Kidnapped – And The Ransom Is High: Part III
An original story for Baroness V by Reagan Cornwall

I had no idea how long I was unconscious.

As I began to wake up, struggling to come back to life, all of my senses were overwhelmed with a burning throbbing on my shoulder and buttocks. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was or why I was in such pain. My mind raced trying to figure out where I was but I couldn’t focus on anything other than the white hot heat that seized me and overwhelmed everything else.

I tried opening my eyes but they were sealed shut, and any effort to move my aching, stiff arms and legs was useless. I tried shouting a tentative, frightened “Hello?” but the sound was muffled by a gag in my mouth; the only sound I could make was a series of grunts. Then, slowly, through the pain, things began to reconnect and my memory kicked in.

Like a drowning man seeing his life flash before him, everything since an anonymous car pulled over to ask directions raced through my mind’s eye: I saw myself being forced into the back seat by two women; being bounced around on the floor during the long, bumpy ride to who-knows-where; the vehicle stopping and my being dragged into a dark room with a hood over my head; being bound and beaten. I saw with vivid clarity the warm, erotic sensation of my entire body being soaped and shaved. And then I returned to pain, the most intense pain I’d even felt from the branding they’d given me as they marked my flesh as theirs.

In despair, frustration, anger and hopelessness, I uttered a long, mournful moan from the very core of my soul. The sound came from deep inside me, welled up in my throat and roared into my mouth. Inside my head, I heard it but the gag stopped it from filling whatever place I was being kept. The sound died away, my body began trembling in fear and defeat, a sense of my totally helpless situation filling me with anguish.

I had no idea who was holding me prisoner, no notion what they planned to do with me, no sense of whether I would ever return to my own life.

I began to weep.

Eventually, I drifted off to sleep. At one point, I dreamt of running through a field of tulips – not the frantic running of trying to escape but just running for the sheer joy of moving on my own.

In the midst of the dream, I suddenly felt a hand squeezing my arm. At first, in that period of confusion between sleep and consciousness, I thought someone trying to stop me from running. But the squeezing was unrelenting and I awakened with a start. And reality overtook me. I wasn’t running free, I was held fast in one position by the belts or ropes or whatever was keeping me on a hard bed.

“I’ve come to treat your wounds,” a woman’s voice said matter-of-factly, a hint of a French dialect detectable. Reality came back too fast. “Number One” was with me, which I remembered because the one who called herself “A” spoke without any accent.

“I will apply hydrocortisone to where you were marked,” she said. “It will speed the healing and lessen the pain.”

I felt a cool crème being rubbed deliberately but not harshly on the spot between my right nipple and shoulder where one brand mark had been made. One applied a liberal amount and, almost immediately, I felt some relief. She moved my body onto one hip – or as much as she could move me, given the restraints that held me in place – and repeated the process where my ass had been seared.

“There,” she proclaimed, “that will help you recover. Now, drink this.”

I moved my head away from her voice, keeping my lips closed tightly.

“Silly boy,” she said, “it’s only water. Now drink it!”

She lifted my head slightly and pushed the neck of a plastic bottle against my lips. Too fatigued to actually resist, I opened my mouth to swallow whatever she was making me drink and was relieved –surprised, actually, given the torment I’d experienced at her hands already – to discover it actually was cold, refreshing water. She allowed me to drink as much as I wanted before letting my head drop back to its flat position.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

I nodded my head that I was.

“I’ll bring some food in a little while,” she said flatly. Then I heard the stiletto heels on her shoes or boots clicking on the hard floor as she walked away. Again, I was left in dark isolation.

True to her word, A returned what seemed like only a few minutes later although time and space had lost all meaning for me. When she came close enough for me to smell hot food steaming, I realised how ravenously hungry I was. But tied motionless, gagged and blindfolded, I didn’t know how I’d be able to eat.

“Meal time,” she announced cheerily. I heard the plate being put on a nearby surface and its aroma was overwhelming. “Now, here is how this will happen.”

She explained that I would be released from the table holding me but not so much that I could escape. One leg would be freed but immediately attached to the other, which would then be undone from the bondage holding it in place. The same procedure would be done with my arms and hands, except they’d be fixed behind my back. The gag would be removed but not the blindfold. Only then would she help me to my feet.

“Do not try rising too quickly,” A warned me in her French dialect. “Unsteady will be your muscles after being in one position for so long a time, yes? I don’t want you to fall down and get hurt.”

For some reason, it struck me as odd that A worried about me hurting myself after she and her friend spent so much time doing just that: Hurting me.

A instructed me to swing my legs to the left and, as I did, her arms grasped my torso to help me sit upright. The effort made me dizzy but it passed quickly. As she held my shoulders, A told me to flex my leg muscles by tightening and loosening them several times, and then the same with my arms.

When she thought I was ready, A told me to slide off the table but held me steady in case my legs gave way underneath me. Good thing she did; I was wobbly when I put my weight on them. She shuffled me forward a few feet, told me to stop and kneel – holding me steady the entire time. The smell of the food drew closer to me.

“Now, for to eat, here is what you will do,” she instructed. “There is a plate directly in front of you on the floor. I will guide your head towards it and you will eat like a dog.”

Trying not to lose my balance, I leaned towards the smell of the food. Once A moved my mouth into the right position, I began eating like a starved animal, wolfing down scrambled eggs, buttered toast that had been cut into small pieces and a spicy breakfast sausage, also cut. It was delicious and I found myself licking the surface to ensure I’d taken in every morsel.

I had no idea how long since I’d last eaten so I was almost unaware of the awkward position I she had me in as I took in the food: Kneeling over a dish, arms handcuffed behind my back, ankles strapped together, eyes blindfolded. While I was still licking the plate, A removed it, announcing with a little laugh, “We don’t want you eating the dish. Clay does not digest so well as do the eggs.”

She ordered me to lift my body so I struggled into an upright, kneeling position. When my ass cheek came in contact with my ankle, pain shot through me and I lifted myself upright. A noticed and told me she’d apply more crème to my still-very tender brandings.

“Do you need a drink?”

I nodded yes.

“Open your mouth.” As I did, she moved her body up against me and I could feel her stockings against my cheeks. Suddenly, my mouth filled with a warm liquid. It was coming from her and, to my horror, I knew she was peeing in my mouth. I tried pulling my head away but it was held fast by her hands. I was forced to swallow involuntarily as more and more of her urine flooded my mouth. Yet no matter how fast I swallowed, some of it ran down my chin and sprayed onto my chest and legs.

So much came out of her I thought I was going to drown before A’s stream slowed to a trickle and then stopped.

“Ah, you need this training, too, I see,” she exclaimed as she backed away from me. “We will teach you how to drink without losing a drop.”

I felt and smelled her warm pee on my body. A flush of embarrassment and humiliation rushed through me, a wave of disgust rolling through me at the thought of being their urinal.

“Now, do you need the toilet, too?” she asked with a giggle.

I was afraid to answer, not knowing what would be the result.

“I see you are reluctant to answer,” A barked at me. It was a sudden change in her tone from when she was helping me eat, and I was worried. “Always answer immediately, and always tell the truth. Do you comprehend?”

I nodded yes.

“Do you need the toilet?” she asked again, striking my abdomen hard with some sort of device.

“Yes,” I replied quickly, lurching back from the pain of the crop or flogger or whatever it was she hit me with.

“Yes, what?” A snapped at me.

“Yes, please,” I said just as quickly. But it still wasn’t the answer she wanted and I was hit again, five strokes across my back this time because I was still hunched over from being hit on the stomach.

“Yes, please, Madam A!” she curtly told me was the way to address her.

“Yes, please, Madam A,” I shot back, repeating for good measure, “Yes, please, Madam A.”

“Better.” With that, Madam A helped me to my feet, attached a collar and leash to my neck, and led me through the room, saying at one point, “There’s a single step up here.”

She manoeuvred my body into a room and had me sit on a toilet. My handcuffs were undone and for the first time in I don’t know how long, my arms were completely free. I flexed my tight shoulders and stretched my arms outward.

“Sit still,” Madam A commanded. “When you hear the door close and lock, you are free to remove your blindfold. The tissue is to your right. When you are done, clean yourself. Then, take a shower. There is soap and a fresh towel for you. Knock on the door when you’re finished.”

With that, Madam A walked from the room, closing the door behind her. I heard a lock being bolted shut and I removed the blindfold. Opening my eyes for the first time since being imprisoned, I saw that she put me in a small bathroom with no windows or mirrors; the only light came from a candle on a shelf above the sink. A ceiling fan whirred softly and quietly.

After relieving myself, I took a long, warm shower. My body was sticky with dried sweat that had built up since I was captured. It felt good to clean up and I washed thoroughly, being very careful around the two brandings. I touched them gingerly; each was fairly small and I tried tracing the edges but without being able to determine how I’d been marked. I tried to see what they looked like but the mark on my shoulder was too high up to see and, without a mirror, there was no way to see the brand that had been put on my ass cheek.

The water was still running over me and I was feeling almost luxurious in this moment of privacy and freedom. But my enjoyment ended with a start as I heard a sharp pounding on the door.

“Long enough,” the voice of the other woman, Madam One, commanded. “Turn off the water, dry yourself and put the blindfold back on. Then kneel on the floor and rap the door twice when you’re ready. We have things for you to do.”

I twisted the shower handle to off, took the lone towel from the bar and dried my body. It dawned on me to try making an escape between the time when Madam One opened the door and when my handcuffs were locked in place. But I knew it was probably useless. I didn’t know where I was, the floor plan of the building or even whether there was an escape route open to me. I’d have to bide my time before planning any escape.

As I replaced the blindfold and knelt down, the now-familiar terror I’d felt for nearly every conscious moment since I’d been snatched off my quiet residential street returned. I rapped twice on the door and, as I heard the bolt being unsnapped, waited for whatever horror might come next.