It's a humiliating moment--here I sit in my in a t-shirt and panties: bound, gagged, and leashed to a pole while my kidnapper eagerly photographs me. He shows me some of the pictures. My hair is a mess, clinging to my sweat-covered forehead in long hooks, and leftover mascara runs down my cheeks in thin streams. He's a terrible photographer to boot; three of the pictures are taken from such a low angle that they're just photos of the bottoms of my feet. Another one is zoomed in so far on my chest, the viewer can't even tell it's me.
He sets the camera aside and stretches. Without a word he sits on the mattress and begins rubbing my calf. "You have some really nice flesh."
It's an awkward compli--
What did he just say?
It hits me all of a sudden. I know why I recognize him. He looks exactly like someone I saw on the news about five years earlier nicknamed the Sussex Prowler, who kidnapped and raped eleven women over the course of a six month period. They finally caught him one night after pulling him over for speeding and finding a teenage girl bound and gagged in the trunk. The next day it was revealed that the Sussex Prowler's true name was Damien Denzel. Six of his eleven victims showed up at his hearing and made sure he got a twenty-year sentence.
One of his victims was Rose LaBlane, daughter of senator Rebecca LaBlane. As Damien left the courthouse and a mob of journalists swamped him, one of them asked: Why did you abduct Rose LaBlane? to which Denzel replied, Because she had some really nice flesh. That was the last thing he said to the world before going to Winchester Penitentiary; he never even revealed where he committed all of his unspeakable acts.
My kidnapper looks and awful lot like him and I start to wonder if my kidnapper is Denzel's brother. Maybe this isn't about money? But they're leveraging me against Denzel's freedom? The prospect unnerves me. If that's the case, I'm not as valuable. While I don't think the authorities are going to completely abandon me, they surely aren't going to give up Damien Denzel without a fight. Whatever the case, it's out of my hands. The photographs of me imprisoned will surely get the ball rolling.
"I want to feel your lips on me," my kidnapper growls, turning to look me in the eye.
Like a kiss? Hell no! You kidnapped me!
"I want to see what that pretty mouth is capable of. You ready to show me?"
I shake my head. There's no way in hell I'm kissing a criminal.
"Good."
Good?
My kidnapper stands up and takes off his shirt. I swallow hard. What's he doing?
He kicks off his shoes and they tumble off to the side, near one of the piles. With the light better now, I discern that it's a pair of small white ankle socks. Behind them is a pair of ripped denim short-shorts. I furrow my brow. What are all these clothes doing here? Sure enough, the floor is littered with piles of clothes--some intact, most ripped. There are shirts, shorts, jeans, skirts, socks, bras--and panties.
...Ohmigod.
My kidnapper pulls down his pants and boxers, releasing his straining hard-on. "It's been a long time since a hot little minx sucked my dick. We're gonna fix that tonight."
Ohmigod it's him! It's Damien Denzel! I look around at the clothes littering the floor like the ghosts of women that found themselves trapped and alone in this very room. This is where he raped all those girls!
Denzel sits on the edge of the mattress with his back to me, scooping up my bound ankles and holding them against his hip with one arm and leaving my heels resting on his bare, sweaty thigh. He runs his fingernail up and down the sole of my right foot. "I'm gonna tickle these pretty feet until you suck my dick!"
He makes good on his word. Restrained to the point of immobilization, I can only sit helplessly as he digs his fingernails into the undersides of my feet. It's easy to resist at first--it's hard to have a sense of humor after realizing an escaped rapist is holding me captive miles from home--but it’s like the more I try to resist to the torture, the more effective it becomes. It's not as though he's desperate--time is completely on his side--and the knowledge that he could (and from the looks of it, will) torture me all night and delight in doing so creates a sort of eroding effect. Eventually I buckle, squealing into the gag and kicking helplessly, wiggling my feet around.
"Atta girl! Give me a good fight!"
Fighting seems futile. The ropes binding me are too tight and wet with sweat to boot. We're in the middle of the woods in a cabin that hasn't been found in five years and isn't likely to be discovered any time soon. I scream. My torturer loves it. Nobody else hears it.
Half an hour after I resolve to submit, Denzel turns around to look at me. His cock stands straight up, visibly slick with sweat, his pubic hair matted to his crotch. Torturing me has ignited a primal, animalistic lust in his eyes. "Ready to suck my dick?"
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