(parts 1 and 2 can be found on this forum in the original post)
PART THREE
(warning: this contains non-consensual erotic elements and non-consensual tickling)
The car drove sedately, gently, slowing down before traffic lights to maintain velocity and complete its entire journey without pause. Brink knew his roads, he could read traffic, and Gemma never once felt the car slow sufficiently for her to kick out with her bare feet and hammer on the inside of the trunk to attract the attention of any passing pedestrian.
Thoughts flooded her mind: where was she being taken? What would happen? As much as the fear built, so too did a surprising thought in her mind, an erotic fascination that robbed some of the fear and replaced it with other, more curious thoughts. Gemma had never tried bondage, liked being tickled but hadn’t had a boyfriend since coming to the city. No, she thought, this was serious: she could die, she could disappear, and anything could happen to her between that moment and her inevitable demise.
The car climbed in elevation, winding back on roads that left the noise of the city far behind. She shifted, the bare skin of her posterior rubbing on the carpet in the trunk as she tried to rub her jeans back up her legs with friction, to no avail. With her pubic hair and rear cheeks on display, she felt isolated, violated, and helpless.
The car crawled over gravel and stopped, the engine turned off, and silence fought with the hammering of her heart, the stifled breath behind her gag, and the sound of the night insects in the trees. The car door opened, a weight left the vehicle, and the door slammed. He crunched away- that wasn’t good: if he made her walk on gravel in bare feet, it would be painful. Somewhere, a door slid open and he disappeared inside. She kicked out, groaned through her gag, kicked out even more and began to make as much noise as she could in the hope that someone, anyone, would hear her.
Footsteps returned, the boot unlatched, and suddenly she could see out. Brink stood above her, gathering her legs and pulling them out. He unlaced the rope around her ankles, then her knees, tried to pull her jeans back up but they were tight, so he sighed and changed direction. Powerless to stop him, she could only kick feebly as he pulled the hem of the jeans over her bare ankles, seized the fabric and tugged hard. The jeans slid down her legs and off, and despite her groan of protest, he pulled her underwear down after, tugging them off her feet.
“Lets’ get you out” he ordered, helping her from the trunk to stand, hands still zip-tied behind and naked but for her bra and t-shirt. The ground was, as predicted, painful underfoot and he led her hopping, gingerly stepping across the ground, mewling in painful protest towards the door of a log cabin and the steps that led down to a basement. Her myopia prevented her from seeing anything around them but darkness, though her ears told her they were in the hills overlooking the city, within a forest.
Down wooden steps they went into a concrete floored room with exposed wooden batons on the walls and supporting beams above. Candles in red glass holders cast a dim, flickering light, and the centre of the floor was dominated by a soft, inch-thick plastic padded mat on which he led her. Swinging from the overhead beam was a cable and a carabiner, and he guided her backwards to lock her wrist ties in place before he withdrew to a handle on the wall. A wheel turned, clicking a ratchet, and the cable retracted sufficiently to draw Gemma up onto her toes. Brink returned with a blindfold. Gemma shook her head but he played the game until he could fasten it about her eyes and tied it behind her skull.
He suddenly attacked her ribs, drawing mirth from her gagged mouth once more, scrabbling fingers up and down, stroking her bare ass cheeks, gently tickling the back of her knees and kneading the patella, and whilst she gyrated on her bare toes, he dragged fingertips across her bare feet. His fingers graced up her ankles, tickled her calves, past her knees and up her thighs until suddenly, his fingers slipped inside her clitoris and she gasped, more in surprise than with any ticklish sensation.
Brink grabbed her hips and squeezed, watching as she convulsed, screaming against the gag as his fingers searched every inch of her stomach, ribs, and occasionally slipped down to stroke her womanhood with gentle pressure. She laughed behind the gag, cried behind the blindfold, and felt arousal building within. What kind of sick game was he playing? She barely had time to react to one type of tickling when he changed target and invoked a whole new feeling of helpless laughter or arousal that built, wave upon wave, a slave to his desires and helpless to his hands.
He stopped and lifted her t-shirt away from her skin and something grated, metal on metal. Seconds passed before she realised he was cutting her t-shirt away and only when the scissors touched her shoulder did she protest, but by then it was too late. The tattered garment was pulled away, her bra unclasped, and with inevitable snips, her bra fell from her body. Naked, suspended on her toes, Gemma tried to plead behind her gag but he attacked her again, tickling her legs until she stamped in frustration, slipping his hand inside her clitoris until she grunted and panted, and stroking her breasts, kneading her ribs and tickling her neck to give her no respite.
“She’s all yours” Brink said, although his hands continued his assault. She was building in perspiration and arousal as a new set of feet stepped onto the mat and Brink slipped away. New hands grasped her from behind, spread her legs, and something warm and resilient pushed inside her clitoris, partly withdrew, and pushed forward again. She could sense the naked man behind her, feel the violation of his manhood deep within and still she laughed as her new assailant tickled her ribs whilst he penetrated her again and again, making her pant with arousal between the laughter, the screaming, and the gathering climax.
She screamed, bucked, rocked, exploded in orgasm that shook her to a trembling mess as he grunted in release, unleashing inside her, satisfying them both with a repeated pulsation that slowed, calmed, and glowed. Brink lowered the cable, her mystery attacker cut the cable ties and gathered her in his arms, and she was pulled back into an embrace, too tired to do anything but breathe.
“I love you, baby” he said, and her mind struggled to connect the voice. Then, it came to her. Tom? Tom her neighbour, who lived across the hall from her apartment and was recently married to Gill. They were a pleasant young couple who…
“Gemma?” Tom brushed her hair from her face and she opened her eyes. Instead of love, lust or arousal, all she saw was the dawning horror of realisation as Tom quickly undid the straps from the back of her head. “Oh my God, Gemma?”
“What’s up?” Brink returned to view, counting a wad of cash. “Abduction fantasy not all you thought it was?”
“This isn’t my wife!” Tom looked like he was about to vomit, “we live at number sixteen, you idiot! This girl lives at nineteen!”
“Dammit” Brink sagged, shaking his head in regret, “I KNEW I should have put my contact lenses in…”
PART THREE
(warning: this contains non-consensual erotic elements and non-consensual tickling)
The car drove sedately, gently, slowing down before traffic lights to maintain velocity and complete its entire journey without pause. Brink knew his roads, he could read traffic, and Gemma never once felt the car slow sufficiently for her to kick out with her bare feet and hammer on the inside of the trunk to attract the attention of any passing pedestrian.
Thoughts flooded her mind: where was she being taken? What would happen? As much as the fear built, so too did a surprising thought in her mind, an erotic fascination that robbed some of the fear and replaced it with other, more curious thoughts. Gemma had never tried bondage, liked being tickled but hadn’t had a boyfriend since coming to the city. No, she thought, this was serious: she could die, she could disappear, and anything could happen to her between that moment and her inevitable demise.
The car climbed in elevation, winding back on roads that left the noise of the city far behind. She shifted, the bare skin of her posterior rubbing on the carpet in the trunk as she tried to rub her jeans back up her legs with friction, to no avail. With her pubic hair and rear cheeks on display, she felt isolated, violated, and helpless.
The car crawled over gravel and stopped, the engine turned off, and silence fought with the hammering of her heart, the stifled breath behind her gag, and the sound of the night insects in the trees. The car door opened, a weight left the vehicle, and the door slammed. He crunched away- that wasn’t good: if he made her walk on gravel in bare feet, it would be painful. Somewhere, a door slid open and he disappeared inside. She kicked out, groaned through her gag, kicked out even more and began to make as much noise as she could in the hope that someone, anyone, would hear her.
Footsteps returned, the boot unlatched, and suddenly she could see out. Brink stood above her, gathering her legs and pulling them out. He unlaced the rope around her ankles, then her knees, tried to pull her jeans back up but they were tight, so he sighed and changed direction. Powerless to stop him, she could only kick feebly as he pulled the hem of the jeans over her bare ankles, seized the fabric and tugged hard. The jeans slid down her legs and off, and despite her groan of protest, he pulled her underwear down after, tugging them off her feet.
“Lets’ get you out” he ordered, helping her from the trunk to stand, hands still zip-tied behind and naked but for her bra and t-shirt. The ground was, as predicted, painful underfoot and he led her hopping, gingerly stepping across the ground, mewling in painful protest towards the door of a log cabin and the steps that led down to a basement. Her myopia prevented her from seeing anything around them but darkness, though her ears told her they were in the hills overlooking the city, within a forest.
Down wooden steps they went into a concrete floored room with exposed wooden batons on the walls and supporting beams above. Candles in red glass holders cast a dim, flickering light, and the centre of the floor was dominated by a soft, inch-thick plastic padded mat on which he led her. Swinging from the overhead beam was a cable and a carabiner, and he guided her backwards to lock her wrist ties in place before he withdrew to a handle on the wall. A wheel turned, clicking a ratchet, and the cable retracted sufficiently to draw Gemma up onto her toes. Brink returned with a blindfold. Gemma shook her head but he played the game until he could fasten it about her eyes and tied it behind her skull.
He suddenly attacked her ribs, drawing mirth from her gagged mouth once more, scrabbling fingers up and down, stroking her bare ass cheeks, gently tickling the back of her knees and kneading the patella, and whilst she gyrated on her bare toes, he dragged fingertips across her bare feet. His fingers graced up her ankles, tickled her calves, past her knees and up her thighs until suddenly, his fingers slipped inside her clitoris and she gasped, more in surprise than with any ticklish sensation.
Brink grabbed her hips and squeezed, watching as she convulsed, screaming against the gag as his fingers searched every inch of her stomach, ribs, and occasionally slipped down to stroke her womanhood with gentle pressure. She laughed behind the gag, cried behind the blindfold, and felt arousal building within. What kind of sick game was he playing? She barely had time to react to one type of tickling when he changed target and invoked a whole new feeling of helpless laughter or arousal that built, wave upon wave, a slave to his desires and helpless to his hands.
He stopped and lifted her t-shirt away from her skin and something grated, metal on metal. Seconds passed before she realised he was cutting her t-shirt away and only when the scissors touched her shoulder did she protest, but by then it was too late. The tattered garment was pulled away, her bra unclasped, and with inevitable snips, her bra fell from her body. Naked, suspended on her toes, Gemma tried to plead behind her gag but he attacked her again, tickling her legs until she stamped in frustration, slipping his hand inside her clitoris until she grunted and panted, and stroking her breasts, kneading her ribs and tickling her neck to give her no respite.
“She’s all yours” Brink said, although his hands continued his assault. She was building in perspiration and arousal as a new set of feet stepped onto the mat and Brink slipped away. New hands grasped her from behind, spread her legs, and something warm and resilient pushed inside her clitoris, partly withdrew, and pushed forward again. She could sense the naked man behind her, feel the violation of his manhood deep within and still she laughed as her new assailant tickled her ribs whilst he penetrated her again and again, making her pant with arousal between the laughter, the screaming, and the gathering climax.
She screamed, bucked, rocked, exploded in orgasm that shook her to a trembling mess as he grunted in release, unleashing inside her, satisfying them both with a repeated pulsation that slowed, calmed, and glowed. Brink lowered the cable, her mystery attacker cut the cable ties and gathered her in his arms, and she was pulled back into an embrace, too tired to do anything but breathe.
“I love you, baby” he said, and her mind struggled to connect the voice. Then, it came to her. Tom? Tom her neighbour, who lived across the hall from her apartment and was recently married to Gill. They were a pleasant young couple who…
“Gemma?” Tom brushed her hair from her face and she opened her eyes. Instead of love, lust or arousal, all she saw was the dawning horror of realisation as Tom quickly undid the straps from the back of her head. “Oh my God, Gemma?”
“What’s up?” Brink returned to view, counting a wad of cash. “Abduction fantasy not all you thought it was?”
“This isn’t my wife!” Tom looked like he was about to vomit, “we live at number sixteen, you idiot! This girl lives at nineteen!”
“Dammit” Brink sagged, shaking his head in regret, “I KNEW I should have put my contact lenses in…”
