely gagged mouths, our hearts beating too fast and our hormones working overtime. We were more or less undressed, but unviolated and unharmed. It had been a fun night and none of us regretted it. When they left, although we were still tied, my ropes were not knotted as well as the rest, so we soon got free. Until now, I hadn’t been tied up again. This time it wasn’t fun.

  He picked up the leash end of the chain dangling from my neck. The chain tightened and was choking me, so I rolled forward and onto my knees, then crawled towards him, slowly down the hall, knees on the floor, cuffed arms and hands hurting as I tried to bring them around to one side to push along the floor. The crotch chain, fastened to the cuffs as it was, prevented any real movement of my hands and arms, so I just crawled. Our progress was very slow. My knees hurt and burned on the carpeted floor. He seemed to be enjoying it. “You like this better?” he asked, tugging on my leash. I groaned and slid along the floor, wishing I’d hit him harder when I had the chance. We got to the cellar door and he opened it and went down the stairs, pulling me after him. I went down feet first; bound hands and bottom taking most of the impact as I bounced from step to step. My skirt was bunched up around my waist, the chain harness holding it there in a mass of cloth. The panty hose I’d worn were in tatters; a million runs in them and my legs showing more through the smoky nylon than the hose themselves. My shoes were still on. They were the high-heeled pumps I’d bought in the city only two days before and I was making damned sure I wouldn’t lose them while this nut kidnapped me and dragged me into his cellar. My ribbed jersey, now criss-crossed with the chain breast harness, was dirty from the floor where he’d kept me bound before the cage became my new home. I had assorted cuts and bruises from the treatment, but in general, I was still okay. That was about to change.

  The cellar looked like some sort of scientific or medical lab, and in the center of the first room was a small metal cage with bars on four sides and on the top, like a zoo might have for large monkeys or small cats. “That’s your new home,” he said, without a smile. “But before you get in, you’re getting rid of those clothes.”

  I knew this was coming. It was written all over him when he first took me into the van with the gun that turned out to be a water pistol. I knew nothing about guns. A gun pointed at me was a gun. Shit. Abducted with a water pistol. I’ll never learn. So I looked at him over the gag and flapped my hands telling him that even if I intended to undress for him, which I didn’t, I couldn’t do it hand-cuffed at wrists, arms and feet.

  He solved that with his shears from the workbench. He cut up the right sleeve to the collar, then down from the collar to the left sleeve as I sat on to cement floor, making sure it would be
as hard for him as possible to get the short cotton skirt off. He cut the belt around my waist and the pulled the skirt off over my chained feet. The jersey followed and I was suddenly down to ruined hose, bra and panties. I now felt a little different about my decision not to help him. I looked at him, shouted silently into the gag and moved my hands, trying to say I’d be good if he’d give me back my clothes. He wasn’t buying it.

  “Get in there,” he said, and pulled the leash through the cage and out the other side, dragging me in through the barred door, shoving my high-heeled feet in behind me. I hunched down on the sheet metal floor and he shut the door. He locked the door with two combination padlocks. The leash chain went over the top and was padlocked to the top bars. He left enough slack so I could rest my head on the floor, but that was all. “You make a mess in there and you’ll live with it,” he said. “If you behave, there’ll be a bio-break tomorrow. Maybe. Nightie night.” He turned off the lights in the lab and left.

  He went up the stairs, turned off the stair light and I heard him go off down the hall to one of the other rooms. I lay alone in my cage, chained, gagged and miserable. The room was a comfortable temperature and the exertion and fear had made me warm anyway, so cold wasn’t a worry. What was bothering me was the constant hurt in my wrists, elbows and ankles where the chains and shackles were locked tightly around my skinny limbs. Taking a deep breath was difficult because of the chain around my chest. My breasts hurt terribly from the chain confinement. The chain between my legs was a constant reminder of my restraint and the one around my waist seemed to be getting tighter as I lay there. Could I stand this all night? Was he coming back? Should I agree to make the tape that would tell my friends and family of my plight? I knew my father’s position on kidnapping from a discussion we’d had years ago while talking about another girl who had been taken captive in South America and held for ransom. Her father’s company had paid the huge ransom, but she was never found. “No ransom. I will not make a deal with kidnappers,” Dad had said. I lay there and tried to sleep, tried to forget the pain in my arms and the salt bag soaking up the moisture in my mouth. That was when I realized that the crotch of my torn panties was wet.