The Tender Abduction

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Funny

I tend to walk around in my own cloud, not really aware of my surroundings – foolish, I know, but then again, I’ve never been known for my practicality. I would make a terrible witness, for example, in any of the police procedure shows which I adore so much. Therefore, it isn’t surprising that late winter afternoon that I don’t connect the loud exclamation to myself as I trudge from my car towards my apartment, arms laden with grocery bags because I refuse to make more than one trip. It isn’t until I feel a gentle touch upon my shoulder that I realize someone had been calling to me.

“Shelley?” the older gentleman looks down at me with kindly dark brown eyes. Shelley isn’t actually my name. It’s a pen name. I took it in honor of my best friend who’d been killed in a car accident senior year of high school. I realize that this dude has no idea who I actually am, just that he knows the name under which I sometimes submit racy stories. I shiver from more than the mid-January chill.

“I’m sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.” Head down, I try to walk around him, but he holds out his arm. I stop before I reach him. He’d registered the shock which I’d hastily attempted to conceal by averting my eyes.

“I don’t think so. You’re Shelley Summers, right?” Although it’s a question, his voice carries the conviction born of my involuntary confirmation.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Sorry.”

I try again to walk past him, yet he moves his six -foot-four frame to bar my away. There’s something menacing in being confronted with someone that much taller and stockier. It’s a situation I haven’t faced before and am uncertain how I should proceed. Short of putting my head down and charging straight at him or attempting to dodge around him in some kind of ridiculous imitation of a football player, I don’t know how to extricate myself from this situation. At forty-seven years old, I didn’t figure I was a target for unwanted attention and had dropped the habit of carrying a rape whistle with me years ago. Living so close to the suburbs in a neighborhood with a very low crime rate (attributable to the occasional car break-in), I have always felt safe walking from my car to my modest town home.

Tonight, as the twilight deepens, I notice that the streetlamp on the sidewalk in front of my house has gone out. Great. Even if my neighbors see me, there’s no way they can tell I’m in distress. At five-foot-four-inches and a hundred fifteen pounds, I’m severely outclassed. Perhaps I would have the element of surprise in my favor if I just rush him right now.

These impressions travel quickly through my mind in a matter of seconds. I don’t sense any immediate danger, but I’m not one to take foolish risks. My phone is in my purse, and my arms are severely encumbered by the small army of shopping bags weighing my hands down. I couldn’t dial 911 if I wanted to. The sooner I can get into my house, the safer I’ll feel.

“It’s me – Johnny Duarte. We chatted a bit online?”

The name sounds familiar. As a rule, I don’t chat much with online and very rarely with strangers. Come to think about it, I had chatted with a few guys several months ago when I first moved into the area. But work had gotten so busy, I’d just dropped the activity and focused on my career.

“I’m sorry.” I offer him a puzzled smile to show how completely mistaken he was. “And I really have to get these groceries in before they melt or my arms fall off. Or something.”

“Goodness! Where are my manners? Let me help you with those!” As though becoming aware my situation for the first time, he steps towards me, leaning over to relieve me of my burdens. I dodge out of his way, making it seem as though I’m declining his offer rather than trying to escape. My keys are in my hands just like they taught me in self-defense class. Yet somehow stabbing them into a stranger’s eyes – especially one who seemed reasonably non-threatening, was less than appealing.

“No, really! That’s ok! I got this! I just gotta get to my house. I hope you find who you’re looking for!” I call over my shoulder as I quicken my pace. I’m practically running now. I attain my doorstep, fumbling with the lock. My hands are trembling so much with the combination of adrenaline and the cumbersome bags weighing my hands down that I can’t fit the key in the lock. Damn it damn it damn it!

The blood is pounding so loudly in my ears that I don’t hear the swift footsteps as the stranger overtakes me. I feel something press against my nose and mouth. In a few moments, I fade into oblivion, the memory of those kind dark eyes watching me solicitously as I fall backwards into his arms.

**

I have no idea how much later it is when I awaken. At first, it seems like a bad dream as I slowly surface to consciousness. I have a splitting headache and my eyes have trouble focusing in the subdued lighting. Although I’ve never been in this location before, it’s easily identifiable as a hotel or motel room. From the corner video porno of my eye, the brown and orange striped comforter over the king-sized mattress indicate that it’s not a luxury suite, so most likely a motel. What am I doing here?

“You’re awake!” a voice from my left draws my attention towards the door which closes with a thud. That must’ve been what woke me. Turning my head, I recognize the man from the street. I’m in a difficult position facing away from the doorway towards the television. I try to adjust my body so that I can face him, but find that I’m restricted – he’s tied me to the chair with yellow rope. Oddly, I don’t feel remotely panicked. I try to speak, but my tongue is leaden and dry within my mouth, completely uncooperative.

“Nunnnngweee,” I attempt. Well, that was useful.

“Shhh.” I hear him place something on the table beside me. He finally comes into my range of vision, unscrewing the opaque plastic lid from a water bottle which he holds to my lips. “You may be thirsty, I don’t know. I’ve never administered a sedative before.”

Sedative! That’s why my body wasn’t cooperating and probably, too, why I felt so strangely peaceful.

“Drink.” He tips the bottle and I feel a blessed relief as my tongue rehydrates, the liquid pouring down my parched throat. I nod my head to indicate that I’ve had enough. Placing the bottle on the blond wood particle board table, he takes a seat on the bed, directly in front of me.

“Th…thank you,” I manage this time. I’m absurdly pleased that I’ve managed to communicate at last. Scratch that, what the hell am I thinking? I’m not pleased. I’m the opposite of pleased. I’m pissed. This whole situation stinks.

“Do you remember me now?” He asks, his eyes taking a gloating survey of my body. I’m not naked (thank the gods!), but he’s removed my heavy winter coat and accompanying cold weather accoutrements. I’m in my work clothes which flatter my slim figure without being overly revealing. Now that I have the time to examine him, he seems kind of familiar. He has one of those faces, distinguished without being classically handsome. His bald head suits him so well that I can’t imagine what he’d look like with hair of any hue or texture. He’s perhaps sixty-five, seventy at the most. His vigorous bearing and commanding air give the impression of a man in his prime.

Despite the feeling that I may have at some point seen his picture before, I shake my head. I genuinely can’t recall who he is and I honestly don’t care.

“I wrote to you a few times, commented on your work. You like to write stories about older men and younger women. You wrote me back a few times, then just stopped.”

Ok, now I remember. I was just being polite, acknowledging one of the few fans who read my work. And he’d surmised from those brief replies that I wanted what – to be kidnapped?

“I see you do remember. Why did you stop? Was it something I wrote?”

“N…no,” I enunciate the single syllable slowly. It was a word he’d be hearing from me a lot, so he’d better hear it loud and clear right out of the gate. “I kinda remember, but that was months ago! I just got busy with work.”

“You stopped posting stories. I was worried about you.”

“Well, as you can see, I’m fine.” I shrug, a painful gesture since my wrists are bound so tightly to the chair. “Or rather, I was fine.”

“Now, now, what did you expect me to do? You wouldn’t talk to me. You outright lied to my face.”

“I didn’t lie.” I try to stall for time. If this is his idea of a reasonable his response to the ghosting of a random chick on the internet, I have to play my cards carefully.

“You admit you’re Shelley Summers?”

“No, Shelley was my best friend in high school. She…she died.” Even all these decades later, the sudden extinguishing of my vibrant friend’s life still stabs me through the heart.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replies soberly. “A nom de plume, eh? I did see that the name on the title of your house was not Shelley Summers, but I assumed that you had a roommate.”

When I don’t deign to reply, he continues musingly, “Pamela Knightley, then. Or, should I call you Pam?”

“I’d prefer you called me an Uber.” I try humor.

“That’s an oldie but a goodie,” he chortles approvingly. “Like me.”

“Lame,” I shoot down, though that was a decent attempt at a segue, if a tad cliched.

“Come on, I must some get points for finding you,” he cajoles, his brow furrowing.

“Is this really necessary?” I ask, ignoring his question, indicating my bound wrists and ankles.

“I just want to have the chance to get to know one another,” he responds in a reasonable tone.

“But I…I really gotta pee.” I try another tactic. Surely someone who’s treated me with such courtesy – ok, besides knocking me out with some sort of noxious chemical and pumping me full of sedatives – surely his good manners indicate a concern for common civility.

“Hold it,” he replies merrily. sex izle “It will do you good.”

“What?” I drop the conciliating tone.

“Doesn’t it feel good, the pressure down there…don’t you feel kind of tingly?”

So, the pee excuse had just been a ruse, but now that he mentions it, I’m suddenly more aware of a prickly feeling in my nether region. Shit. Now I really do have to pee. I shake my head, trying to distract myself from the growing need of to relieve my bladder. I shift in my chair, the liquid in my full belly sloshing around. Damn.

“Close your eyes and think about how you feel. How does your pussy feel right now?” his voice is low and melodic. As though hypnotized, my eyes flutter closed. If I concentrate really hard, the sensation does bear a resemblance to arousal. But this is not really my thing. And I sure as hell am not into any funky stuff.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not going to pee on you,” I bark out suddenly. My eyes pop open. The spell has been broken.

“What?” he jolts on the bed suddenly, my strong objection jarring him from whatever place he’d been. His hand is on his zipper. I can see the conspicuous bulge beneath his fingers. Somehow, he’s turned on. “No, nothing like that. I’ve just been told by …er…other ladies of my acquaintance that savoring the urge to urinate is a rarefied pleasure. I…I want you to feel good, Pamela.”

“It’s Pam,” I snap, shifting again. I don’t want to admit it, but the bastard’s right. There’s a certain growing pleasure in denial of this most basic need. His hands are huge, I note, his fingers like sausages as he massages his bald pate with frustration.

“Pamela is such a pretty, elegant name,” he urges. I close my eyes, my brows drawing together as my overtaxed bladder protests this long delay. “Ah, you do feel it.”

Not ready to admit anything and refusing to hold a conversation on his grounds, I latch onto another thing he’d said. “When you say ‘ladies of your acquaintance’ do you mean ‘other kidnap victims’?”

Just my luck – a serial psychopath.

“No, this is the first time I’ve ever done this. I just meant other women I’ve been with have told me that they enjoy the feeling in their pussies. They said you have to clench hard. It’s almost like having a big, hard cock inside you,” his voice is worried. My breath comes faster. His dirty talk is triggering all sorts of involuntary physical reactions. It does in fact feel as though I have a huge dick held deep inside. I bite my lip because it’s been quite a while since I’ve taken a lover and this reminder brings the sensations brimming to the top of my consciousness. Oh god, I do want to be fucked right now.

“Open your eyes, Pamela.” His voice is closer than I remember. While I was fighting the pleasurable sensations coursing down my belly into my pelvic region, he had risen from the bed. And there he stands. All of him. A freaking monster cock up close and personal in my face.

“Do you want my cock?” his voice is husky. It leaps towards me like a barely controlled animal. Although logically I know I should refuse this bounty before me, I’m fighting hard with my incipient arousal. I shake my head, not trusting myself to talk. Gently, he presses the soft, smooth head against my lips. A bead of pre-cum moistens my stubborn mouth. Without thinking, my tongue flicks through the fortress of my lips. Just a taste.

He groans, laying his hands lightly on my burnished waves, like a shield. He doesn’t thrust his member down my throat as I had feared, he merely rests against me. This unexpected gentleness disarms me. Almost shyly, I steal a kiss, the silken texture of his head is so soft, yet I can feel the firmness under the pleasing smoothness. As my lips open more, he presses his cock head through the unwilling portal of my lips. He feels huge in the small space of my mouth. Part of me is afraid I’ll choke, yet I’m beyond such mundane considerations as physical possibilities. I suck him slowly. I hadn’t realized I’d been salivating, yet my tongue is moist against his smooth arrowhead, the harbinger of the weighty shaft yet to come.

My moans mingle with his, soft mewlings of need as his cock dives deeper down my throat.

“Oh my God!” he cries out. His hands are shaking with the immensity of his control. I can tell he wants me to deep throat him. And I do, too, even though it’s not my strong suit. I want his thick shaft to fill my throat, I want to feel the warm elixir of his cum pouring down as I swallow him. At this convenient moment, I, of course, choke. He draws back a little. I whimper for more, but he knows what he’s doing. No guy wants some chick to upchuck on his dick and I get that.

His movements are careful as he slowly withdraws then presses down again, in and out in a gentle rhythm. I can’t take even half of him into my mouth. I want to feel his balls with my fingers. I love that feeling as a man’s balls constrict in preparation for the deployment of his seed, bedava porno yet I’m bound where I am. I get the feeling he likes it this way.

All this while, I’m acutely conscious of my pussy. This is where I want his cock – I want to hold him as deeply as I can, yet I feel so full. I squirm, afraid to lose control. The last thing I want to do is release. Even my breasts ache, my nipples sparking with the electric need to be touched, to be fondled and sucked. My pale cream-colored blouse seems all too tight to contain my breasts which long to be free, to have his hands and his mouth pay homage. I just need him to let me touch him, but he won’t set me free.

“Do you want this? Do you want my cum?” he asks somewhere above my head. My breath is coming so fast from the combination of denial of my basic bodily functions and relief of the feeling of his cock buried, deep, stiff and trembling, in my throat. I want to say

“yes, please”, but my mouth is full. Our eyes meet. His brown eyes are no longer the gentle pools I vaguely recall from earlier in the evening. Flecks of green flash in the brown depths like leaves on a forest pond; he needs to release his load down my throat and I’ve never wanted so badly to take it. I nod, my eyes streaming as he pounds against my lips. He’s so far down the cavern of my throat, I’m surprised I’m not gagging more, but I don’t want him to stop. Oh, please! Come!

His eyes close, his head rolls back. I can feel the tightening of his balls against my lips, creating a vacuum around his mighty tumescence. With a glad cry, he shudders. I can feel his cock pulsing and spasming in the warm security of my mouth. He’s magnificent! I missed the taste of cum after all these months. It feels so good bringing a man to climax with the simple skills of my mouth and tongue. I crave this release as well, yet take a page from his book of self-mastery and control my nether lips, clenching so hard inside, imagining his cock unloading deep within my womb. I can’t let go of this sweet torture which he has inflicted upon me. I’m surprised by the mini climax I experience – not a complete loss of control, yet the same heady increase of tension as every nerve strains at once for release.

He withdraws his penis slowly from my mouth. Reverently, his fingers caress my lips, a tribute to their role in his satisfaction. I open my mouth and gently bite the skin of his middle finger. Surprised, he continues his exploration of my lips. My tongue flickers against the pad of his index finger. My teeth are soft on the large tip, holding a small flesh triangle against which my tongue travels back and forth like a wary minnow. Curious, he turns his finger so that it perches precariously at the entrance to my mouth. My lips close around it as though it’s his cock. I suck and tease, my eyes closed imaging his fingers exploring the soft contours of my pussy. He chuckles softly.

“You really want this don’t you?” he asks, amusement clear in his voice.

I release his fingers from my mouth, pressing a quick, ardent kiss upon his palm, “Yes, please. I need you to fuck me. I really need this right now, only – “

“Of course, you need to relieve yourself,” he agrees, hunkering down so that we’re eye level. Gratitude surges through my body – at being understood so readily, at the opportunity upon the horizon to take his cock all the way into my naked womb.

“Yes, please,” I acknowledge humbly.

In a surprising move, he ducks his head to the rope above my left wrist, his teeth expertly releasing the simple slip knot. His breath scorches my skin as the coarse fibers unravel, pooling on the floor. He clasps my wrist to his open mouth, his tongue tracing the sensitive lines where my hand joins my arm, his teeth nip gently along the pads of my hands. In my heightened state of awareness, I quiver, shaking uncontrollably with my need to touch every part of him and to have him savor every inch of my skin. My hand convulses along his jaw line, cupping his strong chin in my hand. I moan. The urge to micturate which had been in gradual subsidence surges again, warring with the need for something more solid to fill me.

“Please, Johnny! Let me go… I need you, but I can’t …I don’t know how much longer I can take this!”

“Sweet Pamela,” he murmurs as my thumb quests along the ridge of his nose. Touching him, any part of him, is a treasured reward. His hands busily release my bonds with expert quickness. He removes my hand gently from his face. Clasping it in an oddly courtly gesture, he raises me to stand. This long period of enforced stillness has lulled my leg muscles to sleep. Holding my left hand in his right across his broad chest, his left arm supports my waist, firmly bearing me towards the darkened rectangle of the bathroom door. Leaning heavily against him, I barely come up to his shoulder.

“That’s my girl,” he says encouragingly as I place one shaky foot in front of the other. He helps me into the bathroom, peeling open the side zipper to my black dress pants which fall with a hiss to the floor. I dance a little from the ball of one foot to the other. I desperately need to go, yet also want him to enjoy the first glimpse at the dark teal silken thong which I only wear with these pants to avoid a panty line.

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