Vanishing Act 4

by Richard Alexander (Gromets Plaza)

(story continues from Vanishing Act 3)

8
8
Vanishing Act
Chapter four
8
You don’t have to be Albert Einstein to conclude that the preceding events were what swayed me in my decision to move to Brisbane.  The thought of leaving Graham and the horrible memories of that night were just too appealing, all wrapped up in a new start with a permanent job.

But all that came later, of course.  Before that I had to wake up wondering where I was and why I felt so uncomfortable.  Then the recollection came flooding back of my night at Graham’s, and the reason for the chain around my waist and between my legs.  There were more tears before I called work and told them I would be a little late.  The lateness was of course the time taken to go to the local hardware store and buy a pair of bolt cutters of adequate capacity to rid myself of the chains.

Then there was the phone call to Brisbane, the finalisation of arrangements, and six weeks later I had relocated.  It was another couple of months before I bought my new house.  The job was working out well and I felt comfortable enough in my new hometown to decide to buy, rather than rent.  The legacy from my parents was finally put to good use and at the age of 34 I became a mortgage-free house-owner.

I liked Brisbane.  It didn’t have the pretensions of Sydney, nor the number of people, and the size was such that you could get out of the city easily – provided it wasn’t at rush hour.  I bought a house in Taringa, not far from my work.  The house was fifteen years old, and like many houses in Queensland possessed an enormous balcony designed for indoor-outdoor living.  It was here I hung a hammock and installed a barbecue, and the area became the focal point for my relaxation.  There was enough of a garden for me to take an interest in – some palms and a jacaranda tree and a heap of giant ginger plants standing twice as tall as I did – but nothing that required too much maintenance.  In amongst all this was a small swimming pool that I knew I would live in over the long summer months.

I loved the Brisbane winter too, the end of which I experienced when I arrived.  The days were crisp, cool and dry – with just enough chill to warrant a jumper on my early morning walks to the park where I did several circuits before returning home for half an hour of Tai Chi on the balcony.  This, I decided, was where I wanted to be.

The job proved pretty typical, but the practice was thriving and the people were nice.  I began to slip into a routine that consciously avoided social contacts, for I knew it was going to take a long time before I could trust people again.  B & D was definitely out, I decided.  I still emailed Ash on a regular basis, but I couldn’t bring myself to explain what had happened to me in Sydney.  He knew I had moved to Brisbane, but despite his gentle questions, I was not prepared to start a relationship nor meet him.  I wanted to do things in my own time and he seemed to be understanding of this.  I spoke to him a couple of times, on the mobile, but by and large we kept in touch by email, letting each other know the small inconsequential things we did as part of our daily lives.

Ash knew something had happened, although I never gave him details, wishing instead to push the memory of that terrible night as far as possible into that part of my mind where things were not readily accessible.  Ash at least had enough sense not to pursue that line once he cottoned on that I had undergone somewhat of a lifestyle change.  Sometimes our emails would touch on the B & D scene but I was still going through a period of confusion in my feelings towards men in general, never mind whether I wanted some sort of bondage relationship with one of them in particular.  I still found it hard to accept that I had mis-read Graham so badly, and that beneath his charming exterior was someone – or some thing – that I had missed totally, and that this person had done the appalling things to me against my wishes.  The possibility of making some sort of complaint to the police never entered my mind. Even if I could somehow prove that the bondage that I had willingly entered into – that I had actually locked on myself – had all been a mistake, I doubted that there was any chance of proving my objection to what had subsequently happened.  And the thought of having the details painted across the Sydney tabloids was more horrific than what I had actually experienced and now wanted to forget.  No, in this case I was pragmatic enough to recognise that this was a time when principles took a back seat to getting on with life.

And life did go on.  The opportunity arose to attend a conference in Seattle which I jumped at, even though it meant paying a large chunk of the airfare myself.  Amongst the subjects for discussion were some around which I had based my thesis at University, and I began to gear myself up for this exciting turn of events, even though it was still three months away. 
That was when I got my first little surprise.

*   *   *

The first email was an anonymous e-card.  It was like one that you can order up through various web sites, except that the content was a departure from the ordinary birthday or Christmas cards.  It was unsigned and contained no message.  It showed a picture of a naked woman, her back to the observer, viewed through an arched and barred window that looked vaguely Spanish or Middle Eastern.  The woman had dark hair and although she was slightly turned towards the window, her face and breasts were not visible through the bars.  Her arms were behind her, and her wrists might have been tied, were they visible beneath a few sprays of pink climbing roses intertwining with the bars.

It was quite an arty – not to say suggestive – card, and it unsettled me with its overtones of captivity, not to mention the fact that there was no indication who it was from or what its purpose was.  I was going to delete it, but decided not to, just because I rather liked it.

Two days later another email arrived.  This one looked like an ordinary email of the junky spam type that sometimes find their way through the ISP’s network.
From: MdeS @ BandD.com. au
Subject: Submissives wanted
Need some direction in your life?  Need some obedience training?  Do you like to struggle futilely against an overwhelming urge, inescapable desires and tightly confining ropes?
You know you want to give in.  You know you want to feel that cord on your wrists and ankles, those chains about your body, that inability to articulate.  Respond and submit now.

I stared at the email, trying to work out where it had come from.  It looked like the typical spam mailing thing that clutters up the lines, advertising teen sex and hot chicks.  But this was so specific it unsettled me.  I had not really thought about this side of my life for some time.  I was still endeavouring to put my Sydney experience behind me, and what with the new job, the new house, moving and all manner of other lifestyle changes, B & D had receded into the background.  I had not heard from Ash for a week or so, and even his emails had slipped into more everyday conversations about daily events.  Now the whole thing suddenly came roaring back, and the feel of ropes binding my ankles and wrists became vividly real again.

And yes, I confess, it did send a little tingle up my spine when I thought of it outside the context of that last fateful night in Graham’s dungeon.  But was this a coincidence?  How could I find out if this was spam mail?  I didn’t know.  I deleted it, making the assumption that it was junk and that the deletion would be the end of it.
The following evening I sat down at the computer to check my emails.  It was a warm balmy evening and the doors to the balcony were open, letting a gentle breeze take the edge off the start of the summer humidity.  It was nearly Christmas and the temperature had reached the balmy high twenties.

There was another email from MdeS.
This time there was a photo.  It showed a woman kneeling on a white sheepskin.  She was in her twenties, blonde and gorgeous with a figure most women would die for – breasts that were her own and a waistline to go with them.  She was naked and bound with black leather straps in a kind of harness that wrapped around her body, pinioning her arms.  Her wrists were behind her, presumably strapped in the same manner.  Her legs were secured with more straps at the ankles and above the knees.  A complex head harness of black straps secured a bright red rubber ball in her mouth.  A tiny ribbon of saliva was hanging from one corner of her mouth as she looked up at someone out of the picture.  Her eyes were brown and wide – an expression not of fear, but of…worship?  Longing? Anticipation?  I couldn’t tell, but I confess the photo stirred me. 

The photo was of high quality, and as I scrolled it down it showed every detail of the bound woman.  The photo was probably twice the size of my screen and I could see a tiny mole on the otherwise unblemished skin.  Then I saw the message.
“Wouldn’t you like to try this, Jan?”
I nearly freaked at that point.  This was no spam mail.  Somebody had got my email address and was targeting me.
I looked up, distracted by the drapes rustling in the night wind.  I walked across and closed the french doors, looking out on the street as I did so.  I felt suddenly terribly vulnerable, as though I had seen someone peering in at my window.  My private place of refuge was all at once not so private and not so safe.

There was only one person I could think of who might be doing this, and that was Ash.  Since leaving Sydney I had changed Internet Service Providers and had a new email address.  My foray into alt.com had ended and I had left my Sydney life behind.  Which only left Ash who knew my current email and who understood my secret B & D desires. 
I didn’t know what to do – whether to challenge Ash outright or to reply through the MdeS address.   Did not like confrontations and opted for the latter.  I wanted to be sure before I challenged Ash, and didn’t know how to go about that.  My message was short and to the point.  Any further emails from this source would be deleted without being opened.  If there were any further developments the police would be called.

For three days nothing happened.  I went about my business, my early morning runs, or shopping at the supermarket as though nothing had happened.  But I was uneasy, still.  It was like unresolved business, when something needs to be done but it is beyond your power to take the action necessary.  It was like walking a snow-clad valley, wondering if there was an avalanche lurking on the mountain above you, waiting for the trigger that would send it hurtling down.

Then came another email, to which I gave the deletion treatment.  Further emails followed for nearly a week, one per day, all of which got deleted.  I heard nothing from Ash during this period, and did not contact him.  I was coping - albeit in a frustrated and unnerved manner, until I opened one of the emails by mistake, clicking on the ‘open’ option instead of the ‘delete’.  It was a video clip, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

It was again high quality and in fine detail.  This one was not an Australian setting.  Clearly the sender had down-loaded it from a European website, which I guess told me something, namely that it was not a video the sender had taken himself (for I had no doubt that this person was a male.)  The subject was a woman in a dungeon, and it looked like a real dungeon, not one of your phoney brick veneer jobs.  These stone walls were old and weathered.  The place looked like it was open to the sky somehow, judging from the light and the moss growing in cracks and crevices in the stonework.  The camera panned briefly and I saw that the woman was imprisoned within the ruins of what must have been an old castle.  Part of the walls had been destroyed, but the majority of the four walls of the room still stood, albeit with no roof.

The first shot was from outside, zooming in through the rusting bars of a heavy vertical grille that served as a window.  Beyond, in the stone prison, was the woman.  I recognised her as the one in the photo that had previously been emailed.  I watched, fascinated by her predicament and unable to bring myself to turn off the clip. 
She was naked, save for what must have been some very expensive hardware from a metal fabricator, and this was one lady who was not going to get loose in a hurry.  The shot stopped at this point and began again inside the cell and much closer to the prisoner, doing a slow shot beginning at her feet and panning upwards.

The woman was barefoot with her ankles secured in stainless steel cuffs bolted shut.  Between her legs was a steel pole about 5 centimetres in diameter obviously cast in concrete in the ground.  I could see little more than this at first, in the close-up of her feet, except that each ankle fetter was attached by a very short chain – only a few links – horizontally to the pole.  There were no locks to be seen.  The cuffs appeared to be permanently fixed to the chains, which were in turn attached to the pole.  The only way of release was to unbolt the cuffs themselves, it appeared.
The camera moved upward, following the pole.  I noticed the woman was on tiptoes momentarily, as though stretched for a few seconds, then lowered.  I saw the reason for this as the pole merged into a huge stainless steel dildo that disappeared into her pussy, the base of it appearing and vanishing as she raised and lowered herself on her toes.  The plot was becoming clearer, I thought.

Around her waist was a stainless steel band, about as wide as my hand.  At each side a wrist was secured to the band by a single link attaching a steel manacle to a U-shaped lug on the steel belt.  Her wrist cuffs, like those on her ankles, and the belt itself, were bolted in place, and looked to fit very snugly.  Her hands, with their black-painted nails, were clenching and unclenching, fluttering about trying to go somewhere, but their range of movement was minimal in their steel cuffs.  Clearly the restraints had been made to deliberately allow some movement, whereas they could have been made much more rigid.  Perhaps this was simply a mind game, allowing just that smidgen of freedom…

Continuing upward I saw that her breasts had been clamped by steel bands, one vertically about each base.  These had the effect of making them bulge like small balloons and must have been very uncomfortable.  These bands were linked between the breasts and were further held in place by another steel band about her body, like some sort of bizarre bra.  Not content with this confinement, however, the master metalworker had installed small circular clamps on the woman’s bulging nipples.  These must have gone on first, I marvelled, for the nipples were hard and distended, trapped by the clamps which encircled them like tiny thumb screws, leaving the very tips protruding like the red buds of a silver flower.

Predictably, the clamps were joined by a short length of delicate small-linked chain, which was centrally linked to another chain, which disappeared upwards out of the picture.  The camera continued in the same direction, leading up to the gag the prisoner wore.  It was not unlike a leather head harness except that again it was all in stainless steel, with a horizontal band around at forehead level, and another running from the back of the neck over the top of the mass of blonde hair, down to the nose, where it divided and crossed each cheek to meet the mouth-cover.  There was nothing to be seen of what packing might be filling the poor creature’s mouth, for the whole of her lower face was concealed beneath a steel mask which extended below her chin to cover he entire lower jaw.  This mask was secured with a further band behind her neck.
On the front of the mask, just where the mouth would normally be, was another U-lug, to which was locked a fine chain, again disappearing upwards.  The woman’s head was tilted upwards, looking quite strained, and made moreso as she lowered herself with each movement of her feet.

The camera finished the shot, tilting upwards to an old timber beam high above.  It looked like a remnant of an upper floor long since decayed.  Hanging from it was a small pulley, over which the chain from the gag passed, before descending to attach to the nipple clamps.  The woman could ease the pressure on her neck and nipples as she stood on tiptoes, but to get relief for her feet she was obliged to lower herself to the full penetration of the dildo, which at the same time pulled on her face mask and nipples.  No doubt at the same time it gave her nice feelings in the crotch, as well, I thought.

The captive was making small moaning noises as she raised and lowered herself.  Those stunning brown eyes that had been so powerful in the previous photo were closed, and she was clearly lost in some other place.  Sub-space, I wondered?  Raising, lowering, raising lowering, her pace quickening slightly and her breathing doing likewise.  The picture turned fuzzy and faded as the clip came to an end.  I clicked back to the email itself.  There was just one line:
You know you want this, don’t you, Jan.

I sat there for a long while, looking at the message.  Then, as though it had a life of its own, my hand double clicked on the video again and I saw the impaled woman straining on the pole.  I realised my own nipples had hardened at the thought of what she must have been feeling and that realisation jerked me back to the present.  Whatever else I thought about the artistic merits of the video and the predicament of the prisoner, the fact remained that I was being…stalked by someone, albeit electronically.  But if this was going on now, what was the next step?  He would no doubt know I had opened this email with a notification to that effect and there was nothing I could do to alter that.

I saved the video clip but deleted the email.  I don’t know why. There was just something about that video that aroused me.  I went to bed that night with my mind filled with all manner of images and thoughts - excitement, fear, uncertainty, trepidation – all mixed up and interfering with each other.  I did not fall asleep until the small hours, but still awoke at my usual time of five thirty.

The memory of the previous night was still with me as I did my run to the park.  It was a small area of land, edged by a pathway alongside the Brisbane River.  In one corner there were some swings and a seesaw, and at a quarter to six on most mornings the place was deserted.
Like most people, I had a routine of a morning.  It began with a gentle jog to the park where I would do my stretches on a bench, then I would take the river path on a circuitous route back to my house. It was a pleasant start to the day, waking me up gently and allowing my mind to gradually come to grips with the world.  The riverside was always peaceful and it set me in the mood for my balcony Tai Chi.

This particular morning I was still overcoming the after-effects of the emailed video clip.  I resolved that I would be more careful about opening emails and that anything of that nature would be deleted unopened.  With this decision made, I decided to put last night behind me.  I was not going to let a few weird emails spoil my life.
There was a light dampness on the grass, the legacy of a brief overnight shower.  I made a slow circuit of the park and headed for the bench to do my stretches. 
A large buff-coloured envelope was on the seat with my name typed on a sticky label on the outside. 

I froze in shock, looking around for someone who might have left it, but there was no other person in view.  Gingerly, as though it might contain a bomb, I picked up the envelope.  It was heavy, and something clinked inside.  I looked about me again, then tore it open.  Inside was a pair of handcuffs, together with the keys.  A single piece of card contained the words:
Try them on – they’re your size.

Hurriedly, almost guiltily, I stuffed the envelope into the pocket of my track pants, my mind reeling from the implications of this discovery.  My exercises forgotten, I headed for the river path and made my way home almost unaware of my surroundings. 
The situation had taken a whole new turn.  Somebody was watching me.  Somebody somehow had found out where I lived.  They knew my routine.  They must have been there, in the park, that morning, ahead of me, for the envelope was only slightly damp on the back.  It had not been rained on.  They knew I came to the park every morning, which meant they knew my routine and no doubt my address.  I shivered and looked over my shoulder along the path, but there was nobody there.  I was starting to get the feeling I was being watched.

Opening the email the previous night had no doubt sent the notification to the sender that Jan Sherwood was looking at the video, and was obviously getting in the mood for the next stage of the plan, which I had just encountered.  The scary part was not just that this person knew my routine and address, but that some sort of a ‘plan’ existed.  I had the unnerving feeling that this was not just the random work of a crank but the next step in a calculated scheme designed to… what?  Where was this leading?  That was the terrifying thought.  I was heading into some sort of spiders web that I could see no obvious purpose behind.

I wondered if this was one of our clients.  In the medical business I met a lot of people and in the course of treatment we inevitably talked. Over a series of visits I would get to know a little about them, and they a little about me.  In the latter case I tried to keep my life relatively private, but I had always found that hard.  I might talk about my house, or the up-coming conference in Seattle.  Christmas was almost here and holidays were always a good topic for discussion.  Not that I was having any this year.  I was the newby in the practice, and not having any commitments like relatives or close friends, I had volunteered to be on call for emergencies.  There was never any shortage of people doing silly things over the holiday break.  And in any case, what with my three-week study break to Seattle in early January, I could not really afford time off over Christmas.

So was this somebody I had attended, someone to whom I had talked just a bit too much?  Mentally I flipped through the list of prospects, but identified nobody out of the ordinary.  And in any case, how could they possibly know about my fascination with B & D?  That was certainly something I hadn’t unloaded in a curtained cubicle with the rest of the practice in earshot.
My deliberations kept bringing me back to Ash.  He was the only one who knew of my predilection, although he did not know my address, nor were the emails obviously from his address, although that would have been easy enough to get round.  I resolved to raise the matter with him that night.

My mind was not on my work that day.  Patients (I could still not get past thinking of them as such, even in this politically correct world) commented that I seemed preoccupied.  I made up some lame excuses.
The incident in the park had suddenly made me very paranoid.  Everywhere I was looking for hidden meanings in what people said or the way they looked at me.  I drove home that evening looking in my rear view mirror for anyone following me, and I even cruised round the block checking parked cars for suspicious characters.  To say I was nervous would have been a pretty big understatement.

Entering the house now gave me the creeps, not because I didn’t feel at home, but because I felt vulnerable in my home.  I checked all the locks on the doors and windows, even looking under the beds.  That was how badly it had got to me.  Ordinarily I liked living by myself.  Now I wished I had a flatmate or someone to share the load.  Yes, I’m sure I would get a lot of takers in my present situation, I thought.  They’d be queuing up to share a house with the target of a stalker – not.
That evening I sat down at my desk.  The buff envelope was on top where I had left it on my return that morning.  I pulled out the cuffs and examined them, together with the piece of card.  Both the envelope and card were obviously the products of a computer printer, and I would never learn anything that way.  The handcuffs looked a cheap pair, not that I was any expert.  The wrist pieces were joined by a single link of chain which did not look especially strong and was not even fully welded.  I looked closely at it and suspected that it had been prised apart and possibly further links removed, to make the two manacles closer together. 

I closed the catches and examined how they worked.  Graham had used them on me a couple of times but I had never had the chance to look at them close up.  Next to each keyhole was a tiny lever that stopped the ratchet closing too tightly, I discovered.  I locked and unlocked them several times but didn’t try them on.  Something about them both excited and frightened me.

I emailed Ash, explaining what was happening and asking if he knew anything about it.  I did it as diplomatically as I could and awaited his reply.  I had turned my mobile off, for I did not want to get into a direct conversation with him that might become some sort of confrontation.  First I wanted to see what he had to say in print.
Suffice to say, Ash was all concern.  He flatly denied anything to do with any part of the whole business and asked if there was anything he could do to help.  Did I want to meet him somewhere? Had I considered going to the police? Did I want to talk about it to a friendly face?

Maybe I did – a problem shared and all that.  But I had not met Ash as yet, and I wasn’t ready for another relationship, especially a week before Christmas and in these circumstances. One issue at a time was enough for me.  I did not want my head racing with further assessments of people and whether they were right for me and where was it all going to lead… No, I’d get through this by myself.

Satisfied with this line, I compromised with Ash and said I would email him each night, just to keep him informed of any developments.   He said he was flying north to Cairns for a week, leaving in two days time, but I could still contact him by email or mobile if an emergency arose.  With that resolution, I checked the doors and windows again and went to bed, but did not sleep well.

*   *   *

Nothing happened for the next three nights, then the emails started again, but I deleted them without opening.  It was now Thursday, with Christmas Day being the coming Monday.  I had found the handcuffs on the previous Monday morning, and had not dared go to the park since then, for fear that there might be something else for me to find, or perhaps somebody in person waiting for me.  On the Thursday morning I contented myself with Tai Chi on my balcony as the sun came up.  It was relaxing and I felt content in absorbing myself in at least this part of my routine.  The first of the emails had come the previous night, but I felt confident in my correspondence with Ash that I was dealing with the problem, albeit in my own way.  Ash urged me to go to the police, but there was no way I could face the embarrassment that would accompany such a move.  I was starting to feel the problem would die a death if I could only ignore it.

Friday was the last workday before we officially shut for Christmas, although I would still be doing some admin the next morning.  It was a long day, but brightened by a few drinks after work.  We exchanged our ‘Secret Santa’ gifts before I headed home.  The shops were still open on the last full shopping day before Christmas.  My shopping requirements were almost non-existent.  I was not religious, nor had I any family to worry about.  Christmas was a pretty simple affair for me – a non-event, in fact.  I had usually been happy to do the on-call roster or the triple time shift whenever there was a need.  My Christmas this year was going to centre around some good videos, the pool, and preparing for the trip to Seattle, the flight departing on the second of January in the new year.

It was with these visions in my head that I stopped at the video store and picked out three movies that would hold my interest.  I drove home and collected my mail from the letterbox.  There were the usual bills and a small package about the size of a compact disc.  It was wrapped in Christmas paper, with my name on the front, and it had been hand delivered.  I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.  A part of my mind told me irrelevantly that although I had been in my house nearly three months, I had never had anybody come to visit me.  I knew this wasn’t the beginning of a new friendship.

Once more I found myself looking around.  The sun had set and now it was dark and frightening.  The bushes and trees in my front garden took on looming and ominous shapes.  A flying fox screeched in a nearby mango tree, making me jump as I hurried up the front steps, swearing softly under my breath, as if such profanities would give me courage.

I slammed the door behind me, my heart pounding.  I knew the present was another ‘gift’ from my ‘admirer’, and I could not shake off the conviction that I was being watched as I had collected my mail.  Once again I did a search of the house and checked all the doors and windows.  Everything was as I had left it.  I opened the french doors to the balcony and went outside, leaving all the lights off.  I let my eyes get used to the darkness and peered out at the street.  There were some cars parked on the road, but I recognised them as being regulars.  The streetlights did their job reasonably well, and all appeared silent and normal.  A flying fox screeched again, making goose bumps pop up on my arms.  I returned inside, locking the doors behind me.

I did not open the wrapped present until late that evening.  I checked my emails first, deleting one from MdeS and reading one from Ash.  He said Cairns was in the midst of a tropical downpour, being well into their wet season, but he was looking forward to Christmas with his folks.  I was meanwhile looking toward my own trip, and the departure date would not come around fast enough, as far as I was concerned. 

The emails out of the way, I felt myself drawn to the wrapped gift.  It had been prepared neatly and I tore open the Santa Claus paper with a deep feeling of foreboding.  I perhaps should have seen it coming.  It was clearly variations on a theme, and the nipple clips were the next stage in this person’s bid to lure me into subservience, it seemed.

They were small devices, about the size of the top joint of my thumb, and were joined by a short section of chromed chain.  They opened to reveal tiny serrations around the edges with a pink insert inside that obviously took some of the pressure off the teeth by providing a greater area to spread the pressure of the jaws.  I tested them experimentally on the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger.  They did not seem too bad.  I had worn clips at Graham’s place, of course, and the recollection made me shudder, but these were a different type, and I was sure it was in fact the association with Graham that was the real problem.  I wondered how these would feel and could not resist unbuttoning my blouse and undoing the front clip of my bra.  I don’t know whether it was the cold air, but with the very thought of those clips I found my nipples hardening with an unexpected pleasurable feeling of anticipation.  Gently I released the clips on to the ends of the nipples, swallowing as much of them as I could to spread the pressure.  I closed my eyes with as the jaws gripped my flesh.  It was not as severe as I expected, and sent a tingling sensation throughout my body. 

I wondered how long I could stand the dull pain that began to resonate from the buds trapped in the pincers.  I picked up the handcuffs and keys and on impulse tossed the keys into the spare bedroom, not looking at where they fell.  Pulling the maroon silk scarf from around my neck I bound it around my head, covering my eyes, then clicked the handcuffs over my wrists behind my back.  The ratcheting sound carried a finality that at once thrilled and frightened me.  I was now trapped in my spontaneous improvisation until I could find those keys…  I was now a kidnap victim, desperate to escape.  The thought made my loins abruptly wet.  I could hardly believe myself.

The situation was at once exciting and scary.  In the darkness I became disoriented and confused until I had bumped into the dining table and worked out where things were.  Thus more at ease, I found myself distracted by the intense feeling in my crotch and searched about for something to press against to satisfy myself.  Surprisingly, however, there was nothing really at the right height that I could gain purchase on. 

I worked my way along the wall until I found the door of the spare room and tried rubbing myself against the doorframe.  I couldn’t believe how excited I had become, and the realisation of what I was doing and how I was behaving made me blush.  The idea of the doorframe was not a good one, however, for my thrusting like a cat in heat against the frame only pressed on the chain between the clips as well, giving me decidedly more pain than pleasure.

Leaving that preoccupation, I entered the spare room.  Only then did I realise that my quest for release might not be so easy.  I was not sure if the keys had landed on the bed or the carpet.  I tried the double bed first, shuffling across to where I thought it to be, only to find it somewhat nearer that I anticipated, as I bumped my shins and lurched forward, unable to cushion my fall.  I landed on my front, crying out as my weight landed on the nipple clips.  Piercing pain shot through my nipples, and suddenly my little pretend game was not so sensuous.  My nips were now starting to throb as I squirmed on to my side and managed to sit up.  The cuffs had somehow ratcheted tighter in the fall and they now hurt my wrists, adding to my uncomfortable feeling that I might have made a serious mistake.  I tried to reach around and up to the blindfold, but could get nowhere near.  I tried for the clips, but the cuffs had tightened too much and hurt as I tried to stretch my fingers towards where I knew the jaws were firmly clamped on my right nipple. 

With a rising sense of panic I felt around on the bedspread, trying to stay calm and carry out a methodical search.  Then I heard it  - the reassuring clink of keys.  Except that the sound was that of keys falling, and I knew they had fallen down behind the bedhead, against the wall.  My heart sank.  The bed was too heavy to shift with my wrists cuffed painfully behind me.  My only option was to slide under the bed to retrieve the keys – and I knew there was not much room under there.
I eased myself into a sitting position on the carpet and managed to slide my legs under the bed.  I touched the keys but could not extract them with my stockinged feet.  I swore with frustration, not sure how to tackle the problem.  In the end I could see no choice but to roll on to my stomach and worm my way under the bed.  It was not a move I looked forward to, and I was right.  As the fire shot through my nipples I cursed myself for my stupidity.  The pain was intense and I felt the tears start to flow.  I was promising myself I would never do anything like this again as I squirmed and wriggled under the bed, feeling the friction of the carpet on my breasts and the pull on the clips as my full weight dragged on them.  It seemed an interminable time before I felt the cold metal of the keys touch my right breast and then managed to work my way to a point where I could grab the keys with my fingers. 

I thought the hard part was over, but in the cramped confines under the bed I could not get the key in the lock.  Sniffling with relief, but still with a sinking feeling that this could be more serious than I realised, I worked my way out the other side of the bed, biting my lip with the pain from the clips.  Sobbing, I finally sat up to take the weight off my boobs, then got to my feet. 
I had not thought much about how the cuffs went on, nor which side the keyhole was on and which way it was oriented.  Gentle exploring revealed that the keyholes were both on the side away from my fingers.  Desperately I twisted my wrists and fiddled with the keys after remembering to slide the ‘stop’ lever to the position I thought was ‘off’.  It took maybe five minutes of increasingly desperate manoeuvring before I finally got the key into one of the holes, then managed to turn it after several fraught attempts.  The ratchet released and my wrist was free.  I wept more, but this time with relief.  All thought of sexual excitement had long gone as I removed the other cuff then gently eased the clips off my poor suffering nipples, moaning through gritted teeth as I did so and the blood returned to them.  I knew at that point that I had learned my lesson.  I wondered if the person who had left the clips and the handcuffs could have had any idea of what I would do with them…

*   *   *

Christmas Day arrived.  I treated myself to a delicious meal of seafood plus a nice bottle of chardonnay.  It was not exactly your English traditional Christmas fare but I rather liked the informal Aussie approach of barbeques and salad at lunchtime – or the flexibility to have it in the evening if the day was too hot.  Meanwhile there was time to spend lolling in the pool then watching a video.  Regrettably my assessment of the video had not been too good and because of the wine, the warmth of the day and the slow plot, I fell asleep for a couple of hours on the couch.

It was just starting to get dark when I awoke.  For a moment I was disoriented, before slowly getting my senses together.  For some reason I had the feeling that something unusual had woken me.  I listened, but the house was silent, save for the gentle swish of the overhead fan stirring the air.  I could not dispel the sensation that something was not right and I went to the front door.  Opening it, I saw at once why my nerve ends had been aroused.  On the floor of the porch was another Christmas gift, wrapped identically to the last one.

I snatched it up, casting a quick glance around.  The neighbourhood was quiet save for the shouts of some kids with their new bikes.  I closed the door quickly and leant against it, breathing heavily.  Whoever this was, he had been outside my front door while I slept, and the thought frightened the hell out of me.  This was starting to get decidedly scary.

I looked down at what was obviously a shallow box the size of a chocolate box, wrapped in the same Santa Claus paper as the last present.  I shook it hesitantly but there was no clue as to what it contained.  Not wanting to prolong the suspense, I tore the paper away and opened the plain box.  Inside was a sealed envelope, on top of which was a black leather collar.
I was momentarily stunned.  I don’t know what I had expected, but a collar was not on my list.  Somehow the symbolism of it came like a blow, particularly in light of the way I had always worn one at Graham’s place.  He had explained what it meant to both a Dom and a Sub, and how important it was as a symbol of the relationship.

This collar was wide and of patent leather with double pins in the buckle.  Just back from the buckle was a U-shaped chrome lug over which the loose end could fit like a hasp and staple to be locked in place with a padlock.  It was beautifully made, I had to admit.  I slumped on the couch and ripped open the envelope.

The message was typed in a large bold gothic font.  It read:
I, Jan Elizabeth Sherwood, of my own will and accord do hereby promise and swear that I present myself here uninfluenced 
by any mercenary or unworthy motives, to be decorated by my Master with a training collar to be worn around my neck.
I likewise pledge that I am willing to follow my Master’s instructions.
I do this without fear or rashness, and will steadily persevere through the training as long as W/we both feel it's the correct thing for the two of U/us.
I, Jan Elizabeth Sherwood, will kneel in Your presence my Master and freely and willingly and offer my neck for You to place around it Your symbol in the form of a training collar.
I promise to always meet You at the door with a hug and a kiss, and then Iwill wait silently till You are seated before I will fetch my collar and kneel beside You in order for You to place it around my neck.
I promise act as a true and lawful sub.
I promise to obey Your instructions so long as they will not cause injury tomyself or others.
I promise to always respect You and to respect those You respect.
I promise that I will not do anything willingly that may contravene Your instructions.
I promise that You will always be the first to hear of my thoughts and aspirations concerning all things connected with this relationship.”

It was followed by a single line:
“You know this is what you want, Jan.”

My hands started to shake.  I stood up and paced the length of the room several times.  This person was out to have me become his submissive.  I assumed it was a ‘he’ – somehow the concept of a Domme doing this to me did not ring true.  Maybe Ash was right – maybe it was time to ring the police and get them involved.  But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do it, to expose myself to all the questions, the insinuations and the lewd innuendoes that would no doubt come with any investigation.  There was a reason behind these veiled threats which I couldn’t hide.

And yet were they really threats?  Graham – for all his cruelty in finally dismissing me – and Ash, had explained to me the philosophy behind the true D/s relationship.  This was the one that went beyond the D/s scene only, that went beyond mere sexual pleasure or the desire for erotic or masochistic pain, into the psychological realms of total submission.  This was what was called a power exchange – a 24-hour a day, seven days a week total commitment to the lifestyle. 

It was not something I had ever sought.  For all my enjoyment of the submissive role I had a life to lead, and this did not include devoting myself twenty-four hours a day to a Dom.  I was too much a realist to think such a thing would ever work for me, nor did I desire it.  I valued my freedom once the scene had finished.  Which was, of course, not to say that did didn’t enjoy my trips off into sub-space and the fantasies that transpired in my head in the process.  Graham had shown me how these could be negotiated and the needs of each party could be identified on a checklist and exchanged, with a view to making the encounter more rewarding.

But this was not what was happening here.  This was something far more sinister.  Call it stalking, call it hounding, hunting, shadowing, whatever.  I was being watched and followed and it made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

*   *   *

The next few days were nerve-wracking.  The emails stopped as suddenly as they began and things went quiet.  In some ways this was more unnerving.  It was like not knowing what was going to happen next when you were standing, bound and blindfolded, unable to see what your captor intended for you.  I found myself more on edge, every sound in the house after dark making me jump.  I emailed Ash what had happened.  He still thought I should get the police involved, but I resisted that approach.  He said he had decided to see in the New Year in Cairns with his folks, and wished me luck on my trip to the States.  And of course this could not come around fast enough.  I worked on the days between Christmas and New Year, this helping to distract my mind from the events of Christmas Day.  I shopped for a few things I would need on my trip and for the hundredth time checked my tickets and passport and repacked my bags.

New Year came and went.  I have to confess I slept through it.  I couldn’t really be bothered – an approach I viewed ruefully as a sign of impending old age.  Then it was only one sleep to go, and the excitement began to grow.  It was some time since I had travelled overseas, and I was due a good holiday.  A few days in Los Angeles and then on to Seattle.  This was going to be fun.

That was the night of my capture.
  12.07.01
updated: 26.06.02

story continues in Vanishing Act 5

o0o