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Kidnapped.... Chapter 2

Captive



Slowly and drowsily, Pratima woke from sleep. Normally after an evening of sex with Mazid, she would sleep peacefully and deeply, but last night had been marred by a succession of dreams – nightmares even - quite unlike her usual dreams. Dimly, she tried to remember. Strange faces appeared and disappeared, strange hands on her body, her hands and feet being bound, her body enclosed in a box – a coffin perhaps? Her head ached from a horrendous hangover. 'Strange,' she thought, 'I only had a couple of glasses of wine last night; two glasses wouldn't normally affect me like this. I must get up and take a couple of Alka-Seltzers.' She glanced at the alarm clock on the table next to the bed – 6.40 – another fifteen minutes before it burst into life.

She moved to throw back the sheets, and then stopped short. 'I'm sure I nodded off last night on top of the bed, in my bathrobe, but now I'm under the covers – and nude! Strange!'

She lifted the sheets and looked down her naked body. "What the hell?" she exclaimed aloud. Her pussy, once adorned with neatly trimmed soft, blonde hair, was now entirely bare. 'Mazid?' she wondered. 'Has Mazid been playing games?' Mazid had often asked her to shave her pussy for him, but she had always refused. 'Did Mazid creep back in last night after I fell asleep? No – he doesn't have a key!'

She looked again, and something glistened at her navel – a small gold ring. "Ugh!" she ejaculated angrily. Who could have done that? She hated the very idea of being pierced. Anxiously, she felt her ear lobes, and encountered two small studs in each ear. 'Horrible!' she thought, 'How cruel! Surely Mazid couldn't be responsible?'

Her anxiety increasing, she looked again at the alarm clock. It wasn't hers! She became aware of the faint hum of an air-conditioning system. She looked around the room, dimly lit by a night-light in a far corner. This wasn't her room! Much bigger, with tables, armchairs and a large sofa – but not her room! She rushed to the curtains on one wall, and pulled them back, revealing only a mirror, from which her own frightened face gazed back at her. She looked at her ears, and sure enough, each lobe was decorated with two small studs, capped with what appeared to be diamonds. She turned on the central light and tried the doors. One was locked, and she saw no sign of a key. Another led into a capacious marbled bathroom, with a large bath, separate shower, two enormous basins, a WC, and a bidet, all with gilt fittings. A door next to the bathroom led into a small toilet, with WC and wash-hand basin, matching the furnishing in the main bathroom. The fourth door opened to reveal an enormous walk-in wardrobe – a dressing room really, she supposed. A quick glance revealed some of her own clothes, and an assortment of new items, all with original tags, and all in her size.

Puzzled, and increasingly frightened, she returned to the main room. She noticed a telephone by the bed and picked it up. Dead! No connection whatsoever! She slumped into an armchair, trying to get her head straight, and made an effort to collect her thoughts. God! Her head still hurt! She noticed a sheet of paper on the table, and picked it up.
"Thursday 20th May, 1999

Welcome. We hope you had a good sleep. When you are ready for breakfast, please pull on the rope next to the bed. Breakfast will be brought to you within a few minutes."

'Yes,' she thought, 'breakfast might help me get my thoughts in order. But I'd better put some clothes on first.'

A long hard pee helped a little – her bladder was almost at bursting point. She found a luxuriously soft robe behind the door, and went to put it on. As she did so, she noticed in the mirror something odd on the side of her left buttock. She looked down and saw strange marks, enclosed in an ornate small rectangle, about 2cm deep and 1.5cm wide, apparently tattooed. She tried to make out the marks. The first line looked like a number – squiggle–7–1–3–7. What could it mean? She looked again. 'Of course,' she realised, 'I'm looking at it upside-down! Try again.'

Using the mirror, and with a great effort to get her befuddled brain to work, she finally read L-E-I-L-A – LEILA – what could it mean?

Below the word 'LEILA' were some other characters, in what looked like Arabic script, and below that some characters in what she took to be Japanese or Chinese ideograms. Finally, at the bottom, was a letter, followed by a number – D297. Pratima was mystified. She tried rubbing at the marks with soap and water, but to no avail. They did indeed appear to be tattoos. She hated tattoos! She loathed earrings, and especially navel-rings; thank goodness they hadn't given her nipple-rings as well! She even disliked her shaven bald pussy – it hadn't looked like that for over ten years. This had to be some sick joke. Surely Mazid couldn't be responsible for this!

She wrapped the bathrobe around herself, and went back to the table, again picking up the sheet of paper. Suddenly she noticed the date. Thursday? No – today was Wednesday, wasn't it? She thought back. Sunday, she had had a date with Hanif. On Monday, she went to work as usual, and Mazid had called to make a date for the next evening – Tuesday. On Monday evening, she had stayed in, to wash her hair, bath, and do her nails. Tuesday was work again, and then an evening with Mazid. Yes – today was definitely Wednesday! Her mobile phone would confirm it!

Pratima found the handbag she had used yesterday, placed neatly on top of a dressing table. Hurriedly she sorted through it; her wallet, purse, make-up, etc. were all in place, but her mobile phone had disappeared. She searched further – no credit cards, no driving license, and no diary.

She needed coffee. She pulled the rope as instructed, and sat in an armchair to await developments.

Less than five minutes later, she heard a door being unlocked, and two tiny young women, plump but quite pretty, wearing traditional black maids' uniforms with white aprons, wheeled in a large trolley. They pushed it to the centre of the room, next to the table, and curtsied. "Please. Enjoy," one of them announced. Pratima thought she was probably Thai – Oriental anyway - as was her companion. They turned to go.

"No," Pratima called out. "Please don't go! Please tell me – where am I? Why am I here? Who are you?"

They shook their heads, smiled, and left hurriedly, locking the door behind them.

Pratima surveyed the breakfast trolley, and felt suddenly hungry. Orange juice (freshly squeezed), a vast array of fresh fruit (each piece at the peak of ripeness), muesli and cereals of various types, milk and yoghurt, cold meats and smoked fish, cheeses, hard-boiled eggs, rolls and croissants, butter, marmalade, jams and honeys, coffee and tea. She rapidly downed an orange juice, poured a large cup of black coffee, and started munching through a bowl of cereal and nuts with fresh yoghurt.

She finally noticed a neatly folded sheet of A4 paper, and read as she ate:"Thursday 20th May, 1999

Please enjoy your breakfast.

You have been under sedation, and may be experiencing unfortunate after-effects. If your head hurts this morning, we suggest the pill in the blue box. If your stomach feels queasy, the pill in the pink box would be better. We do NOT recommend that you take both – the side effects can be most unpleasant.

No doubt, you have many questions. You will be interviewed at 10.00am, and we will answer as many as we can. You will be collected at 9.55; until then, we suggest you enjoy breakfast, have a leisurely bath, familiarise yourself with your wardrobe, and get dressed in something suitable for an interview.

Lunch is served between 1 and 2pm. A menu is in the trolley drawer. Please indicate with a cross the items you would like. We recommend a light lunch; the main meal of the day will be served between 7 and 8pm.

When you have finished, please pull on the rope next to the bed, and the trolley will be removed."

Pratima took another sip of coffee. Sedation? What did that mean? She opened the blue box, and swallowed the small yellow pill she found inside. After yet another sip of coffee, she felt that her head was at last beginning to clear.

She started attacking a large plate of cold meats and salad. She particularly enjoyed the succulent mint-flavoured slices of chicken, and the thin slices of lamb, flavoured with what? Ah yes – coriander. As she ate, she began to take stock. An interview? At 10pm – nearly three hours away. What could that entail? Was this some sort of initiative test organised by her employers? It seemed unlikely for a highly respected and old-fashioned firm of Banglore accountants, but she knew that one of the senior partners had recently spent a few months in Japan. They did strange things there, she knew.

But the tattoo, the piercing of her ears and navel, the shaving of her pussy? Surely, no company could take such liberties with an employee without permission. It couldn't be buried in the small print of her contract, could it? If the interview didn't go well, she might need a good lawyer. Mazid would help.

She poured herself another cup of coffee, filled in her order for lunch – an interesting fish dish, to be followed by fresh fruit – and studied the room again. It wasn't like any hotel room she had experienced. There was no TV, not even a radio. The room was expensively furnished, and tastefully decorated. She wandered around, opening all the cupboards. Finally, she found what looked like a TV, but on closer examination turned out to be a DVD player. Next to it was an impressive collection of DVDs, and CDs carefully filed in order of composer. She found, and put to play, a copy of the Goldberg Variations, with Angela Hewitt on the harpsichord – she always thought better with Bach!

She removed a bottle of mineral water, a banana and a pear from the breakfast trolley, placed them on a small table for later consumption, and pulled the rope. Almost immediately, the two oriental maids reappeared, curtsied, cleared the table, and left, locking the door behind them. Her further attempts at questioning them were met only with polite smiles and further curtsies.

Two pairs of dark brown eyes watched her, unseen through a two-way mirror. "She appears surprisingly calm," remarked the woman.

"Yes," her companion replied, "a very promising attitude."'Right,' Pratima thought, 'two and a half hours to get ready. Bath first.' She looked at herself in the mirror, and felt her hair. 'And a hair-wash. And I must get rid of those horrible earrings!'

With a little difficulty, Pratima managed to undo the studs in her ears, and remove the diamond pins, which she placed in a drawer. She could not, however, work out how to undo the gold ring in her navel. That would have to wait for later.

She ran her bath, selecting from the array of luxurious bath oils on the shelf, and relaxed in the large tub.

Just over an hour later, freshly bathed, powdered and conditioned, her soft blonde hair newly washed and dried, Pratima appraised herself in the full-length mirror. 'Mmm – not bad!' she thought, twisting to admire her firm buttocks, and again catching sight of the tattoo on her left hip. Her headache had gone, and she was able to think more clearly. She had almost convinced herself about the correctness of her theory about an 'initiative test' of some kind, but the tattoo perturbed her. The pierced ears and shaven pussy would mend in time, but the tattoo seemed unduly permanent. Perhaps it was only some sort of indelible ink, and would wear off.

Her right breast and nipple were still discoloured, where Mazid had bitten them last night. She looked again at her shaven pussy. Now that she was getting used to it, she quite liked it. Mazid would be enthralled. She wasn't sure of Hanif's reaction, but he was nowhere near as adept with his tongue as was Mazid; normally his only thought was how quickly he could get his cock up her; he might not even notice. She admired the way her clit peeked out, and stroked it gently. "Mmm – nice," she whispered to herself, "but no time for that now!"

Still naked, Pratima vacated the bathroom, and returned to the bedroom. It felt silent and empty. She needed some cheerful, energetic music. Searching through the CD collection, she finally settled on Haydn – String Quartets, Opus 76, played by the Quattuor Mosaique. As the sound of the gut strings filled the room, she caught sight of her nude body again, in another mirror. Idly, her fingers brushed across her mound, and again found her clitoris. 'I wonder,' she thought, and hurried to the cabinet by the bed. Opening the drawer, she found, nestled at the back, not only her own favourite vibrator and dildo, but also some new toys. 'Very thoughtful of them!' she considered, 'I'll look forward to exploring those later.' Experimentally, she turned on one of the new vibrators, much larger than anything she had previously experienced, and pressed it against her clit. A familiar sensation wafted over her, and she sat on the bed.

"Surely she's not going to start masturbating now?" said one of the unseen watchers. "Oh no – just experimenting," as Pratima regretfully switched off he vibrator and returned it to the drawer.

'LATER!' she said to herself in a firm voice. 'I must get ready now.'

She went to the dressing table, searched through the large selection of powders, creams and potions, and applied a light make-up.

'What to wear?' she wondered. 'I don't want to show that I'm worried or upset – something fairly frivolous, I think. Let's see what we've got.'

She entered the dressing room, out of sight of the watchers, and started perusing the clothes. It would help if she knew who might be interviewing her. Male or female? Probably male – there was only one female partner in the firm, and she was rumoured to be Lesbian anyway. Skirt or trousers? But there weren't any trousers. Several of her own skirts and dresses were hanging on the rails, but none of her trousers. OK – skirt or dress? She held various outfits in front of her body, looking in the mirror, and tried on a few of the new items, astonished at the array of designer labels. Finally, she settled on a bright jungle print Gucci dress, with short sleeves and a low neckline, which finished about ten centimetres above her knees. She thought it demonstrated confidence and nonchalance. Now for the accessories!

She searched thoroughly, but found no underwear – no panties, knickers, bras, anything. 'Some silly male must have packed,' she thought, 'Ah well – won't be the first time I've gone somewhere with no knickers!'

Similarly, she found no tights – a varied collection of stockings, some with suspenders, and some self-supporting. Finally, she settled on a pair of sheer tan silk stay-up stockings, not wanting to risk suspender catches spoiling the outline of her dress.


She found a wide leather belt, matching handbag, and a pair of strappy shoes with two-inch heels, all by Salvatore Ferragamo. She opened a large jewel box to reveal a stunning collection of expensive-looking necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings and several watches. She selected a plain gold necklace, with matching bracelet, and a simple Cartier watch to complete the outfit. She admired herself. Her breasts were small, and could have used a little enhancement, but were firm enough to fill out the dress sufficiently, even without a bra. She gave a little twirl, and smiled at her reflection. 'Yes, I think that'll do,' she mused. 'It should make him sit up and pay attention anyway, whoever it is. If necessary, I should be able to give him a flash of my pussy if I cross my legs! We'll see how it goes!'

Pratima re-entered the bedroom and returned to the dressing table to apply lipstick, and ponder on a choice of perfume, finally settling on a light application of Gucci. The unseen watchers were impressed with her selection of dress, and her deportment. "An excellent and original choice!" said the woman.

"Yes – it shows great character. She's obviously trying to show that she is not at all worried by her predicament," agreed her companion.

"That will soon change!" remarked the woman with a smile.

The CD stopped playing and, right on cue at 9.55 prompt, there was a light knock on the door.

"Come in!"

She heard the door unlock, and in came two burly men in combat uniform with holsters at their waists.

"Good morning, Miss," said the blonde man, in what sounded like a Pakistani accent. "You are ready?"

She nodded assent.

"You need blindfold," he stated, in a tone which would brook no argument.

Meekly, she submitted, as the black man passed a black velvet hood over her head, and tied it loosely at her neck. Each man took one of her arms, holding on firmly, but quite gently, manoeuvring her towards the door and along a corridor. They walked for a few minutes, the sound of their steps on a hard floor echoing from the walls, and from the number of turns and twists, Pratima felt that they were trying to disorientate her, to make sure she could not find her room again without assistance. Finally, she heard another door open, and they went in. She was manoeuvred around the room, and then was pushed backwards slightly. She felt something brush against her calves.

"Sit!" commanded the Pakistani, and she complied. Immediately, she felt her wrists being enclosed in what felt like leather clamps. Her handbag slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. As the hood was removed, she found that she was sitting in a wooden chair, with her wrists securely attached to the arms of the chair. She struggled, but obviously could not break free.

"Why are you doing this? Why am I tied up?" she asked, suddenly feeling apprehensive. She couldn't imagine why she needed to be restrained like this for an interview.

The two men simply smiled. "Madam will be with you soon," said the Pakistani, and turned to leave. "Don't go away!" he added unnecessarily.

As they left the room, Pratima noticed that each of them was missing the little finger from the left hand. 'What a coincidence!' she thought.

She looked around the room. In front of her was a desk, and around he room various pieces of apparatus, looking similar to some of those she recalled from the gym.

Suddenly the door opened, and in walked a smartly dressed woman of about forty, about 5ft 7in tall, slimly built, with long raven hair, and dark brown eyes. She smoothed the back of her short navy skirt, and sat behind the desk, opposite Pratima.

"Good morning, Leila," she began, "I am pleased to welcome you here. My name is Yasmin, but you will address me as 'Madam'."
  "No, no – there's been a mistake," shouted Pratima, suddenly losing her composure, and feeling very afraid. "I'm Pratima Patel – not Leila Somebody. You've got to let me go!"

"No! You WERE Pratima, but that name is considered inappropriate. You are now Leila. And you WILL address me as 'Madam'!" retorted the woman, in a firm tone.

"Like fuck I will!" screamed Pratima. "I demand to know who is responsible for bringing me here! I insist you release me at once!"

With an exasperated expression, Yasmin withdrew something from the desk drawer, and moved behind Pratima.

"I will sue everybody involved! I want to go at once!" continued Pratima, panic building in her voice. "I demand…"

Pratima's shouts were cut off as Yasmin placed a simple gag over her mouth, and tied it tightly behind her head. "You, my slut, are in no position to demand anything!"

Yasmin returned to the desk and pressed a buzzer twice. Immediately the two men who had escorted Pratima to the room re-appeared. "Yes, Madam?" asked the Pakistani.

"Mayaa, this stupid bitch is not being co-operative. Gag her properly, strip her and tie her to the frame. I will return shortly."

"Yes, Madam. At once. In which position, Madam?"

"Just a normal 'I' shape, Mayaa, arms straight up." 

Chapter 2