Kidnapped Ch. 01

The story you are about to read includes very explicit reference to sex. If you are not old enough to read this story where you live, or if you object to frank language about sex, please read no further.

If, however, you enjoy sexual fantasies and a bit of the dark side, please read on!

* * * * *

If only I hadn't gone to the bank on that Wednesday. If only Richard had taken care of his own damned deposit. If only. If only.

And now, here I am, driving through the darkened streets of the city, searching. I don't even know what I'm looking for. I guess I think that if I don't find what, or who I'm looking for, he'll surely find me. This is his city, his darkness. This is where his power lies.

I drive from one small pool of light through long stretches of deep shadow, where the streetlights have been shot out and no one cares enough to report it, let alone fix them. The crumbling mortar of the buildings around me only begins to suggest the deep decay of this part of the city, where life still resides, but deep, deep below the surface.

As I pass through an intersection, I see a doorway in the narrow street to my right, over it, a naked red lightbulb. In front of it, a small mountain shaped like a man. I stop, back up, turn down the street, my heart in my throat. I find a space and park my Beemer between two delivery vans, and after several deep breaths that fail to calm me in the least, I get out of the car and start to walk toward the dimly lighted doorway.

* * * * *

But let me explain to you how I came to this place. Or maybe it's two places, the dark street and the place of internal darkness. No, it really is just one place, but some of it lives outside me.

You see, Richard wouldn't stop on the way home on the 15th with his deposit from work. He didn't trust the direct deposit, and he wouldn't put the deposit in the ATM. No. He had to have a receipt. One generated by a human, which meant I had to take care of it, since we had a mortgage payment to make.

I don't usually mind doing this stuff for him. It always seemed silly to me, but I never thought about it much until, well, until this. It was Wednesday. They never rob banks on Wednesday, because they're supposed to have more cash on Fridays, on paydays. Besides, who robs banks any more? They all get caught, don't they?

I got the boys off to school. We have two children, both boys, 5 and 7. I had errands, so I drove them that morning, dropped them at the neighborhood elementary. I know most of the teachers there, since I volunteer there 2 or 3 days a week in the reading program. Well, I used to. Not any more.

I got to the bank just as it opened. I was going to make the deposit and then hit the grocery store on the way home. That's all it was supposed to be, a short run, then home to get Richard's laundry done. He likes the way I press his shirts, just the right amount of starch. I wonder if he still does. If he'll wear anything I've touched.

Anyways, it was Wednesday, the wrong day for all of this, and I was in line, and then the world as I know it came to an end. Guns started going off everywhere. Nobody got shot, but it scared everyone really badly. The guards were these two nice guys in their sixties, and they would've shit their pants if they hadn't been so constipated. 5 big men, in Halloween masks that completely covered their heads, came storming in. You couldn't see their faces, but the timbre of their voices made it clear, they were black. Two of them kept us all lying on the floor while the other three jumped over the barriers and emptied drawers into bags. You're not supposed to be able to do that in banks any more, either, but Richard liked the old fashioned system, without all the glass. It was "charming."

The whole thing didn't take 90 seconds, and then they were running toward the door. I was just about to get my life back when one of them that had been watching over the few customers on the floor pointed at me and said, "That one. Grab her, she looks good." One of the others reached down and grabbed me by the arm, lifting me easily and dragging me toward the door. I was sobbing, pleading with them to leave me alone, to let me stay. I told them about my boys, my life, my husband as they stuffed me into a black conversion van and started off. I noticed that all the men had black leather gloves on. They kept them on in the car.

I didn't even hear a siren before the bank was out of sight. I kept begging them to let me go. They just laughed inside those silly president head masks. "Nothing personal," one of them said. "We just need to slow them down a step. As long as they know we have a hostage, they'll go slower. We only need a little time."

A few blocks from the bank, the van turned into a parking garage. It was one of those with entries on opposing streets. They pulled in and we all jumped out of the van and into a big blue SUV. It had dark windows, so nobody could see who was in it as we pulled out onto the street. The man in the booth just waved as we pulled away. Last I saw, he was getting into the van.

The SUV had three seats. I was in the second seat, in the middle between two of them. Two more were in the front. One guy was behind me. I was squished. These guys were all built like football players. Not huge, just strong, and broad shouldered. I could smell the adrenaline in the car. This had been a rush for all of them. They didn't even look at the money. It was as if it didn't mean anything. As we wove through the city, headed toward the river, the tension eased, but the celebration kept going.

Down in the warehouse district the car slowed, and we finally turned into another garage. The motorized door closed behind us, and the men climbed out of the SUV, pulling me behind them. The crying had stopped along the way, mostly because they really weren't paying any attention to me. I had started to think that they'd let me go once they got far enough away. Once we were out of the truck I started to worry again. Would they let me go once I'd seen their hide out?

Masks came off and high fives were exchanged all around. I stood there, motionless, not sure what to do, until three more men entered the large space from a stair on the side. When they entered, things got quiet. It was clear that two of the three were bodyguards or something. Their eyes moved constantly, even checking out the five who'd arrived with me. The third walked with ease, as though he were walking through a park, not strolling among a bunch of heavily armed felons.

"Did you have a good time?" he asked. A chorus of cheers was his answer. "Fine. I let you have your fun. I don't want to hear any more moaning for at least a month. It's a bit early in the day, but it's a holiday of sorts, so I have a party set up in the conference room. Bring the woman. We're a couple short.

I started to cry again as they took me by both arms and practically carried me up the steps and down a long dingy cinderblock hall. On the right, we came to a heavy wooden door, beautifully finished. It opened into a board room that would have done any Fortune 500 company proud. A long, oblong teak conference table was surrounded by plush leather armchairs in an antique brown. The floor was covered in deep pile carpet in a warm natural wool color. Of course, the activities in the room weren't ones you'd usually see in a board room.

When the door opened, the moans and groans of copulation were immediately evident. I walked in to see two white women in their late 20's, in garters, stockings and bustiers, splayed on opposite ends of the table, having sex with two more of the gang's members. Though the sex was real, the moans had the forced quality of a bad porn flick. Even the dirty talk seemed rehearsed.

Not that the men seemed to mind. Their grunts and chuckles were very authentic. They barely looked up when we entered. The men who came in with me all grabbled bottles of different kinds of alcohol off the table and poured drinks into expensive crystal tumblers, downing it rapidly. I just knew I was going to be raped, but once we got in the room they all left me very much alone. I stood there, staring at the floor, trying to ignore the sounds of sex that filled the room, again at a loss for something to do. I sat in one of the chairs.

The pre-noon party picked right up. There were no windows in this room, so it might as well have been midnight. Large paintings hung were windows might have been, simulating a vew of outside. I was as if the painter had gone outside and figured out just what you'd see if there were a window, and painted that view, but at night. Dark streets were dotted with taillights and the occaisional street lamp. Men in nicer suits than you'd expect congregated in dark shadows and women in "come fuck me" outfits strolled the sidewalks. In one corner of one painting, you could maked out two men fighting.

I sat there, feeling invisible as the men who'd brought me tried valiantly to catch up with the level of inebriation demonstrated by the ones who'd been left behind to try out the two women. Those two were so drunk that they couldn't even reach an orgasm, or so it seemed. They tired of their efforts after a bit and turned their prizes over to the newcomers, who did much better. The women's noises became more animated and authentic. I was sure I heard a real orgasm or two in there and, terrified as I was, their arousal had its effect on me. I found myself wishing I weren't hearing all this, because it was making me downright horny in a very dangerous situation.

After several minutes of this, the room grew quiet and the sexual activity came to a standstill. I realized that the noise in the room had obscured the sound of the heavy door swinging open behind my leather wing-backed chair. The eyes in all the black faces shifted to a point behind and above me. (Though the two men who were in the midst of their conquests didn't really stop moving. They just slowed down. The women grew quiet, too.)

A deep voice that I remembered from the garage spoke. I was afraid to turn, so this disembodied sound floated over my head to the room. "Seems you boys made your little day trip worthwhile. Scored a couple hundred G's, by the look of it. That'll keep you in pocket money for a while." He laughed quietly and the men in the room joined him, as if on cue. "Oh, and you brought me back this play-pretty!" I felt a hand pat me on the head. A large, hard hand. I winced, and the room erupted in unscripted laughter.

He walked from behind me to a seat at the left end of the table. The two who had been engaged there moved quickly and silently, the man zipping his impressive member back into his slacks, grumbling. (None of these men wore average clothing. It all looked expensive, tailored, of fine wools and gabardines.) Sitting down, the obvious leader of this group looked over at me. "Come here," was all he said.

My heart lodged itself in my throat, nearly choking me as I struggled to my feet. Walking as if to my execution, I could hear the occaisional snicker of amusement from the others. I stared into a broad, flat face the color of coffee beans. Not quite solid black, but so dark it seemed that way, with a sheen that would have made the skin beautiful if it hadn't been marked with two long scars, one over his right eyebrow and the other under his left ear, travelling down his jaw line. The scars were hard looking, shiny, seeming even darker than the rest of his face.

Dark, cavernous eyes surveyed me from toe to forehead. I stood there, shivering with fear, waiting.

"Tell me your name."

I hardly recognized my own tiny voice. "Bec... uh.. err.. Becky...."

"Well, Becky, this is your lucky day. Did you no that?"

"Uh, no.. No I didn't... um.. No sir."

"Oh, you don't have to call me sir, Becky. Call me Jamal. Everyone else does. Right boys?"

There was a quick round of assents from the rest of the room. Maybe too quick. The "boys" seemed almost as frightened of him as I was, which only made my own fear worse.

"All right, uh, Jamal."

"Now, I'm sure you'd like to know what it is that's so lucky about today. Is that what you'd like, Becky?"

I wanted to say no, because I really didn't want to know, but it was clear that the "right" answer was yes, so I nodded silently. "Speak up, Becky. I didn't hear you."

"Yes, uh, Jamal. I'd like to know why this is my lucky day."

"Because you're going to get to fuck the boss, and live to go home and tell about it!"

I was instantly torn between two conflicting emotions. Terror first, at the thought of being used for sex by this black mountain of a man and relief that he might actually let me go. All I could say was, "Oh," in a tiny voice. The others seemed to think that was hilarious.

"That's right Becky. I'm in a good mood today, and so I'm going to fuck you, enjoy that pretty pink pussy I'm sure you have, and then I'm going to let you go. I have a dozen more rooms like this around the city. If you bring anyone here, I won't care. Of course, if you bring anyone here, you'll never see me again, because this is the only place you'll know how to find me. And I think you'll want to find me. Won't she?"

There was a chorus of "Oh, HELL yes's" and "Fuck yeah's" in answer.

Jamal's hand was already between his legs, slowly massaging himself thru his trousers as he looked at me. "Now, Becky, take off your clothes for me."

As much as I hated the thought of stripping in front of this roomful of drunken, horny men, I didn't want to spoil whatever chance I had of outliving this experience, so with trembling fingers I unbuttoned my blouse and shrugged out of it, laying it over the back of an empty chair. (No one sat to close to Jamal.) He smiled, gently rubbing himself. I unsnapped my bra and hung it over the blouse. He nodded his approval.

"Becky, look at your nipples." I did as I was told, and blushed furiously. They were as hard and pointy as two pencil erasers. I don't know now if it was fear or the time I'd spent listening to the others having sex, but my nipples were alert. "See? Your body knows what you want, even if you don't." I looked up into Jamal's face, glaring at him, denying with my eyes what my breasts seemed to be saying, but he only chuckled.

"Keep going."

I reached behind me and unzipped my navy skirt, stepping out of it and laying it with my other clothes. With only my white panties and shoes on, I hesitated, but the look in Jamal's eye was enough to get me moving again. I hooked my thumbs in the waist of my panties and pushed them to my knees, where they fell the rest of the way. I started to bend to pick them up, but a comment from one of the "boys" stopped me. I squatted to get them.

Standing back up, naked, I lay my panties over the back of the chair

My tormentor examined my body again, with almost medical detachment. I felt like an appliance being examined for scratches before installation. After what seemed a month or two he nodded his approval. "I don't see any stretch marks. Good. They tell me you have kids."

"Yes. Two. Boys."

"You'll be glad of that. Mom's always take me better the first time." He stood up. "Okay, undress me." I could barely control my fingers enough to unbutton his silk shirt, but I did, and slipped it off his huge shoulders. If anything, he looked stronger out of his shirt than in it. I lowered my hands to his belt and struggled with it for a moment before getting it, and the waist of his pants, unfastened. Unzipping them, I let them fall to the floor, where they puddled expensively around his ankles. Under them, he was naked. "Commando," they call it, I think.

Between his legs hung a remarkable appendage. I hate to call it a penis, because the word summons up images for me of pink dangly things that are smaller than my hand. This was heavy and thick, like a black rope, thicker than the ones you used to climb in gym class, and just as scary. It swung lazily against his thigh, insisting to be touched. I was too frightened to reach out in that moment, but as scary as Jamal was, the urge was still there. He resolved my dilemma by sitting back in his chair, naked, and kicking his pants aside. "Come suck it," was all he said.

The room, which had grown pretty quiet as they watched to see what I'd do, got loud in a hurry when I knelt in front of Jamal and lifted his weighty tool in my hand, playing with it, getting the heft and feel of it. The men cheered as I put the head to my lips, the women encouraged me. "Go on, bitch, suck it. Find out what it's like to have a real cock in your mouth!" That kind of thing.

The muscles of my jaw complained a bit as I opened wide enough to get the head of his oversized glans into my mouth. I think I'd been grinding my teeth up to that point, so the muscles themselves were tight, refusing to stretch open for me. I did get him into my mouth though, and tried to suck it. He was so fat that my lips didn't seal well, and I first made loud, buzzing sucking noises, which embarrassed the hell out of me. It made the others laugh. Even Jamal chuckled while I adjusted to his girth and tried again.

As arousing as his man-meat was, part of my mind, perhaps the larger part still, was focused on doing whatever I had to in order to be granted safe passage home. It was exciting, but I never would have done this if I didn't think my life were hanging in the balance. As his tool slowly stiffened, I worked it with both my small white hands, in hopes that I might draw him to a quick climax and a quicker ride out of the bowels of the city.

By the time he was good and hard, my head was bobbing on the top few inches of his cock. I know that women like to brag about taking monsters like this down their throats, but the idea would have been anatomically impossible. I did the best I could with hands and lips and tongue, but no amount of wishing would fit that huge cock into my gullet. He was enjoying it, as were the others, watching. No one came near, but they did gather around to watch.

His cock started to leak his pre-coital goo, preparing to lubricate his victim, and the taste of it made my belly quiver with desire. I realized that I was squeezing my legs together, as though I could contain my arousal if I clamped them closed. I bobbed furiously on the head of his cock, thinking that I wasn't far from bringing him to an orgasm.

I don't know how close I got to making him cum, because he was determined not to at this point. Richard would have died to have me suck the semen out of his cock, but Jamal wanted my body, not just my mouth. I was slurping noisily on him when his hands slipped beneath my shoulders and he lifted me up, guiding me backwards to the conference table.

I felt the cool edge of the teak table top against my ass, and let him push me until I lay with my back on the smooth surface, my feet still resting lightly on the floor. His monstrous black tool stood out proudly from his groin. It was too heavy to stand up straight, but it pointed rigidly at my pussy when he grabbed my knees and lifted, pushing me back a few more inches. I guess he wanted to continue to hold my knees up, because he told me to "guide it" to my vagina.

With his hands under the crook of my knees, pushing up and apart, my labia spread themselves. I smeared some of his pre-cum over the head of his cock and rubbed it between them, to wet myself. I was surprised to discover that I was already sopping wet.

Wet or no, I wasn't prepared for the thickness of him when he lunged forward. I yelled and the room erupted with laughter and applause. One of the men said, "Yeah, boss, fuck the bitch." He just grinned down and me and started to move in and out. He would take a few strokes at one depth, and then drive into me hard, wedging another inch or so of his shaft into my screaming slit. My back was arched, barely touching the table except at the base of my spine and my shoulders. Without meaning to, I started to try to scoot away from him. He hooked my feet over his shoulders and grabbed my thighs, pullng me to the edge of the table again, all without missing a stroke.