Sara's Story Ch. 01

Ch. 1: Capture

The clock on the wall told the man it was 3am. He should have been tired, but he wasn't; the naked woman on the table in front of him kept his attention focused. Never mind that she was drugged and unconscious, she represented a year of his life. He felt like he knew the woman, even though they had never had so much as a single conversation. Still, he knew her better than most people did. She was a social creature, the alpha female of every circle she ran in. She also, and he found this most intriguing, carefully compartmentalized her life. She socialized with no one from work. Those she played softball with were not in her economic or social bracket, and beyond the casual sexual liaison, never socialized with them, either. Only her inner circle of friends got close to her true nature, but even they did not see all the little pieces of the picture. He did, however.

But now, as he sat there and watched the object of his obsession slowly regaining consciousness, he wondered if he had done the right thing, made the right decisions. Not that he was concerned about the moral and legal implications of drugging and kidnapping a woman for one's own sexual amusement, mind you. Those considerations never crossed his mind. No, he simply wondered if this was the right woman. She was beautiful, that he could not deny. If he had a type (personally, he hated the phrase,) it would be those women who fell under the category of voluptuous. He liked hair, no matter the color so long as it was long and full. He liked curves, round hips and firm buttocks and large ample breasts. This woman, while by no means skinny, was hardly what one would call curvaceous. He knew from observation that she exercised five times a week. He had no doubt that if he dropped a quarter on her stomach it would bounce. Her breasts, though hardly small, seemed to be immune to the natural pull gravity exerted on them. At first he was convinced they were augmented, a fact which if true, would have run contrary to her nature, but now he knew the truth: they were supported underneath by a healthy layer of muscle, and like their owner, defiant of gravity or any other law imposed upon them. He considered her limbs: lithe, the muscle tone well-defined with little hint of the softness he so adored in womankind. Yet her hands and feet were well manicured and soft, the color of her fingernails so purple they were almost black. Her toes, on the other hand, each had its own bright color, and several were adorned with rings. He turned his attention from one end of her to the other. The blond mop on her head was always cut short. During the day it was trim and professional, at night buoyant and playful. She had a boyish grin that was at the same time strong and delicate, but the set of her jaw portrayed only one attribute: defiance. That was the attribute that most worried him, but it was also the one he found most alluring.

...

Sara Kierson sat at the bottom of the pool. Not the grown-up, adult Sara, but the ten-year old Sara in her favorite bright orange two-piece. She remembered the game she played with her friends: they would jump in the deep end and sink to the bottom, a trail of bubbles flowing from their mouths as they sank. Once they reached the floor of the pool, all the air from their lungs expelled, they would count down from ten with their fingers. The last one to swim to the top won. Sara never lost.

Sara sat at the bottom of the pool, her legs jutting out in front of her. Her friends were gone, and she was alone. She looked around. It must've been night, because the pool lights were on, and she loved the way the shadows danced across the floor of the pool at nighttime. She realized her lungs weren't burning, weren't screaming for air the way they did when she played the game. She had no reason at all to leave the bottom, except for curiosity's sake. Even at night she could see outside, beyond the surface of the waters, the lights around the pool, people moving around, even the moon when it was bright. But now she could see nothing, not even the edge of the pool. It was as if someone had laid a thick, black blanket right over top of the water. It frightened her, but it also sparked her curiosity. She had to see, to know what lay just beyond the blackness over the waters. She kicked off the bottom of the pool, and shot through the water like a dart, erupting from the surface with a gasp.

Sara Kierson opened her eyes, and discovered she couldn't see.

In that moment all the nerve endings in her body came to sudden and adrenaline-fired life, all of them screaming to her sleep-addled mind that something was terribly, terribly wrong. The skin of her back and thighs informed her she was naked and lying on a cold metal table. Her legs were spread-eagle and raised, like a gynecological table, she thought, but different. There were no stirrups for her feet, which dangled freely. She then realized she was bound; strapped to the table at the arms, shoulders, hips, thighs and calves She could feel pressure along the ridge of her nose that wrapped around the top of her face and enclosed her in a prison of blackness.

I'm dreaming. This is a dream. Sara lied to herself.

This is no dream, replied the voice in her head, and we're in trouble. The voice was usually comforting. Sardonic maybe, but comforting nonetheless.

For a long time, Sara did nothing. She waited, expecting something, but that something didn't happen. She was fully aware now, no longer in denial of her situation. She told herself not to panic; she wasn't sure why, but the voice assured her that it wouldn't accomplish much, aside from attracting the attention of her captor. She studied her surroundings instead, employing those senses that had not been denied her by the straps and the blindfold. Someone had lit incense, not unlike the kind she burned at home. It had a clean, earthy smell that she found comforting. The air was cool. There was an oscillating fan nearby, and she felt its caress across her naked body in even, measured increments. Orchestral music was playing quietly in the background. She couldn't pinpoint the source, and so guessed it must be playing over some sort of surround sound system. She could hear nothing else.

She tested her binds one at a time, searching for a weakness, but found none. Screw it, she thought, and threw all her might against them, screaming in her exertion, but the straps did not so much as budge. She realized then that the chair was made to deny leverage. That was why there were no stirrups, she couldn't use her feet to push against chair. She slumped back against the cool metal table. She was blindfolded, terrified and utterly exposed. Sweat flowed freely from her body. She felt the cool breeze of the oscillating fan from across the room. It chilled her, causing her skin to prickle and her nipples to harden, which made her feel even more exposed. Panic, like some feral beast, was clawing up her throat and threatened to consumer her. Her breath came in dry heaves.

Well, that was pointless, observed the voice, why not try using your mind instead of your muscle? It's not like we're going anywhere.

Someone had kidnapped her, that much was obvious, but who? She replayed the events of the past couple of days in her mind, but nothing out of the ordinary stood out. It was Sunday, or at least it was when she went to sleep, and Sunday was TV night. She recorded all her favorite shows throughout the week on Tivo, and Sunday night she watched them. Sometimes she had some girlfriends over, but not last night. She only had her cat for company. She remembered setting the alarm before she went to bed, but absolutely nothing stood out to her as strange. She just went to sleep in her own bed, and woke up here, wherever here was. She thought back even further, days, weeks, searching for a face or encounter that stood out as odd or unsettling. Again, nothing. She had not even the slightest idea who might do this to her.

God, I hope this isn't something like Hostel or Son of Sam or the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Didn't that guy use incense or something to hide the smell in Seven?

Maybe slasher flicks aren't the best thing to dwell on at a time like this, suggested the voice.

She forced herself to remain calm. Remembering yoga classes from a couple of years ago, she steadied her breathing and centered her mind. For the first time she realized she was thirsty, terribly thirsty, as if she hadn't had a sip of water in days. Or perhaps, the voice in her head suggested, because you were drugged.

Reflexively, Sara licked her lips.

Seconds later she felt something touch her lips, and she quickly snatched her head away, her heart beating in her chest and pounding in her ears.

Just moments before Sara had mistakenly believed that she couldn't possibly feel more vulnerable, more exposed than she was, now she knew she was wrong. Whereas before she only suspected someone could be watching her, now she could no longer take comfort in denial: someone was watching her, that person was right next to her and had been all along. She felt the panic rising once again in her throat and tears welling up in her covered eyes. She looked deep inside herself for the strength to maintain her composure, and she found it.

Again, something touched her lips. This time her fear-heightened senses informed her that the thing touching her lips was a drink straw.

"No thanks," was all she could manage before she heard the slightest quiver in her voice start to betray her fear. Her heart was racing, but she had to remain calm.

"It's ice water," a male voice replied. The voice was calm, relaxed, soothing. The man had an accent that Sara couldn't place, but he sounded older rather than younger.

"Why don't you let me go instead, and I'll get a drink myself?" she suggested helpfully.

The man chuckled. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Ms. Kierson."

He knows my name, Sara thought, which unnerved her all the more.

Of course he does, idiot, the voice replied. He's probably one of those stalker types, been following us for God knows how long. At least he doesn't sound Dutch.

The straw touched her lips a third time, interrupting her internal debate. "Please?" he asked. "It's just water, promise."

"How am I supposed to know that?" Sara replied as she turned her head.

"Because I've already drugged you once, Sara, why would I do so again? Besides, if I wanted to drug you, what makes you think I'd do so in a manner you could so easily refuse? Drink. It's perfectly safe."

Whoever he was, Sara couldn't argue with his logic. And she was very thirsty. Tentatively, she took a sip. It was water, ice cold water at that. She took more, all she wanted. When she finished, he took the glass away and Sara could barely make out the sound of it being set on a table somewhere to her left. Silence followed. Minutes passed, the man seemed content to sit and watch.

There were certain questions Sara desperately wanted to ask, but was too afraid of the answers to ask them. Still, she felt the strong urge to hear the man speak again. He was, after all, her only link to the world around her, and his voice was better than blind silence.

"How'd you do it?" she asked, finally.

"I can't reveal trade secrets, but it should suffice to say that you were sedated, taken from your bed and brought here."

"How long have I been out?"

"Not long."

"What are you going to do to me?"

In response, she felt the back of a finger caress her right calf. He's been waiting for you to ask that, said the voice. Instinctively she wanted to jerk away, but she knew she couldn't, so she forced herself to remain calm and still.

"Don't do that." she ordered, mustering up all the authority she could. Considering her current predicament, it wasn't much.

The finger slid down her calf and ran a circle around her ankle before it rounded her heel and began to caress the bottom of her foot.

"Stop it," she said. "You don't have the right to touch me. Let me go and...I won't tell anyone."

The man ignored her proposition. "Right?" he said, "Sara, there's no such thing as right. You know that." The finger was now inspecting her toes, one at a time.

"Why me?" she asked. She was desperate and terribly afraid, but refused to yield to the urge to cry.

The finger now sped back up her calf and down to her inner thigh, where it began a long lazy route that started above her knee and ended just above the place where her legs came together. The affect was both electrifying and frightening. "Funny you should ask, I was pondering that myself just before you woke up. Truth is, I'm not sure. You certainly aren't typical of my prey."

That last word frightened her very much. She wanted to scream, to curse, to flail her body until he finally just got tired of it, but she knew it would be useless. He'd just wait until she wore herself out and start again. It's all about control with men like this, the voice informed her. Don't let him see you lose it.

"Are you going to hurt me?" she asked matter-of-factly. The finger now moved up to her stomach and began to draw a casual line across the boundary made by her pubic hair.

"I'm not a violent man, Sara, as long as you're very careful to do exactly as I say."

He continued to casually explore her body; she did her best to ignore him. His finger ran circles around her belly-button before tracing the outline of her breasts. Each nipple, in turn, was subjected to his scrutiny. Both responded, despite her best efforts otherwise. In fact her whole body began to respond to the gentle enchantment woven by his one finger. He discovered the nape of her neck, then her ears before finally he softy drew his fingers across her lips. She turned away from him then, what part of her face not covered by the mask she wore bright with shame and embarrassment.

"At least tell me your name," she whispered, now desperate to hear him speak again.

The finger withdrew.

It was a few seconds before he spoke. When he did, the sound of his voice came, not from her right, but from between her legs.

"Michael," he said, right before he planted a soft kiss on the outer lips of her vulva.

Every muscle in her body went taut. She tried to draw away, heedless of the straps, but couldn't, there was no escape for her.

"Michael. Please, stop." she said. "Don't do this to me." There was the slightest quiver in her voice, the first fracture of her composure.

Michael ignored her, choosing instead to plant delicate kisses on the tender flesh of her inner thighs.

"Michael, please. You're raping me." She reminded him.

He lifted up his head and rested his chin on her pelvis. "Yes, I suppose I am. But you are not in a position to stop me, so I suggest you relax. I just want a taste, that's all."

At that, fear changed to fury. Sara was always in control. It was a point of pride. No one ever did anything to her without her consent, not if they didn't want to leave bleeding. Yet here she was, bound and helpless and completely at the mercy of this man's whim. He wanted to eat her out, and so he was. What was he going to want to do to her next? And so despite the futility of it, she continued to fight against her restraints. Futile or not, it was the only thing she had the power to do.

Ignoring her struggles, Michael tenderly spread her labia apart and slowly began to explore the treasures he discovered with his tongue. Sara forced herself to remain calm. Struggling was useless, words were useless. This man might take her body, but she would not bow to his will. She focused her mind, set her teeth and waited for him to do whatever he was going to do. Her body went rigid, but she no longer fought the straps.

Minutes passed. Slowly but steadily the pressure and speed of his movements increased. Sara tried to keep her mind focused on anything other than what was going on between her legs; old movies, college algebra, bad poetry. But the occasional flick of his tongue across her clitoris kept drawing her back to the here and now. He teased her, exploring the wet lips of her labia or circling the entrance to her vagina, allowing her to regain some measure of control before drawing her back again with that dammed tongue.

She slipped closer to that edge, and she knew it. He wanted her to orgasm, to take from her that last thing she could control. Her will was slowly crumbling under the relentless assault. It became harder and harder for her to maintain her composure. She realized her hips were making those involuntary, reciprocate movements that mirrored the rhythm created by his tongue; she tried to force her body to obey, to ignore, but it was quickly becoming too late. It's only a matter of time now, said the voice, he's gonna make you come, and you can't stop him.

No! Sara screamed so fiercely at the voice in her head she wasn't quite sure if she said it out loud or to herself. Not that she cared, she had a plan. Quickly, before she lost all control, she arched her back, tensed her thighs and let out a long, soft moan, somewhere between a purr and a growl. She slumped back down on the table, feigning exhaustion, and let out a long sigh.

From between her legs she heard Michael laugh.

"Bravo, Sara, bravo! A fine performance," he said. "A lesser man may have been fooled, but I am right here. You may lie, but the little lady down here doesn't." He then continued his slow assault of her clitoris.

Sara laid her head back down on the table. Frustration quickly descending to desperation. In high school and college she had been an aggressive woman, patiently teaching the men in her bed what she liked and the best way to get her where she wanted to go, and almost to a man they just didn't get it. Most treated her clit like it was some sort of speedbag, one guy sucked on it so hard she yelped in pain. Of course, he took it as a sign she liked that sort of thing and sucked even harder. It hurt to piss for a week after that. Now she was trapped by a man who knew exactly what to do, but the last thing she wanted was give in. But nature was taking its course. Her body was responding, the tension was rising, and she was close. Her nipples were stiff and ached to be touched; the wetness between her legs was no longer his, but her own, flowing freely and being hungrily devoured. Her vagina was throbbing, begging for penetration; if he put one finger in her she'd come, and she knew it.

She didn't want to come. She didn't want to give him the pleasure of knowing that even in this he controlled her.

The anger crested into fury, and in a moment of clarity she knew what she had to do. The thought repulsed her, but it had to be done; she released the contents of her bladder. She pushed the fluid from her body in a hot, powerful stream. She heard it hit the back of his throat, heard him cough, sputter and choke on her urine. The stream hit his face as he pulled away from her, and the ricochet of it off his forehead described a spray pattern across her thighs and stomach. The man slipped off the stool he was sitting on and with a thud hit the floor. She could hear the muted splatter of her piss as it hit his clothing and then the tiled floor as he moved aside. She laughed aloud, rich and clear and triumphant. Didn't see that coming, did you, you bastard?

"How'd you like the taste of that," she asked, still chuckling. He said nothing in reply

Sara could hear the man rising to his feet. Every muscle in her body tensed, waiting for whatever was to come next, but the smile, her victorious, coy smile, did not fade. Suddenly she could feel him standing next to her, over her. When he spoke, he was so close she could smell her piss on his breath, yet she did not flinch.