Suzanne Jones - Captive

I’m awake but why is it so dark? I can’t move my arms. I don’t know what’s happened, let me try to remember. Last night was my 23 ^rd birthday party and I was out in town with my friends. I hate it when I drink so much that I can’t remember getting home at the end of the night. If I’m even home at all. Why can’t I move my hands? It feels like they’re bound with electrical tape but why would that have happened? I’ve really got to learn to control my drinking to stop me waking up in situations like this. It feels like I’m hanging, or swinging, or something else unusual like that.

“Hello?” No answer. Where the fuck am I? “Is anyone there?”

My hangover has kicked in as well, as if things weren’t bad enough already. As near as I can tell my entire body is suspended in the air. My wrists are bound, as are my ankles. There’s some kind of blindfold on me but wherever I am and whoever’s brought me here, they obviously don’t mind me making any noise because I’m not gagged. I listen intently for any inkling as to where I am. My memory isn’t helping as everything after 11pm is a complete blur. We were in the restaurant, then the eighties-style disco, then the club on Brook Street… but after that, nothing. I can hear the very distant drip of a tap and then suddenly I hear a heavy metal door open with a grinding sound, then as it slams shut noisily I hear footsteps, in what sounds like work boots, coming down some steps, then across the floor towards me.

My entire body tenses up. The fact that I can’t move puts me on edge and I feel like I want to cry. I don’t even know what I’m wearing, if anything. I’m definitely not wearing a bra or a top as I can feel my huge breasts swinging pendulously, my nipples hardened into little peaks in this cold room. I’m hanging from some kind of frame, or support, horizontally, facing down, with my hair dangling down over my ears. I realise that I can’t move at all, I’m restrained in such a way that anything could happen to me now and I can’t do anything about it. The footsteps get nearer and I become acutely aware of how naked I am, and fully on show for whoever this visitor is.

“What’s happened? Can you get me down from here?” I plead.

The mysterious visitor stops a few feet away from me and although I cannot see him (I’ve deduced it’s a “him” from the sound of his footsteps) I can definitely feel him staring at me and hear him breathing. This is so uncomfortable and my initial discomfort has now turned to fear. You hear stories in the papers all the time of girls going missing and either never being seen again, or turning up raped and murdered, in various states of mutilation. I can’t let this happen to me, but my vulnerability is obvious and I need to figure out a way out of this mess.

“Please, just get me down from here. I’ve got a massive hangover and I just want to go home and sleep it off.”

Why won’t he fucking answer me?!

I hear him shuffle his feet and I’d guess from the deep echoing sound that this is some kind of warehouse building. I try desperately to think of something I could say or do to get me out of this situation but my mind draws a blank. My body tenses up as I dread what this man may want to do to me, but as quickly as he initially approached me, he turns and walks away, going back through the metal door. I hear it clunk and grind after it’s shut, a sure sign that I’m locked in and that nobody is going to find me any time soon.

After what seems like about half an hour, but is probably much less, and left alone with my thoughts, my mind wanders back to the events of the previous day. I’d been at work at the library, wheeling the trolley of books round to re-shelve them after customers brought them back. Nothing unusual there. I mean, there’s always unusual customers but nothing that I can recollect that is in any way connected to where I am now.

Then my friends Maria and Kerry came round to my flat to get ready to go out. We’d started drinking then, at about 6pm, so it was obvious that it was going to be a messy night. Even at the meal we managed to put away at least a bottle of wine each, and all my other friends who joined us in town were more than happy to ply me with alcohol. I must have drunk at least ten shots, and that’s just the ones I can remember. Getting myself in that kind of inebriated state is sadly all too regular an occurrence in my life, but I’m usually sensible enough to get myself to a taxi and drunkenly mumble my address to the driver. But last night there must have been something different. At what point did it go from a night’s celebratory drinking, to me being tied up in a warehouse?

Then I hear the familiar clunking and grinding, the metal door creaks open again, and those workboots clump towards me again, much more purposefully this time. Now my head’s cleared a little, I’m fully aware now that I am completely naked, with not a shred of cloth to provide me with a bit of modesty. He stops right next to me and I can hear his breathing, now slightly faster than before. He touches my side with a finger and I flinch.

“What are you doing? Let me down from here you fucker! Don’t fucking touch me!”

He doesn’t listen, and instead runs his finger gently up and down my side. This is horrible. It makes my skin crawl, thinking about this disgusting weirdo who’s obviously kidnapped me for purely sadistic reasons. He continues running his finger down my side, then over my left arsecheek, and down my left leg, all the way to my ankle, all the time standing there silently. Then the clomp clomp of his boots takes him over towards my feet and before I know it he’s standing in between my legs, which are being forced slightly apart by whatever contraption this is that I’m being suspended from. As far as I can gather, in the darkness of my blindfold, I’m hovering about five feet or more above the ground, and I feel his breath on my legs. I’m dreading what’s to follow. Now he adds his other hand into the mix and traces a line up both of my legs with his fingers, very very slowly, heading towards my pussy. I start to freak out.

“Stop it! Get your fucking hands off me!”

He doesn’t respond at all, instead he continues moving painfully slowly towards my pussy. As both his fingers reach the very top of the insides of my legs I brace myself. But rather than put his fingers in me as I expect, instead he stops for a second then I feel him very gently lick my clitoris, just once. It sends a shiver of dread through me, but before I get the chance to react he licks it again, and again. His face is pressed so hard against my pussy, I don’t know how he can breathe. He laps away at me, and while I’m disgusted at the idea of this monster touching me, I also can’t help but feel the tingles of pleasure from his actions. I want him to stop but I want him to carry on.

He doesn’t get me all the way off; he stops just seconds before I come and it’s extremely frustrating. Then he turns and stomps away again, closing the metal door behind him.

I feel sick from being turned on by this animal, and frustrated from not quite experiencing an orgasm. I just want to go home. I’ve got a selection of sex toys at home and I could quite easily finish myself off there, and not have to worry about being tied up and hung from someone’s ceiling.

I just need to piece together last night’s events and this might all make a bit more sense. Surely none of my friends would have left me alone in town without making sure I got home okay. My conversation with Maria and Kerry at the start of the night had revolved around me being single and how it’d been a while since I last got laid. To be honest the prospect of being tied up and spanked, or whipped, or punished in some way is a massive turn-on for me. I know a lot of people like the idea of it but when faced with the pain of the whiplash across their arsecheeks, a lot of people turn chicken and ask to stop. Not me. I’ve had a few boyfriends who were more than happy to help me act out my bondage fantasy but sadly, apart from indulging my sexual desires, none of them were really interesting enough to become anything more than a short-term relationship.