The cellar, although not cold, felt as if it ought to be. It was gloomy, with a dim
ceiling light casting long shadows of the sparse furniture over the stone walls. Along one
wall, incongruously, squatted a large dentist’s chair. Somewhat out of place in such
surroundings a woman reclined on it, graceful and feline in a black leather catsuit.
Although her upper face was obscured by a mask, the olive skin of her hands indicated her
Eastern origins. Further, the glinting black eyes and thin lips gave an indication of
dominance, harshness and cruelty. Not the sort of woman one would want to cross or to be
at her mercy. Currently, however, she was totally relaxed, eating a Chinese take-away meal
and watching television. Her demeanour was in total contrast to the only other occupant of
the room.
The obvious sophistication and beauty of the other woman was only slightly marred
by a despairing look on her pretty face, which was surrounded by a cascade of long dark
hair. In her mid twenties and thus a few years younger than the masked woman, she was in
some discomfort and there were several potential reasons for this.
Perhaps it was because she was holding above her head the small television being
viewed by her relaxed companion, her quivering arm muscles testifying to the strain of
doing so. Perhaps it was because she was hungry. Embarrassing rumbles emanated from her
flat belly as the aroma from the other woman's meal drifted over her, causing her tongue
to occasionally lick her full, sensuous lips. Added to her discomfort was the fact that
she was naked beneath a man's white shirt and, with her raised arms, a pair of magnificent
breasts threatened to burst free from the constraint of the buttons.
The posture of her raised arms and splayed legs was also revealing. It lifted the
shirt to reveal, at the front, the glory of her mauve sex in its furry mound. From the
rear was visible the lower half of the perfect roundness of her buttocks pouting cheekily.
Across those magnificent globes run a couple of fading red lines, rather out of place on a
woman of such obvious sophistication - a testament to a beating.
Finally, a length of chain snaked from the cellar's furthest wall to ensnare one of
the woman's slim white ankles in a plastic and iron hoop. It was her principle problem.
Not only did it, at full stretch, prevent her getting within a metre of the cellar door
and freedom, it also contained an electric circuit which the relaxing woman could activate
by remote control. It is mainly because of this that the victim continued her pointless
task of holding the television aloft for the past hour whilst her tormentor watched her
favourite 'soap.'
"Aarghh!" she suddenly yelped, jerking her ankle as the other woman's brown finger
moved slightly on her remote control switch. The portable television wobbled dangerously
on the surge of brief pain before she heaved it aloft again on aching arms.
"Arms straighter - lazy slut!" The sharp command came from the relaxing woman in a
crisp Turkish accent and brooks no dissent. Immediately the flagging arms again held the
television higher. "Remember, I am your worst nightmare. I don't want to be forced to
operate on you again but I shall do so if I don't get proper obedience, or if your husband
doesn't co-operate," the voice snapped.
The standing woman winced, involuntarily clamping her mouth shut, the anguish on
her beautiful face an obvious recollection of some unhappy event. She also knew - after
two days as a hostage - that even forgetting the presence of the ankle band, her captor
has greater physical strength than herself and could beat her in a fight. That has not,
however, prevented her considering a desperate plan to throw the television at the
smirking face. The problem was that the bitch never carried with her a key to the ankle
lock. Even if her aim was good the Turkish woman would probably still have time to thumb
the remote control, sending shards of pain into her foot. And even if she somehow managed
to kill her tormentor, she would be trapped here forever! There was no way out.
***
At approximately the same time as the woman stood in silent misery in the cellar a
man, many miles away, gazed at a photograph of her. He was tall and grey-haired, exuding a
certain presence and sense of power. This was borne out by the plush surroundings of his
expensive and well-equipped study, tastefully filled with mahogany furniture padded with
deep soft leather.
He gazed fondly at the large upright photograph standing proudly on the highly
polished desk. It showed the beautiful woman posing provocatively for the camera against
the backdrop of a lush tropical island. Unlike her current predicament, in the photograph
she was relaxed and happy. Her large brown eyes sparkled in the heart-shaped face.
Sunlight danced through long, dark glossy hair that cascaded richly to brush the smooth
lines of her bare bronzed shoulders.
She was wearing only a skimpy blue bikini designed to display rather than conceal
the curves of the gorgeous 25 year old body to which it clung like a second skin. The 36b
breasts thrust proudly towards the camera with the indentations of her nipples peeking
through the material like two buttons. Posing hands on her hips, turned almost coyly half
away from the camera, the rounded dip of her spine was visible, panning out to form the
swelling of each deliciously curved cheek of her bottom, clearly visible through the thin
material of the swimsuit. However, any possible shyness in the pose was countered by the
promise in the flashing white smile and the expectation in the wide eyes.
The photograph suggested a beautiful, rich, sensuous young playgirl used to
enjoying herself to the full. For the hundredth time he turned the photo over to read the
message on the back. In a clear bold hand it read:
'All this for you, my darling husband John.'
The man sighed, turning his eyes to the bulky brown envelope beside the photo, the
writing on which, although somewhat shaky, was in the same slender hand as the lazy
scrawl. It was in contrast simply addressed with a computerised label, 'John.'
A typewritten note was pinned to the envelope:
'You may be interested to hear from your wife. Do not tell or show anyone, her
safety depends on it. She has been naughty and is now paying the price - as you must too.
She may have strayed, or perhaps been lured would be more appropriate, but now she is
ours. We decide when and if she eats, sleeps, if she is dressed, has sex or is punished.
That cannot be pleasant for a man such as yourself who likes to be in control.
I'm also sure you wouldn't want news to get out that your darling wife had a minor
fling and has been kidnapped, also for your bedroom secrets and any transgressions in your
private life to be made public - especially with you trying right now for a knighthood. As
an indication of possible intent, I enclose a chipping from one of her teeth, get it DNA
matched if you doubt us. Also her pretty little bra and panties - she doesn't need them
whilst she is with us - together with photographic evidence of her capture. All of her
teeth will follow, followed by other tasty morsels if you fail to obey any demands. To
minimise your wife's suffering you will now prepare an electronic transfer for 2 million
pounds. You will be given account details within a week and you will then have exactly one
hour to transmit the credit. You know who is responsible for the kidnapping and have our
undertaking that afterwards no more money will be demanded, also that she will not be
killed. More later.'
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