to protect her, I know it will take time for her to accept her fate. In the coming weeks she’ll move through predictable stages, much like the stages of grief: shock, anger, fear, even bargaining. Eventually, she’ll realize that she depends on me – requires me -- for her day-to-day, most basic needs. Then will come the final stage, a coup de grace that is to be savored and celebrated: acceptance. Her will to survive will break down her resistance and bring her walls crashing down. That’s my favorite part—the giving over of her will.
I straighten the cuffs on my tailored shirt as I peer through the door’s window pane. It’s interesting to watch her as she shuffles across the floor on her knees, blindfolded—the chains on her feet and wrists impede her attempts to move about freely. Her wrists are bruised and bloodied from her attempts to free herself, her vision hampered by a blindfold. And yet she fights. My brave girl.
My previous staged kidnap fantasy scenes have taught me some important lessons. For example, I cuffed her hands behind her back to ensure the blindfold stays in place. After the ‘big reveal’ when I remove the blindfold, I’ll cuff her hands in front of her as a show of good faith on my part. It’s all a matter of trust. Baby steps…
The manacles stop her before she gets to the bottom of the steps that lead up to the main part of the house. Her shoulders slump dejectedly. My cock stirs to life at the sight of her; she has enchanted me and I find that I cannot look away. I have reduced her universe to only these four walls and me. I am the creator of her whole world.
She’s different than the others, it’s why I knew I had to rescue her. Her fighting spirit has definitely won me over. I knew she was different the moment I laid eyes on her. Every day I know with unwavering certainty, I can never release her. If my noble intentions don’t endear me to her, surely Stockholm syndrome will eventually compel her to bond with me—her captor.
We are two people in the same sea of fucked up dysfunction. We have been brought together for such a time as this. Had it not been for me, she would have certainly met her demise last night. I was barely able to rescue her, and the thought of that sick fuck having her…well, I would have killed him before I ever would have let that happen.
Her head jerks in the direction of the stairwell when she hears the door hinges creak. She goes absolutely still except for her head swiveling back and forth as she tries to gain some sense of direction.
“Who’s there?”
She probably thinks he has her. Will she be happy when she finds out it’s me? Somehow I doubt she’ll be anything but pissed off. There will, however, probably be some degree of relief that she’s with me instead of with Lance’s groupie.
This initial ‘getting to know you’ phase has always been one of my favorites, depending on how well my various playmates performed. I loved every carefully scripted, meticulously choreographed moment, but to experience it as an authentic moment is simply…intoxicating.
Breathing in slowly, deeply, I catch a trace of her scent and let my head drop back, eyes closed. So good. Three years is a long time to go without. Anticipation has rendered me lightheaded -- probably from all the blood rushing south.
“Now, who else would be here, my love?” I whisper gently as I step over to her and remove the blindfold. I am setting the stage for her to see me as her only source of stability, the one who rescued her from the dark forces that had gathered around her.
She blinks, having difficulty tolerating the room’s muted lighting after hours of darkness.
“Were you trying to escape?” I whisper indulgently.
“No, no. Wh-who are…” she whimpers tentatively.
I reach down, grab her chin, and squeeze. “Don’t. Lie. To. Me.”
She sits back on her haunches and swallows awkwardly, licking her lips. The rolling motion of her throat muscles makes
I straighten the cuffs on my tailored shirt as I peer through the door’s window pane. It’s interesting to watch her as she shuffles across the floor on her knees, blindfolded—the chains on her feet and wrists impede her attempts to move about freely. Her wrists are bruised and bloodied from her attempts to free herself, her vision hampered by a blindfold. And yet she fights. My brave girl.
My previous staged kidnap fantasy scenes have taught me some important lessons. For example, I cuffed her hands behind her back to ensure the blindfold stays in place. After the ‘big reveal’ when I remove the blindfold, I’ll cuff her hands in front of her as a show of good faith on my part. It’s all a matter of trust. Baby steps…
The manacles stop her before she gets to the bottom of the steps that lead up to the main part of the house. Her shoulders slump dejectedly. My cock stirs to life at the sight of her; she has enchanted me and I find that I cannot look away. I have reduced her universe to only these four walls and me. I am the creator of her whole world.
She’s different than the others, it’s why I knew I had to rescue her. Her fighting spirit has definitely won me over. I knew she was different the moment I laid eyes on her. Every day I know with unwavering certainty, I can never release her. If my noble intentions don’t endear me to her, surely Stockholm syndrome will eventually compel her to bond with me—her captor.
We are two people in the same sea of fucked up dysfunction. We have been brought together for such a time as this. Had it not been for me, she would have certainly met her demise last night. I was barely able to rescue her, and the thought of that sick fuck having her…well, I would have killed him before I ever would have let that happen.
Her head jerks in the direction of the stairwell when she hears the door hinges creak. She goes absolutely still except for her head swiveling back and forth as she tries to gain some sense of direction.
“Who’s there?”
She probably thinks he has her. Will she be happy when she finds out it’s me? Somehow I doubt she’ll be anything but pissed off. There will, however, probably be some degree of relief that she’s with me instead of with Lance’s groupie.
This initial ‘getting to know you’ phase has always been one of my favorites, depending on how well my various playmates performed. I loved every carefully scripted, meticulously choreographed moment, but to experience it as an authentic moment is simply…intoxicating.
Breathing in slowly, deeply, I catch a trace of her scent and let my head drop back, eyes closed. So good. Three years is a long time to go without. Anticipation has rendered me lightheaded -- probably from all the blood rushing south.
“Now, who else would be here, my love?” I whisper gently as I step over to her and remove the blindfold. I am setting the stage for her to see me as her only source of stability, the one who rescued her from the dark forces that had gathered around her.
She blinks, having difficulty tolerating the room’s muted lighting after hours of darkness.
“Were you trying to escape?” I whisper indulgently.
“No, no. Wh-who are…” she whimpers tentatively.
I reach down, grab her chin, and squeeze. “Don’t. Lie. To. Me.”
She sits back on her haunches and swallows awkwardly, licking her lips. The rolling motion of her throat muscles makes
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