The Kidnapping I Had Asked Him For

I was heading home after an impossible day. I had spent the afternoon signing papers I hated signing, making decisions about other people’s lives from behind a desk that had already grown too large for me. Running a hotel does that to you: it forces you to become the person nobody wants to see walk into their office. I left work with a stiff neck and my head full of noise, and all I wanted was to get home, take off my shoes, and stop being myself for a while.

What I didn’t remember—because he had deliberately made me forget—was that that week I had given Damián permission to come for me.

We had talked about it for months. At first as a joke in bed, then seriously, with a sheet of paper between us and a list of things that were allowed and things that were absolutely not. One word to stop completely, another to slow down for a moment. He kept it, chose one of the days I had marked in red, and promised me only one thing: I wouldn’t know when.

I wouldn’t know when. That was what made it work.

I got out of the taxi a few streets from home, at a sweets shop that was open at an ungodly hour, and bought myself a box of frozen chocolates that I began devouring with an anxiety I knew well. Eating when I’m nervous is an old habit that took me years to tame. I was biting into the last one when I entered the underpass running beneath the old highway, that poorly lit tunnel I always avoided and, that night, didn’t avoid out of laziness.

A huge shape emerged from the darkness.

A sharp blow between my shoulder blades knocked the air from me and sent my handbag flying forward. A large hand covered my mouth before I could even think of screaming, and my entire body—every inch of it—went still. Three seconds. I counted them without meaning to. It took three seconds for him to shove me against the concrete wall, my chest crushed against the cold, his weight holding all of me in place. I felt the hard bulge of his cock pressing against my buttocks through my skirt with absolute clarity, rubbing up and down with obscene slowness, tracing the cleft of my ass with that hot rod already straining to break free of the fabric.

The hand over my mouth loosened slightly. A low, unhurried voice spoke into my ear.

—Don’t scream. Do what I tell you. And if you misbehave, I’ll fuck you right here, against the wall, in front of anyone who passes by.

I obeyed. Not because I was truly afraid—a part of me had already recognized the heat of those hands—but because obedience was exactly what I had come looking for. The safe word burned in my throat like a key I chose not to use. As long as I didn’t say it, this was real. And with delicious shame, I felt my panties soak through within seconds, felt my cunt throb against the lace seam, begging for what had not yet arrived.

I felt the plastic slide around my wrists and close with a snap. A zip tie, tight but not too tight. Then came the brush of my own silk scarf, the white one, sliding over my eyes until I was plunged into darkness. My makeup and the heat of the tunnel kept it from sticking to my skin, so he tied the silk firmly behind my neck.

—Now, quiet and good, we’re getting out of here.

He led me toward the other end, holding my arm with a hand that allowed no doubt. I heard the sliding door of a van open. As I climbed in, I lost one shoe, a slender high heel that remained behind on the asphalt. He didn’t let me pick it up.

—Don’t even think about touching the blindfold, he said, and for the first time his voice trembled slightly, as though it was hard for him to maintain the role too. —Do you understand me?

I nodded. The door closed and the engine started.

***

The journey was long, or it seemed that way to me. In darkness, time stretches and warps; without sight, every bump is a surprise and every turn a small abyss. I counted the minutes until they stopped making sense. Thirty, perhaps forty. I felt my heart in my throat and, lower down, a heat that had nothing to do with the tunnel’s. I had promised myself I would surrender, and I was keeping that promise better than I had expected. With my wrists tied behind my back, I couldn’t even press my thighs together properly, and every bump sent a stab through my swollen clitoris; I felt my fluid run down the inside of my thigh, warm and sticky, to my stocking, and bit my lip so I wouldn’t moan alone in the seat.

The van stopped. The silence outside was immense, the silence of open countryside, of a night with no city nearby. I knew where we were going: the old country house we had chosen together, with no neighbors, no one around. But knowing didn’t take away the vertigo. That was the magic of the arrangement.

The gate opened. The night air struck my bare legs.

—Now, Marina, he said, using my name for the first time, —we’re going to have a long talk.

I didn’t answer. He took me out of the van and led me a few steps over dry earth before pressing me against the rough trunk of a tree. An oak, I learned later; then it was simply coarse bark biting into my back through my blouse.

His hands moved down my hips and undid my skirt. The fabric fell to my ankles, leaving me in black seamed stockings and the lace underwear I had put on that morning without knowing who it was for. I felt something cold and blunt travel up my leg, from knee to waist, slow and deliberate. I didn’t know what it was. A handle, the back of a dull knife—it didn’t matter: the trick was not knowing. The icy object pushed the lace of my panties aside and slid through the slit of my dripping cunt, gliding effortlessly between my swollen lips. I choked back a gasp when the tip brushed my clitoris and rose again, smeared with my own wetness.

—Look at the state you’re in, he murmured, and I heard him bring the object to his mouth, heard him lick it. —Dripping before I’ve even touched you. My slut.

—I want you to feel exactly what you make me feel, he murmured afterward near my neck, and his hand went all the way beneath the lace. Two fingers spread me open with measured brutality and sank in to the knuckles, curling inside me. I screamed against the gag of my own clenched jaw. He pulled them out, glistening, and ran them over my lips. —Suck yourself. I want you to know what you taste like when you’re about to beg.

I opened my mouth and sucked them. The thick, salty taste of my own cunt filled my tongue, and he took advantage of it to push his fingers all the way to the back of my throat, until tears sprang beneath the blindfold.

I went still. So did he. For two endless minutes, nothing happened: I knew he was there, heard him breathing, but he didn’t touch me. The waiting was part of the punishment. When you’re blindfolded, anticipation weighs more than any blow.

—Damián? I whispered, because sometimes the role breaks on its own and you need to hear that the person is still underneath it.

A finger settled over my lips, asking for silence. He didn’t scold me. He simply made me quiet.

Then he freed my wrists. The plastic gave way and for an instant, by pure instinct, my hands wanted to rip off the blindfold and run. He anticipated it. Firm pressure returned me to the tree, without real violence, with the exact control of someone who knew how to measure his strength.

—Take off your jacket and your blouse.

I did. With clumsy fingers I undid my silk blouse and let it fall beside my skirt and jacket, forming a pool of fabric at my feet. I felt naked long before I actually was.

—There’s everything you pretend to be during the day, he said, and I heard him kick one of my shoes aside. —It’s no use to you here. Here you’re nothing but a cunt begging.

He was right. There, against that bark, I wasn’t a boss or a schedule or a signature at the bottom of a difficult letter. I was simply a body that had asked to be taken.

I heard the sound of a zipper descending. Then the unmistakable brush of skin against skin, his hand stroking his own cock, up and down, inches from my face. His breathing grew thicker.

—On your knees.

I lowered myself, guided by his hands on my shoulders, until the bark scraped down my back and my knees sank into the dry earth. Without sight, the world shrank to the warm, salty smell of his sex near my mouth. The tip of his glans brushed my lips, painting them with a thread of warm moisture.

—Open.

I opened. And he shoved it all the way in, in a single thrust, making me cough. He stayed there, holding the back of my head, forcing me to breathe through my nose while my throat adjusted to his girth. Then he began fucking my mouth without mercy, with long, rhythmic thrusts that forced me to swallow. I felt his balls strike my chin, heard the wet, obscene noise of my own mouth dripping around his cock, and every time he withdrew I drew a quick breath before he buried it in me again.

—That’s it, Marina, that’s it, he panted. —With that fine boss’s mouth, swallowing me like a bitch.

He pulled out abruptly when I was already choking with pleasure, and a thick drop fell from the tip onto my chin. He spread it over my lips with his thumb as though he were painting.

—Not yet. You still have an ass to take.

***

A hemp rope, rough and dry, began winding around my wrists and climbing until it brushed my throat, not to choke me but to remind me that I was restrained. The tension was perfect: enough to make me feel at his mercy, not enough to truly frighten me. Damián knew every inch of that limit. We had drawn it together on paper, and now he traced it with a precision that raised gooseflesh on my skin. He made me stand and tied me upright, my arms above my head bound to a low branch, my tits thrust forward, my legs spread by the toe of his boot wedged between my ankles.

I felt the blunt end of that cold object travel over me again, this time across my breasts. He unclasped my bra with one hand and let it fall. Being bound and blindfolded beneath the open sky made me feel more exposed than I ever had. His free hand encircled one of my breasts, not squeezing, merely holding it, like someone assessing what belonged to him. Then he pinched my nipple between two fingers, hard, twisting it until I moaned; he did the same to the other, unhurried, setting the rhythm at which he would fuck me later.

His mouth descended to suck an entire breast, biting the nipple, tugging it with his teeth. With the hand he had left free, he tore off my lace panties—I heard the seam rip—and shoved three fingers into my dripping cunt. He curled them, searching for the exact spot, and stayed there, pounding it inside me while he devoured my tits.

—Come, he ordered, releasing my nipple while his fingers remained inside me, fucking me fast and dirty. —Come tied to this fucking tree like the bitch in heat you are.

I came. I couldn’t not come. I soaked his hand and wrist, felt my cunt clench around his fingers in spasms that left me hanging entirely from the rope. A hoarse cry escaped my throat into the empty night, and I didn’t care at all, because no one was going to hear me but him.

Then the first blow came.

I didn’t see it coming—you never do when you’re blindfolded—and that was what made me moan even before I felt the pain. The bundle of cords cracked against my thighs with an elastic, emphatic snap. One. A sharp heat spread across my skin. I clenched my teeth.

—Do you remember? he asked, and I knew he expected me to count.

—Two, I said, and the second fell across my hips, crossing my ass.

—Three.

The third was the hardest, a clean burst across my already heated buttocks that buckled my knees and tore a sound from me that was neither pain nor pleasure, but both mixed together. I hung from the rope for a moment, panting, my skin burning and the rest of my body demanding more than my pride wanted to admit. I felt his hand work its way between my inflamed buttocks, slide down to my cunt, and confirm with a wet smack how soaked every stroke had left me.

—Look at you, dripping from the whip. What a filthy girl you turned out to be.

Damián threw the cords to the ground. I heard them land, limp, on the earth. Then I heard the other thing: the dry sound of his belt finally coming loose, his trousers falling over his boot. He positioned himself behind me. I felt his cock, hard as a stick, rubbing between my burning buttocks, moving up and down the cleft, painting my ass with the wetness at its tip.

He spread my buttocks with both hands and, without warning, pushed. The thick head of his cock forced its way into my soaked cunt and sank all the way in with one thrust. I screamed, hanging from the rope, the bark biting into my tits as he crushed me against the tree, and he didn’t stop. He fucked me there, against the oak, in the open countryside, in the dark, with long, brutal thrusts that made my clitoris strike the rough knot in the wood and tore a new moan from me with every thrust of his hips.

—Take it, take it, take it, he growled against the nape of my neck, grabbing my hair and pulling my head back. —This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to drag you out of your little office and make you fuck like the bitch you are.

—Yes, I gasped. —Yes, keep going, harder, fuck me, fuck me harder.

He pulled out his gleaming cock and forced me to turn my hip. He penetrated me again, now from the side, one of my legs raised and resting on his arm, opening me until I felt him reach a new depth. His other hand found my clitoris and began rubbing it in fast circles while he drove his cock into me to the base.

I came a second time, longer, my cunt biting his cock in waves that shook my whole body. The bastard held on, breathing through his nose, waiting for me to finish. When I finally caught my breath, he pulled out abruptly, turned me around like a mannequin, and thrust into me again from the front, my back against the bark, my legs around his waist, supported by his strength and the ropes.

—Look at me, he growled. —Even if you can’t see me, look at me.

I lifted my blindfolded face toward him. He pounded into me faster and faster, with less rhythm and more hunger, and I felt his cock swell inside me, felt him nearing release. He pulled out at the last second, let go of my legs, tore off the blindfold, and said:

—On your knees. Again. Open your mouth.

I lowered myself, blinded for a moment by the van’s dim light, and opened. He finished himself with both hands in front of my face, coming with a long, hoarse moan. I felt the first hot jet streak across my cheek, the second land on my tongue, the third and fourth fill my mouth until it spilled from the corners. Thick, salty, mine. I swallowed what I could without closing my eyes, looking up at him, my chin and chest shining with come in the yellow light.

—Good girl, he panted, running his thumb over my lips to gather what was hanging there. —Swallow it all. That’s it.

I swallowed. And then everything changed.

His hand, the same one that a moment before had been holding me by the hair, traveled with incredible gentleness over the hot mark crossing my chest, rising to my collarbone. I felt his fingers touch the remaining knot of the blindfold still hanging around my neck. And as he moved it away completely, a tear escaped without permission—not from sadness, but from that enormous thing that spills over when you let yourself fall completely and someone is there to catch you.

The silk fell. The van’s dim light dazzled me for a second. I saw him: my Damián, looking at me with the same intensity with which he had fucked me, but now tinged with something else. He held my chin between two fingers and, with one corner of the white scarf, wiped away the tear and the rest of his come with a tenderness no stranger could ever have had.

—Are you here? he asked softly. The usual question, the one that closes the circle.

—I’m here, I answered, and it was true. More whole than I had been all day.

He untied me. When the rope gave way, my body slid down the trunk and he caught me before I reached the ground, barely marking my back against the bark, the final physical trace of what I had just lived through. He held me against his chest until my breathing returned to normal.

***

—Get dressed, he said afterward, once again with feigned sternness, though I could hear the smile in his voice.

I dressed slowly, savoring the return. First the bra, then what remained of my torn panties, which I tucked into the pocket of my jacket like someone keeping a trophy. The stockings slid up my still-trembling legs, damp inside. I put on my blouse and fastened every button with fingers slow to remember how it was done, noticing how the silk clung to my nipples, still hard and sensitive. When I pulled my skirt up around my waist, I felt his come still sliding warm down the inside of my thigh, and the fabric made that particular sound of skin being fitted snugly again. I realized how much I had enjoyed ceasing to be, for an hour, the woman I was supposed to be.

Damián watched me put on my jacket with something like tenderness, as though reclaiming a valuable object he had lent out for a while. He brought me my shoes—the one I had left in the tunnel, he had picked it up without my noticing, of course—and handed me my bag.

—There’s water and a blanket on the other side of the house, he said. —And tomorrow, if you want, we can talk about what you liked and what you didn’t.

I kissed him then, slowly, my mouth still salty with him, with tension, with chosen fear. It wasn’t the kiss of lovers saying goodbye. It was the kiss of two people who know each other so well that they can pretend to be strangers to each other and then find their way back.

—Tomorrow, I promised.

And as we walked hand in hand toward the house beneath a sky untouched by city lights, with my torn panties in my pocket and his come still drying between my legs, I understood that the real luxury wasn’t the control I exercised in my office, but the control I surrendered, willingly and completely, when I let him tear me away from my own life for a night.