Salvage Ch. 01

This story is a non-consensual kidnapping fantasy. Don't do this at home. Warnings for mentions of depression, emotional abuse, and talk of suicide.

I hope she'll be here tonight.

No one on the path takes a second look at me as they pass by. Why should they? I'm just another man in jeans and a flannel shirt with an e-reader in his hands sitting on a log bench. Probably the best description they could give is "medium height, darkish hair, horn-rimmed glasses". There are thousands of men like me in this small city. It's an air of anonymity that I have cultivated quite deliberately since winning that state lottery two years ago. I had read extensively of the risks facing lottery winners. The ticket had been claimed by a lawyer in the name of a Delaware corporation; the publicity shoot where the big novelty cheque had been handed over had been attended by an actor hired for the occasion. The lottery corporation had put up some quiet fuss about it all. But they needed the fanfare of awarding a fifty million dollar payout more than they needed my identity. I then decamped from the state in question immediately afterward to this city to live a quiet, comfortable life. My only indulgence is my little hobby.

I peer over the e-reader to the bridge. It is a simple suspension type: two cables in a graceful curve supporting a deck of steel mesh, with stout cables at shoulder height linked to a web of support strands. It crosses over the river that flows through the park. The waters below boil over a series of small rapids. All around are low hills covered with trees bursting with autumn colors. They screen out the skyscrapers of the central business district to the north and east. You could almost think that one was in the wilderness even though there is a light traffic of pedestrians and cyclists on the gravel paths winding through the park. The number of passerby has dwindled as the sun starts to pass below the horizon. The air turns nippy as a mid-October evening begins. I up the backlight on my e-reader to as part of my cover. I take a light coat out of the backpack by my feet. Her classes should have ended by now. Perhaps she is studying late in the library. I will stay another hour before returning home.

Footsteps crunch on the path. I stay in control of myself as she passes by me. Unusual. She usually takes the path on the other side of the river to the bridges. I risk a peek at her. God, she is so lovely. I was smitten with her the moment I happened to see her walk past me in the street on the way to the light rail stop a block from the private school she attends. Wine-red hair falls in ringlets around cherubic features that could be out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Her lips are full. I imagine kissing them. Mind you, she would be prettier if she smiled. She always has a serious air that ill-befits a girl just turned eighteen. I find that the hazel eyes behind those silvery wire-rim glasses have a hint of sadness to them. The body beneath the green blazer is a bit heavier than fashionable these days. I have heard her harpy of a mother berating her. I think that all it needs is a corset drawn snug to accentuate her figure. Her arms cross over her breasts as if she were ashamed of her buxom enchantments. In contrast, the legs emerging below the knee-length green-and-black tartan kilt are toned from her habit of walking rather than being driven in the family BMW. The white knee-high socks cling enticingly to her calves.

She is so close. In a second, I could apply some of the contents of my backpack to her body. There is a clearing just off the path where we could get acquainted. No. This is a game. An indulgence. So the unwary girl walks past me, eyes downcast, without realizing the danger two feet away. I am content to spy on her as she walks out onto the bridge. She does this two or three times a week. She stares down into the roiling waters for a half hour before heading home. I sit in various spots watching her. Sometimes, I jerk off into a handkerchief thinking of the things I might do to her in the playroom I set up. I think of pounding into her until she screams. I think of whips and clamps and so many things to apply to her body.

She takes off her shoes and socks.

She climbs over a guard cable.

My knapsack is slung over a shoulder as I run to the end of the bridge closest to me. She is arched out with head down, staring at the waters below, when my feet hit the metal mesh of the deck. Her head whips out to stare at me. I freeze when her fingers loosen their grip. I walk much more slowly out towards her. I stop three feet away, folding my arms on the guard cable. I stare down at the rapids below. I can hear her frantic breaths in the stillness of the twilight. The bridge thrums in sympathy with her trembling. She is so close to jumping. Slowly, I take out a hip flask from a jeans pocket. I do like finishing the evening with a little snort. Rye whiskey does a slow burn down my throat. I hold it out to her.

"I am pretty sure that's illegal." Her voice has a touch of Irish lilt to it. "There are signs at the entrance. The fines are high."

"Well, we can keep it a secret." I raise an eyebrow. "One last toot before you go?"

"You're not going to tell me I have too much to live for?" Her voice drips with bitterness. "That suicide is a sin?"

"I am sure you have weighed the pros and cons," I say. "Far be it for me to presume to lecture you."

"Good." She sniffles. "I'm done with it. Being fat. Never making good enough grades. That I'll never get a man if I keep on like this."

"All sound motivations." I sip my drink. "Slight problem with implementation."

"If the falls doesn't get me, the rocks down there will," she says.

"Problem is, survivors who jumped say that they regretted it the instant they let go." I spit down into the water. "You might only drop for a second or two. But that might be a long two seconds."

There is silence.

"I am going to slide up behind you," I say. "Is that alright?"

"Yes," she whispers. "Please--ah!"

Her hands slip.

I grab her wrists. The weight slams my belly into the guard cable. I feel myself tipping over. Below me, she flails with legs bicycling in empty air. Her mouth is open in a silent scream. One shoe with its sock stuck in it is kicked off the bridge in my struggle to keep her from falling. Slowly, I haul her away from the abyss. Arms latch around my neck almost hard enough to throttle me. Good thing I have been following a weightlifting regimen along with back exercises. While she isn't "fat", she is a healthy chunk of girl indeed. I carry her bridal style off the bridge. She has her face buried in my shoulder. She does not notice us heading into the woods off the path. I settle her down. It takes several minutes of soothing talk and rubbing a palm in circles at the small of her back to get her to stand up.

I feel almost bad when I slip behind the sobbing girl. She is so lost in terror and shock that she does not notice the rear naked choke applied about her neck. I have to bend over a bit to get the right angle; she is a foot shorter than me. She has a few seconds of confused struggle before she sags into unconsciousness. I hold it just a bit longer to be sure she is out long enough. Her breath is slow and even when I lower her to the ground. I tuck her glasses into a jacket pocket before rolling her onto her stomach. I quickly strip off her school uniform, bra, and panties. I was ready to reapply the blood choke if she should rouse. But the submission hold combined with her ordeal has knocked her out.

There are many ways to stock a rape kit. I thought of using cable ties for a while. They are very quick and secure. But they are hardly comfortable. I settled on ballistic nylon restraints. The first set out of the knapsack is a pair of black straps sewn together to form basic cuffs. I also fastened leather pouches for her hands. Slipping on the pre-looped straps, I make her hands form fists before jerking the ends of the straps tight. One way buckles that need two fingers each to release keep them snug. Another set of strap cuffs capture her ankles. Single straps tighten above her knees, her thighs, and just above her elbows. That last one makes her gasp when I jerk it enough to almost make her elbows touch.

The gag goes in when her eyes flutter open. The black rubber ball has a slit for the nylon strap to run through the middle. Her scream is muffled to a pathetic mewl when the ball gag invades her mouth. Some of her hair is caught in the buckle when I secure the gag at the back of her neck. Hazel eyes tear up as she realizes I am not some random Good Samaritan. I ignore her sobs as I fold her into a fetal ball. A long strap behind the knees goes around to buckle between her shoulder blades. I hold her down as she writhes under me. A shriek that could be dismissed as a night bird's call escapes her when I press the egg vibrator into her. Her bound form shudders when I turn the dial on the control attached to it by a long cord. She was rather dry when it went in. A minute later, a fingertip wormed between her thighs finds she is juicing nicely. The tight bondage about her legs seals it within her. Finally, a long strap is looped between her wrist and ankle restraints. A sharp jerk makes heels smack into buttocks. She lies in a strict ball-tie, ready for transport.

"I'm doing this for your own good, of course." I unzip the backpack. The interior is heavily padded with portions of old sleeping gags. "Soon you'll be back on that bridge again, Kimberly."

She whimpers as she realizes I know her name.

"Shhhhhh." I cup her chin. "Don't worry. I am not a serial killer. You are not going to end up in some third world brothel."

A tiny bit of relief appears in her eyes.

"You're mine, now." Rolling her upright, I brush the leaves and dirt off her as best I can. "Poor thing. They hurt you and twisted you until you thought that was the only answer. They treated you like garbage."

She shakes her head frantically as I place her within the backpack.

"Well, you are a lovely jewel salvaged from the trash heap they tossed you onto." I tuck the control box between her heaving breasts. I up the tempo to a smidge. "And I promise I will train and polish you until you gleam brightly, Ruby."

"Oooooyyyyy?" she says through the gag.

"Your new name." I slowly zip up the backpack. "Your slave name."

"Nmmmmmph." Ruby sniffles. "Nnnn ooooo ssssss. Pmmmmmmph."

"Well, there's two choices." I lean close. "I bring you back to the bridge to finish what you started. Or you come with me as a slave."

"Annnnh." Ruby closes her eyes. "Smmmmmphh."

"Good girl." I kiss her sweat-dampened brow. "Soon you'll be where you belong."

I tip her head down to place her chin on her knees before I can zip the backpack closed. It is these little touches, I believe, that will help her accept her new life. I can hear her frantic breathing through the mesh panel on the top of the backpack. It is a small one that lets in air without permitting much light. Policing up her clothes, I fold them up neatly in the outside pocket of the pack where I hid the straps. Grunting, I carry my burden through the woods until I find a gravel path away from the one running along the river. Two flaps at the base unfold to reveal small tires of the sort that are found on higher end baby carriages. Grabbing a strap on the top, I tip the pack over to transform it into a rolling case. The crunch of rubber on gravel obscures Ruby's gagged cries. A few people late in leaving the park overtake me. One of them looks up quizzically at what might be a sharp intake of breath, It might sound oddly like a girl achieving orgasm. Then he walks away past the unremarkable man dragging his backpack behind him.

Across from the main entrance of the park is the light rail station. A few decades ago, the city imitated stadtbahns of Germany in creating an extensive light rail transit system. The interstates that had carved up urban landscapes elsewhere had received stiff opposition from both upper and lower classes. The result is a system using high-floor trams that run down the center medians of this city's wide boulevards, along with existing rail corridors and a tunnel beneath the business district. It means I do not have to own a car. That was not a problem when this was only a game. It does make matters inconvenient when I actually have a captive to transport. Settling on a bench on the island platform, I lay a hand on the top of pack while murmuring what I will do to anyone who discovers her. I tell her in vivid detail of what might happen to any witnesses. I might die...but anyone hurt because she tried to escape will be on her conscience. Ruby moans in understanding. It is honestly a bluff. But it is one she must believe.

A three car train arrives. I tap my transit card against a reader to validate a trip on the monthly pass stored within. Technically, I would be subject to a stiff fine by having Ruby ride for free. That would be the least of my problems if a roving ticket inspector did just that. Several other passengers get onto the tram with me. I shift through the open gangways to the third car at the rear by the empty driver's cabin. An elderly woman sits a few feet away. Two young women sit next to each other holding hands. A black man bobs his head to the music coming from the earphones plugged into his phone as he studies a college textbook. None of them notice me. None of them suspect what is in the backpack tucked under my feet.

Opening my e-reader, I pretend to read as I bring my slave home.

++++

I've had this fantasy for years. There are a number of variations. But the basic one is the good old rape van abduction. I walk down the street late at night. Maybe I stayed late at school in the library. It's raining. It's dark. A gloved hand clamps over my mouth. I am dragged into the alley. I get tied up. Into the van I go. It always stops there. The after is never the point. What matters is that I won't have to go home to my family's stupid McMansion where mom will nag me about my weight. I won't have to listen to my stepfather whine about how he deserves to be seen as my father. I won't have to sleep in a room decorated by my mom. I won't have to wear the walk-in closet's worth of high end brands that mom and stepdad insist I wear so "our daughter doesn't look like a vagrant". It will be over with. It will be done.

Of course, no one would ever bother kidnapping me. I'm the four-eyed nerd, right? There are so many other girls at school who would make better damsels in distress. So that's why I decided to try the...other way. The bridge in the park had seemed perfect. I wouldn't leave a mess or anything. They said drowning was a peaceful way to go. I'd be like Ophelia: floating down the river until I washed up in the reeds downstream. I'd chicken out each time, of course. It was just a stupid fantasy. Until the night before last, when I came home to find they had thrown out my da's sweater. It was all I had of him. He died when I was ten. He had been divorced from mom two years earlier. He visited as much as he could. He left that sweater with me that last weekend before the car crash. They threw it away. They said I was a grown woman. Maybe now I could let go of the past to finally accept the father I had down on earth. That was it. I was ready. I posted on my socials about what they had done and why they were to blame from my phone. I shut it down and tossed it away right when I passed the guy who was chilling with his e-reader.

He was the man who saved me.

He was the man who carried me away from the drop and the despair.

He was the man in the alley.

It was nothing like the fantasy. He didn't bother with a loop of clothesline around my wrists and a rag tied over my mouth. It wasn't a quick curtain call when the van doors closed. No. I was a tight ball of terrified girl in that backpack. The padding inside had kept me from wriggling around at all. It had been so hot. It had been so stifling. Any screams I made were absorbed by that jaw-breaker of a gag. I could only bite down on it while the toy inside me had driven me insane. I didn't know how many times I came in there. All around me were the people on the tram. But it was as if his will hid me from their sight. I stopped fighting after a while. That helped. I sort of floated inside myself. I was completely helpless. The way I had set things up, everyone would assume I had actually gone through with it on the bridge. It was over. It was done. I was his, now. He told me so. I was a broken thing that he had picked up. I was salvage.

It's peaceful down here in the basement. That's all it is: a basement. There is a distinct absence of stone walls, flickering torches, and Spanish Inquisition-approved furnishings. Instead, there are the four foundation walls with a rough concrete floor. A washer and dryer combination in one corner sits next to a laundry tub. There's a water heater in another corner. There's shelves. There are wooden stairs leading up to a door high above. Windows up near the ceiling let in some light. And then there's me. I lie on the air mattress that I woke up on about an hour ago. A choke chain with a lock in it so that the noose is fixed snugly about my throat is padlocked to a heavy eye bolt screwed into the floor. Several frantic tugs on it when I woke up told me why the straps from last night were gone. The chain was all that was needed. The imprint of the straps is still visible on my skin. I am not sure they will ever really go away.

I take another drink of water. As basic as the accommodations are, all the necessities of life are here for me. A big red five gallon water cooler is near my head. There is a hose with a bite valve on it screwed in where the usual spigot would be. Plenty to keep me hydrated. Beside it are several bottles of diet shakes in a variety of flavors. No strawberry, though. I hate strawberry. He knows that, along with so many other things about me. For when they come out? The chain has enough slack that I can reach the camp toilet by my feet. It's your basic honey bucket with a lid that seals off any smells. Although I don't think Winnie the Pooh is going to be poking his snout in there any time soon. There is everything I need to survive for a few days alone. There is even an e-reader, fully charged. I couldn't get a wifi signal when I tried to synchronize. But it has several free books on it, including all the Jane Austens. I adore Austen. She fucking awesome and witty and would roast my mom and stepdad like they were rotisserie chickens.

The door at the top of the stairs opens. He is coming. I tell myself that my stiffening nipples and tingling from between my legs is from terror. The body has weird ways of handling adrenaline. Don't think how it felt when he kissed my forehead before zipping me into the bag. Don't think about how it was like my da holding me as he carried me away from the bridge. Don't think about the respect he showed me on the bridge. He's the man in the alley. He stalked me for months. He is going to do filthy, twisted things to me. I'm breathing hard when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. Fuck. He can probably smell the dampness between my legs. It was the vibe. It messed me up.

I quickly kneel on the mattress. That's what slavegirls do, right? I lace my fingers behind my neck like the cops make criminals do. He smiles when he sees me. A treacherous part of me blushes at his approval. He's dressed in sweatpants and a tight white T-shirt. Dressed like that, I can see he's in good shape. He isn't ripped or anything. But you can tell he lifts--explaining how he threw me around--and exercises on the regular. He isn't wearing those glasses. Without them, he's nice enough looking in a cute older guy way. Of course, I'm distracted from the hot or not judgment by what he is carrying. He has a paper plate in one hand and a thermal mug in the others. I moan when the smell of real food rather than the diet crap mom serves to me. He pulls up a chair from under the stairs. A rubber spoon digs out part of an omelet cut into little pieces. I must sound like a total slut when I eat the western omelet with fresh cheese and hash browns and baked beans and tea from the mug, proper builder's tea like da liked to make. It's been so long.