Eki 03

Kidnapped Ch. 03

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Chapter Five

The next couple days go how they should. Mainly. I bring him food and briefly uncuff his hands so he can eat and use the bathroom and we speak a little, about nothing important — his voice is husky and unexpectedly deep, which I’m not sure is natural or caused by his current emotions, although he always seems calm with me. He lives in darkness but never complains. I think he cries some, because his mask is sometimes darkened by moisture, but I never threaten him, and he doesn’t seem afraid of me, just submissive to my curt demands.

But there’s some things that don’t quite go right. I continue to be mystified by my attraction to him. Although he is objectively stunning, he isn’t a cute sexually aggressive brunette with a perky bubble butt, so I have no idea why I’m having such a strong reaction to the way he looks. We haven’t had any emotive interactions, he just calmly does everything I tell him to without protest, which is not my preference as I like guys with fire. So, the fact that I’ve been watching him intently, mesmerized by the lines of his face, the way he’s developing rough stubble on his otherwise unmarred jaw, the veins that run up his strong masculine arms — well, it’s throwing me for a loop.

I place the tray, with soup and bread and water, on the nightstand and gently uncuff Sebastian.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“That’s okay,” I respond, guiding him into an upright position, my hand supporting his back, taking everything I have to not run my fingers along his taut muscles. I place the handle of the mug in one hand and the hunk of bread in the other, which he nibbles at. “Aren’t you hungry?” I ask, a little concerned, because he really hasn’t eaten much since we brought him here and I don’t want him to get weak or sick.

“Not really, sorry,” he tells me. “I’m not exactly doing anything to build up an appetite,” he shrugs blindly toward the bed that is his prison.

In the end, he does finish the soup, though I suspect it’s only to please me after my intrusive question, but he places most of the bread back on the tray as he finds the large glass of water. I can’t help watching, staring even, as he places it to his full lips and glugs it down, his Adam’s apple bouncing with the flow of the water, causing an unfortunate matching bounce in my cock.

“Do you need more?” I ask, conscious of how quickly it’s gone.

“No thank you.”

He’s so meek! But what do I want? Him to be fighting me every step of the way? Maybe, just a little bit, if only because feistiness would explain why I’m so hot for him, and getting hotter.

* * * * *

On the third day he finally speaks up.

“Can I — can I have a shower?” His voice is rough from limited use. I think for a moment — the bathroom window is tiny and high so there’s no way he’d get out of there but I have to be conscious that all the peace to date may be because he has been trying to lull me. He might make a weapon, or just hurt himself trying to get away. I really can’t tell where his mind is at the moment.

“Okay, but if you want to be uncuffed I’m going to have to stay with you. Or I’ll stay out, but you have to keep them on.” He shrugs, and his voice is tiny.

“Can you take them off, please?”

The implications finally reach me, and I’m suddenly uncertain this is anything but a terrible idea. I unfasten them and help him to remove his vest as I need to ensure his mask stays in place, though he hasn’t attempted to remove it up to now.

I stand before him as he slides his sweatpants over his hips and he is before me in nothing but a very tight, very short pair of boxer briefs that mold to his flat stomach and hug the top of his strong thighs and everything else. I gulp, thankful that he can’t see my face, as he pauses for a moment, before tucking his fingers into the waistband and sliding them down.

His body is straight out of Greek sculpture, except for one very important aspect. I look at his large pale nipples, erect in the frigid air of the room, perfectly placed on his broad pectoral muscles, smooth and golden. His abdominals are perfectly even and demarcated, with the striations of serratus anterior that show they aren’t just vanity muscles but created through genuine work and need. I know lacrosse is a physical sport and he’s good at it, so I’m not that surprised, but still impressed. His firm obliques create a beautiful Adonis plate; a deep v with a flat front that, along with a faint happy trail, points directly to his cock. Obviously, I’m more than a bit of a fan of a guy’s junk, but his is divine, even hanging softly by his upper thigh, it’s thick, long, and smooth, with heavy balls lightly covered in light blond curls… My eyes are travelling to his strong, defined thighs when I realize I’ve been staring too long.

I shake my head for a moment to clear it. This is wrong. He is completely at my mercy and I have essentially just put him in a position where he has stripped naked for me and Osmanbey travesti I’m now drinking in that nakedness without any expression of desire from him. It is so unfair of me to be doing this. I am not some kind of predator but that’s how I’m acting. Christ, I’m starting to feel sickened by my lack of self-control.

I guide him to the bathroom and turn the shower on, before helping him to step under the fast spray, where he twists this way and that, seemingly enjoying the feel of the warm droplets. I watch his partially covered face as he tips his neck to the side, letting the heat work at his muscles, which must be stiff after so long with so little movement.

He turns away and I watch the rivulets run down his muscled back and over his firm ass. It’s not bubbled, but somehow better, firm and high with smooth indents on each side, eminently masculine and very, very bitable. I’m getting very jealous of that water, rolling down his body and touching him everywhere.

There’s a slight embarrassed cough.

“Umm, could you help me out, I can’t see.” I’m confused for a moment until I realize he wants to wash. I grab a toothbrush from the supplies and squeeze a long tear of minty paste. He hasn’t brushed his teeth in days, so I think he’ll appreciate it. I place it into his hand and guide it towards his mouth. His ‘thanks’ is low and husky, and I find myself unconsciously adjusting myself in my loose shorts. When he’s done, and the white foam has swirled its way down the plughole, I dampen a washcloth and pour shower gel onto it, pushing it into his fingers.

“Would you — would you do it?” His voice is very small, almost a whisper. “Just, you know, to make sure I don’t miss anything.”

I’m shocked. He’s asking me to wash him, but really? ‘In case he misses’? Or is it a ploy? My guard hasn’t managed to be particularly high, maybe he’s trying to get me to drop it further. But maybe not, there doesn’t seem to be anything overtly provocative or pointed about the way he’s asking, I can only hear uncertainty. He’s facing me and I’m tense, waiting for trouble, as I tenderly pass the cloth across his chest, under his arms and down his torso. He stands perfectly still as I rub him, although I can see he’s becoming a little engorged, that smooth, flawless cock filling with blood.

Other than that, I can feel him relax under my hands and I softly turn him away. I stare for a moment as he raises his hands, leaning against the cold tile wall and pushing his body back, subtly but oh so clear to my eyes. I repeat the process, across his shoulders, down his strong back, around the top of his faultless ass. I can see his cock, lightly bobbing with arousal. But then anyone would get a little aroused if someone was paying them gentle attention, especially after days of little interaction and no touch. There’s still nothing to suggest he’s gay, that he’s feeling this on anything other than a purely physical level. But then, he must be able to feel what’s happening to his body, and he’s not showing any signs of embarrassment.

As I tie my mind into knots he saves me. Or not.

“Will you… will you clean all of me?” His voice is nervous but with an undercurrent of hunger. I don’t say anything, just run the cloth around to his stomach, down the soft hairs of his treasure trail, rubbing the soapy bubbles around, applying a little more pressure to the join of his inside thigh. He moans, an unmistakable sound of pleasure, and his cock, now completely filled and hard, bounces in time with his deep breathing.

I’m soaked now, and I quickly strip my t-shirt and shorts off before I step into the shower, moving closer but not touching, except for my hand gently running over the flatness of his stomach until I reach the base of his cock, nestled in those trimmed golden curls. I hold still for a moment with my fingertips just resting, until he moves his hips, a small move but unmistakably demanding.

I take him into my hand and he moans again as I slide along the length, rubbing my thumb over the sensitive tip. He gasps as I give him a single firm jerk, before sliding down to his balls, rolling them in my long fingers. I lean close to his face, and I know he can feel my breath on his cheek. He turns slightly, his lips parted, like he’s hoping I’ll kiss him. Instead, I run my free hand down his back, resting on the top of his ass, with my middle finger nestled in the groove of his ass crack.

“How clean did you want to be?” I growl in his ear, still playing with his balls with his other hand.

“Completely,” he gasps, slightly thrusting his hips, making his desire clear.

I drizzle some shower gel at the top of his crack, watching it disappear between those delectable mounds, chasing the stream of liquid with my finger until I feel the ridged muscle of his pucker. He’s panting now, and I can feel the tension in his body like a taut bowstring. I stand close to him and place my forearm around his abdomen, holding him securely Ayrancı travesti for a moment while I circle his trembling hole. My finger is slick with the bubbly gel, and I push forward slowly, through the muscle, which is so tight that I gasp.

I almost stop then, fearful that he may be a virgin, fearful that, perhaps, he’s encouraging this because he thinks giving himself up to me will keep him safe. But any such thoughts are lost in the ether when I can feel his passage spasming around my finger as he focuses on relaxing, allowing me inside him.

I crouch, my face close to that mouthwatering ass as I pull out, adding a second finger and sliding back in, to hear him gasp, making tiny mewling sounds as I push forward, nibbling lightly at the smooth flesh. I twist and withdraw, entering deeper each time, until I’m fully embedded. I reach around to his cock, dripping precum, and take hold of it, tightly gripping as I match the twists and pulls with both hands.

I begin to move faster with both hands, curling the fingers in his ass to seek out his sensitive gland. I can tell when I find it, he lets out a whoosh of air that sounds almost like a giggle. He whimpers again, in pleasure, as I keep up a steady rhythm, determined to push him to the edge and over it. It doesn’t take long before I can feel him tensing around my fingers and he comes hard, shooting thick jets of warm cum over the cool tiles. I hold his hip with one hand while I carefully withdraw my fingers, amazed at how tightly his hole tries to keep hold of them.

After rinsing the soap off Sebastian’s trembling body, I guide him back to the bedroom and gently dry him off and help him dress in clean joggers and t-shirt from my room, as I pull on a pair of jeans. I re-cuff him with regret and he sits on the edge of the bed, looking up at me blindly.

“Thank you.” Once again, I don’t respond, painfully aware of the uneven power dynamic. It doesn’t matter that I’d given him pleasure, this is never a situation he would have chosen for himself. I feel a lump in my throat.

“Will you speak to me?” His voice is almost pleading and I’m sure he feels even more lost because of the lack of human communication.

“I’m not sure what to say,” I admit.

He bites his lip, uncertain at my response. I want to console him, reassure him, but I feel the danger of my position, the danger that I know I’m heading straight towards.

“I hope you know I’m not going to try to escape. There’s no point. I know you’re not going to hurt me.”

“What makes you so sure?” But I’m not accusatory, just searching for validation, that maybe I’m not quite the worst person in the world.

“I know what it feels like, inside my mind, when I’m with someone who wants to hurt me.” His voice is unbearably sad, and I have to pull back from my instinct to embrace him. I don’t know what possesses me, I’m breaking all the rules, and I’m sure I’m going to find more rules to break soon, but somehow, I fully trust that Sebastian, who I know barely anything about, can be trusted. I sit beside him for a moment and remove the cuffs.

Standing back, I watch to see what his reaction will be. His wrists had already have raw red marks from wearing them so long, and putting them back on after the shower must have stung. He massages his wrists, wincing, and I feel the remorse fresh. But he doesn’t move further, doesn’t try to remove the blindfold.

“You know my father won’t pay a ransom?”

“He is, they already spoke to him.”

“He won’t,” Sebastian reiterates simply, “I think, right now, he’s probably hoping you’ll get angry enough to kill me.” I gasp at the unemotional way he says it.

“Your father?” Sebastian just nods. “Doesn’t your father pay for college for you? Didn’t he buy you a new car?” I’m a little shocked at this poor-little-rich-boy act. I had thought I’d been wrong in my assumptions.

“I think they call it blood money,” he says, simply.

Sebastian is fiddling with his fingers, clenching and unclenching his fists. He looks down blindly at his lap and I see a single tear roll out from under the blindfold. I don’t speak, this feels like something he can only speak about on his own terms and I’m not going to push that, I’ve taken too much from him already.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m so down on my father when I’ve had this life of luxury, and anything I want bought for me. You probably wonder how I can be so selfish and unfair and you’re thinking that I can’t have it both ways.” I cast my eyes down in embarrassment at how easily he read my silence.

“My mom died when I was five and I don’t even remember my dad being around until I was ten. I spent a lot of time with nannies. When he came back into my life he still wasn’t around much, always working away. He came back properly when I was sixteen, said he wanted to ‘settle down’, and he brought my stepmother with him. She was about twenty-five then, and fine, not an evil stepmother or anything. Cebeci travesti Kind really, she wanted to be my friend. The twins, Ella and Jamie, were born a year after their marriage. They’re three now, awesome little devils, so much fun.” He stops and takes a deep breath.

“They were about a year old when my stepmom’s older brother moved in with us. Said he wanted to help her with the kids, but he was a bit of a drifter, never settling down in one place or holding down a job for long. I know Marcy wasn’t that happy that he’d just invited himself, but she takes family pretty seriously, so she let him. Well, he couldn’t believe his luck that she’d landed my father and his money, and then… I guess when I got back from boarding school that last time he couldn’t believe his luck there either.” His voice cracked.

“He… he abused you?” I’m trying to make it easier for him, but a sob escapes his throat. He recovers himself after a moment.

“I don’t know — not really. He found… gay porn on my computer, made me…do stuff, said he’d tell my dad if I didn’t go along with it. I couldn’t let him find out. It went on for the summer. I was supposed to start college that Fall, and I thought I’d be able to escape him, but he convinced my father that I should stay at home for longer.”

I feel irrationally angry, and then guilty all over again.

“I couldn’t deal with it anymore, the…the things he was doing. It was getting worse and I could feel myself getting weaker, so I forced myself to speak to my father about it. I told him everything, begged him to let me go to college, begged him to make Tom move out. He didn’t believe me, about any of it. He slapped my face.” Sebastian puts his hand against his cheek, as if remembering the pain. “My father said I’d wanted it, that I was sick, and I wasn’t a man and wouldn’t be welcome in his home unless I stopped being a pervert.

“The one good thing to happen was that my father sent me away, to school in Paris for two years, because he said he didn’t want to see my face until I was fixed. In a way, that helped me, for a while. After a lot of time pushing people away I managed to work out I was okay, there wasn’t anything wrong with me. I managed to have… normal interactions with guys. I wasn’t great at picking nice guys though, so I even had a boyfriend for a while, when I finally managed to get it right, who helped me figure a lot of stuff out, helped me realize that it didn’t have to hurt.” I feel a strange emotion now, fury at that last comment, and, yes, jealousy at this no doubt snake-hipped, Gauloise-smoking, beret-wearing French bastard. Merde.

“So, you see, to my father, paying money to get me back would just be throwing good money away. Not something a Winthrop does. On the plus side, I doubt he’ll have called the police, though he might if he thinks it might get me killed faster.” He thinks for a moment. “Although, your friends should be careful. I know my father has some rough friends. It just depends on how much he cares about saving face.”

I’m stunned for a moment, I can’t believe what this poor, beautiful man has been through, and worse, what he’s still going through right now. And it’s my fault. Well, maybe not just my fault but I have a lot to answer for. Whatever Slater thinks, he wouldn’t have gone ahead with this if I hadn’t bought in. My mind is a turmoil of conflicting thoughts, culminating in general disgust at myself, but I’m silent too long, wrapped in my own selfishness.

“I’m sorry, I know it sounds whiny. I have so much. And lots of people have busy families, there’s no reason why I should demand attention.” His voice is genuine, and that’s the most heartbreaking thing about it. He’s not being sarcastic, or self-deprecating, or even, as he claims, whiny. It’s like he’s so battered down by what life has done to him that he has no fight left in him.

“I’m sorry,” I cough awkwardly, “sorry I touched you, in the shower. I shouldn’t have done that.” I can’t say anything else, can’t explain motivations around not wanting to be considered the same as his abuser, or even Jason, as I’m so very aware they’re just excuses, I’m no better than them for taking advantage the way I did.

“I’m not. Please, don’t feel like you shouldn’t have done that, I wanted you to. You’ve been gentle with me, when you haven’t had to be, I wanted to feel your hands on me.” He chuckles a little in embarrassment at his own forthright words and I can see his cheeks are flushed with it, though a small smile plays across his lips.

“I want to talk more,” I try to be just as straightforward with him, “Listen, drink this water, I gotta go make a phone call, wait here.”

* * * * *


I’m bothered he left, but what am I going to do about it? I can hardly beg him to stay. He isn’t going off to war, he’s going downstairs. But without him here it proves impossible not to climb back inside my own mind: I don’t know what came over me from the moment I asked for a shower. Of course, I needed one, but it was something far less clean that was in my mind as I uttered the words. There was a far more primal desire leading that request, and I still don’t understand it. It isn’t me. I don’t make demands like that — I’m simply not that kind of person.

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