Once upon an abduction… Part 2

This post is part four of a week long series entitled “Looking Back”. They are a few pages from our ‘photo albums’ that I wanted to write about as john and I celebrate 10 years of living in a kinky power exchange. We hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks so much for reading and for sharing your comments with us.






I’m about to tangle with a grand inquisitor and I am aroused?

And so it began. German guy wanted the numbers and I told him to go fuck himself. I heard his heavily laden sigh, and he mentioned something about feeling regret that this was my answer, but he has been prepared for such a response. There was a moment of still. Of quiet. I was left with my own anticipation, and it built to heights I didn’t know were possible.

I don’t know exactly how long the torture went on, but I do know it was many hours. Back and forth it went…..the inquisitor playing both good cop and bad cop. I resisted. For hours, I resisted. The thought of giving that bastard anything that John trusted me with broke my soul.

Others helped too. The hands that abused were many. I remember crying deeply at times….my tears and snot covering my face beneath the hood. Occasionally a straw was pushed up to my mouth where I could suck in water, which I did. Sometimes I hungrily swallowed that water, and other times I tried to spit it at them through the hood.

Other times I yelled, defiant and deeply angry.


I would sob…..You are not getting jack shit from me!

But that is hard to maintain when your naked thighs are tied open to a wooden chair, and you are caned so often, so precisely, you start to tremble on top of your trembles.

I think it was the nipple torture that eventually did me in. It was such a small part of my body, so sensitive and sweet….and it was enduring things I had never even imagined.

I gave some of the numbers. I gave fake numbers to that account. The German would leave and check those numbers, determining quickly that I was lying.  I would be badly beaten for those lies.

And so it cycled.

Eventually, I just couldn’t do it any more.

What I remember so vividly was that my brain told me when it was enough. I felt it. My body shook from the abuse. I could both feel and tell that others were checking on me….more water, hands and feet being examined,  ropes adjusted. But it was my brain that waved a white flag. It was looking out for me. It said that I was done. My body was aching in every possible way, my mind had been distorted and tested, but in the end, it provided.

I gave the numbers. One by one, I recited those numbers. By the end of that series, I was crying with every ounce of heart. I was so broken to give those away. I felt as though I was giving away trust. I was breaking that inner circle he had let me into. I was not strong enough to protect his Swiss secret. I could no longer lift my head off my own chest, my collapse was complete.

“Good girl”, I heard in soft, tender German.

And that was that. Within seconds, all those hands untied me. The hood was left in place, but I was guided tenderly to a big bed that was very nearby, and naked, I was laid upon it. Bodies immediately were pressed against mine as a blanket covered us all.

Slowly, the hood was removed, my eyes blinking, my skin flinching. I opened my eyes as slowly as I could. In front of me was John’s beaming face….his eyes searching my own with joy and pride and pleasure.

I looked around me, and all I could see was a wall of smiling people. My abductors. My captors. My torturers. My friends.

“Happy Birthday!”, they said. “Happy, happy birthday, Chloe!”

I cried and smiled and laughed and then the abduction crew went upstairs for cocktails while John touched me, hugged me, tended to my many bruises and then fucked me beautifully. I fell asleep in his arms still hearing his German accent echo in my head “Good girl, Chloe. Good girl.”

The guy at the bar? The one who sat near us, the one I thought was checking us out? Yeah, he was in on it too. He was the one who took the parking garage pass from John in order to move and hide John’s car. I never did find out who he was.

About 9 months before this abduction took place, John and I negotiated an abduction and had me sign a release. It was a kinky release, he explained, in case a scene we were doing ever went wrong. Each abductor carried a copy of the release “just in case”. It was a consent form, basically, so that no one would get arrested. That is how long this abduction had been in the works.

Oh, and there is no Swiss bank account. He is not secretly rich. But as my birthday slowly approaches he keeps talking about his “Cayman Island” paperwork.


I get a very calm, quiet, deeply satisfying sense of pleasure when my boy is suffering to the point that he is whimpering or moaning, or even stifling a scream, and I catch those sounds in my open and seeking mouth.

I often don’t start out to intentionally cause pain to my boy. Some animals hunt their prey for the pleasure or exercise of the hunt, not intending to cause misery to their victims.

Some stalk in order to sharpen their prowesses.

And it’s true that animals don’t always intend to devour their prey because they didn’t have devouring in mind when they started. But it is as though some switch gets triggered when the writhing of the victim begins. When the sounds of distress start to rise from the restricted throat, and beautiful eyes widen in alarm and fear, the instinct to subdue or silence overtakes and it is with my own open mouth that I catch his lament.

I am one of those animals at times.

But it doesn’t often begin that way.

Not at all.

There are times when my boy and I lay together in bed, entwined in tangled sheets, buried beneath late afternoon covers, surrounded by down pillows in crisp cotton cases. Often we find ourselves there in order to share a tender embrace or because I have allowed him the  semi-sleepy time he so enjoys on a Saturday morning and I climb back into the bed in order to get him out of it.

I like these times. My boy is sweet in the way he likes to pass moments with his face pressed against my breast.  Sometimes we lay cheek to cheek, me enjoying the masculinity of his beard while his hand seeks the curve of my breast. I see us from above, I can envision what we look like….and if we’re lucky, we have timed our siesta so that it matches the afternoon sun coming through our windows, splashing warmth across our bed. I have always loved the smell of him, the taste of him. He is water to me….clean, soft, a taste that holds nothing and everything at the same time.

Kissing him is pure pleasure. It is romantic and sexual delight. It is often our gateway drug if we have the time to indulge in its pleasures.

That is often the trigger for me. That kissing. That deep, exploring kissing where I taste wind and water as I drink him in for more.


It will start this way, and everything about us is focused on this moment.

My hand will wander to his chest, my most favorite spot on his body. My fingertips will trace all his familiar angles and curves. I will encircle a nipple and tug at it lightly. I will find the other and do the same.

The tugging becomes less tugging and more clamping. One small, lovely nipple between two well aimed finger tips.

The clamping becomes pinching, ever so slowly. I steer him away from the discomfort by deepening the kiss. I make him pay attention to my own mouth consuming his.

But soon he struggles to concentrate because that tiny nipple is now trapped between two manicured nails that I sink more deeply into his tender flesh.

I press. I dig. I express no movement at all except to press two small tips into one small place, and yet the pain for him becomes enormous.

This is what I like to swallow. This is the pure waters he offers me…..his suffering.

I take large mouthfuls of his discomfort.

And sometimes if the pain is significant enough….if my fingertips torture cock instead of nipples….the wailing spills out and over the edges of his lips, my swallowing mouth unable to keep up with the cascading fall of sound.

I will ease off the pressure long enough to finish cleaning up the spill of agony and to administer some sexual healing. Talons become feathers, pinching becomes caressing, digging becomes stroking.

Tortured panting becomes soft panting.

Eyes that begged me to stop now implore me to continue.

He is what I love to consume. These entangled moments between us may not last but for a few moments, but they are a delight for me. Many times, the more I drink of his suffering, the more thirsty I become.

So much blissful agony from the smallest of touches.

I can get drunk on such pleasures.