Author Topic: Number Twenty  (Read 4304 times)

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December 27, 2015, 03:59:58 AM

Offline roped_wrists

WARNING! The following is a work of fiction and features physical and sexual violence. You must be 18 years of age or older to proceed. Reader discretion is advised.

Twelve hours prior to my involvement:

David Davison breaks out of prison.

He's serving fifteen years for drug-related offenses. He decides that eight months is long enough. A guard named Marvin Sims lets David out of his cell, walks him down the corridor, and leads him out through a deactivated gate. This is because Donna and April Sims, Marvin's wife and daughter respectively, are at that moment handcuffed and kneeling on their living room floor while a man named Tim Donahue, hired by a man named Jason Bueller, holds a gun to their heads. David walks free. Tim rapes April but leaves both women alive. As soon as Marvin hears that his wife and daughter are safe, he sounds the alarm.

It's too late; David has the head start.

David subscribes to David's Hierarchy of Needs: 1. Food/water. 2. Shelter. 3. Companionship. 4. Purpose. He goes to Jason Bueller.

The reason Jason Bueller hired and sent Tim Donahue to take Marvin Sims' family hostage (the business with the daughter was spur-of-the-moment) is because David is an excellent drug runner. He transports drugs with an almost obsessive attention to detail, meaning he tends to fly under the radar. He also has no interest in the drugs he transports, so the shipment sent by Jason is the shipment received by the customer. The only reason he got caught was because one of Jason's associates, Kevin Darby, sold a huge shipment of heroin to an undercover police officer, and David happened to be at the meeting. The sentence would have been lesser, had the police not pinned a great number of other deals on David (all of which he was a part). Kevin made bail within the hour and was found mysteriously hanging from a lamp post later that night.

So Jason Bueller wanted David Davison working for him again, which is why he hired Tim Donahue to ensure officer Sims' compliance.

As far as David's Needs go, Jason is able to assist with one, two, and four: he provides David with food and water, an apartment in a nearby seedy section of town, and a purpose (moving drugs from point A to point B). He offers one of his floozies to assist with Need #3, Companionship, but David Davison looks at said floozies and makes a remark about sexually transmitted diseases. So before David Davison can follow through on #4, Purpose, he has to attend to #3, Companionship. Jason understands and offers to help. He also considers getting new floozies.

Despite the authorities' interest in speaking with David Davison, he decides to go out and find a companion. It is now one hour before my involvement.

While David Davison is sitting across the road at a cafe pretending to read a newspaper, I am standing in a coffee shop. As I'm placing my order, a pair of old ladies exits the shop. David ignores them. As I'm handing over my money, a teenager exits with his girlfriend. David takes note of the girlfriend and considers following them, but decides against it. As I'm walking away from the counter, a businessman exits, and David ignores him. As I exit, David sets aside his newspaper and gets out of his seat.

As I drive home in a silver 2005 Volkswagen Jetta, David follows in a nondescript white van (also borrowed from Jason Bueller). David grows more and more interested the further north we go because as we leave Phoenix and get up into the higher regions, the area is less and less settled. Being more interested in my Mocha Frapuccino and cell phone than the cars behind me, I fail to notice the nondescript white van that has been following me for the better part of a half hour.

I pull into my driveway and David pulls to a stop across the road. He waits for about twenty minutes, watching to see if I'll leave again, or if there are any signs of other people in the house. It's seven in the evening when he decides to exit the vehicle and take a closer look.

He peers through my windows and finds me sitting at my kitchen counter, working on my laptop. He returns to his vehicle, collects a black ski mask, a coil of rope and a roll of duct tape (all three items also borrowed from Jason Bueller), and makes his way to the door on the side of the house opposite my location. He chooses this door specifically so I won't hear him sticking paper clips into the locking mechanism.

It has been eleven hours and fifty-eight minutes since David Davison broke out of prison. It is two minutes before my involvement.


I sit at the computer, my face bathed in a dull blue glow, my fingers tapping on the keys. My feet are balanced on the cross beam of the stool and I wiggle them as I work. I've taken my hair out of the ponytail so it now hangs free, framing my face. In jeans and a T-shirt, the house is cool. This is because I prefer it cool instead of warm when I go to sleep so I leave the air conditioning on. Rather than turn down the air conditioning, I hop off the stool to grab a sweatshirt from my bedroom.

Some fun facts:

I've had sex with two different partners. The first was with my High School boyfriend, which was ten years earlier. The second was with my most recent boyfriend, who I'd dated for three years. Both were gentle with me.

I've been handcuffed once, and that was not with either of my boyfriends. A friend of mine, Alexa Mills, had gotten fuzzy pink handcuffs as a gag gift for her birthday and insisted that I try them on. That was the only time in my life I've been restrained.

It has been exactly twelve hours since David Davison escaped from prison. The door through which he'd infiltrated the house was located in my bedroom. As I round the corner and hard, meaty fist collides with my cheek and sends me tumbling to the ground.

One hand grabs me by the jaw, covering my mouth. The other pins my right hand to the floor. David straddles me, using his weight to pin my chest and his knee to pin my left wrist.

"You alone?"

I stare up at him with wide, full moon eyes and nod.

"Anyone coming tonight?"

I swallow hard and shake my head. He jerks my face.

"Do you think I'm kidding? Do you want me to kill them in front of you? I'll ask again: is anyone coming?"

Again I shake my head. Tears are welling up in my eyes.

"Guess what happens if you make a sound? First I choke you unconscious and then I take you into the desert and throw you onto cactuses until you stop moving. You want that?"

I shake my head a third time. A teardrop trickles down my cheek.

David dismounts me long enough to roll me onto my stomach and wrench my arms behind my back. I gasp and choke, struggling to hold back tears. I keep quiet and allow him to bind my wrists with unusual efficiency.

The reason for the unusual efficiency (something neither I nor the cops knew): prior to my involvement, David raped 19 women, so his hands have bound many wrists and ankles. His first was a cheerleader named Britney, whom he hadn't felt compelled to seduce, so he simply dragged into a van one afternoon as she walked along a deserted stretch of road. At this point in time I am the 20th woman David unwillingly restrained.

David binds my ankles with the duct tape and uses it to gag me, and then loads me onto his shoulder. He carries me back to the living room and sticks me on the couch.

At this point I'm thinking I'm being robbed. David allows me to continue thinking this. He makes a show of going to my purse and dumping the contents on the counter. He pockets my cash (which he doesn't need) as well as my credit cards (which serve him no purpose). He goes through my drawers and cabinets, periodically looking over his shoulder to make sure I'm watching. He sits on the table in front of me and reaches into the pockets of my jeans, pulling out the contents. Then he pushes me on my side and repeats the process with the back pockets.

It's all deliberate. David enjoys giving me the sensation of being violated. Digging through my pockets are especially important because it's a surreptitious way of touching my thighs and butt. Unbeknownst to me, he did something similar with a girl named Brooke about two years earlier -- he pretended to be a home intruder and then, feeling "sympathetic", gave Brooke a back massage so she would relax. In reality it was simply an excuse to touch her. Like me, Brooke thought she was going to be okay. David then proceeded to strip her naked and rape her three times over the course of six hours.

I thought I was going to be okay when David went back into my bedroom and started going through my jewelry boxes. I sat on the couch, alone and terrified, bound and gagged, entirely convinced that this was a robbery.

David returns about five minutes later, making a show of stuffing my jewelry into his pocket. He walks right up and leers down at me. I look up at him, cowering beneath his size, my eyes pink with suppressed tears as I peer over the stripe of duct tape.

David sits on the table again. His eyes lock on mine for a moment and then he looks up and down my body. He thinks I'm pretty with a good figure. He likes the way my restrained arms cause my teacup breasts to strain against my t-shirt. He likes how the restraints coupled with adrenaline give me a prim and proper look, with my feet and legs pressed together and my back straight. He likes thinking about how warm my thighs felt and wonders how my hair smells. He decides to find out.

I mewl softly as he reaches forward, takes a small portion of long brown hair, and holds it against his nose. He reaches out and squeezes my breast. I squirm and writhe at his touch.

David gets up and closes the blinds in the living room. He crosses to the door and locks it, and then heads out back to the bedroom to close the blinds in there and pull the curtains over the door.

"Let's go," he announces as he returns to the living room.

I cling to my belief that this is a robbery as he tosses me over his shoulder and we start toward the bedroom. I rationalize: he closed the blinds so neighbors couldn't see into the house, giving him time to escape before a passerby saw me hopping around. He locked the door so I wouldn't be able to hop out into the driveway as easily.

I continue to rationalize: he puts me on my bed so I'll be comfortable while he's making his escape. That's also why he's taking off my shoes and socks.

"NNN!" When rationalizing ceases to work, I squeal into the gag and make an effort to sit up. David grabs me by the throat and pushes me back down, producing a switchblade (also borrowed from Jason Bueller) and pressing the tip against my cheek.

"What did I tell you about shutting the fuck up?"

Still holding me by the throat, David cuts up the center of my shirt and pares away my bra. He works his way down my body, casually popping open the button on my pants and rolling me onto my belly, and then peeling my jeans and panties down my legs.

As I lay there with my hands bound neatly behind my back and my mouth smooth with duct tape, I realize: either this is a robbery gone wrong or it was never a robbery at all. One way or another this man intends to rape me.

I peer over my shoulder and, deciding it safe to do so, roll back over and sit up on my bare buttocks. I keep my legs closed as he looks me up and down, but it does little good -- David likes everything about me. My light pink toenail polish. The way my hair sticks to my sweaty forehead. The way I try use my knees to cover my breasts and my calves to hide the area between my thighs.

He has no compunctions about stripping in front of me. Shyness is nothing when you've stripped in front of nineteen strange women. He kicks off his boots and socks, pulls his shirt over his head, and pulls down his pants. His penis, which has been erect for the last forty five minutes (or the last ten months, depending on how you look at it) bursts forth from its confinement, grateful to be freed of its polyester prison. It knows what's about to happen and stands completely at attention, swaying gently and drooling at the tip, hypnotic and horrifying.

It is mainly so excited to see me because it has been so long since it has seen a woman. Ten months earlier -- two months before David was incarcerated -- was the last time it was used against a woman. Girl #19 had been a nineteen-year-old redhead named Sarah. Sarah had been abducted from her bed at gunpoint, handcuffed, gagged with duct tape, and lead out to David's waiting van. She'd laid in terror for forty five minutes while David drove her out to the middle of the desert. Once there, he stripped Sarah naked, raped her, and told her he'd let her go if she sucked his cock. She agreed, and once David was hard again, he sodomized her and cut her loose. She barely managed to make it back to civilization -- still handcuffed, with incredibly sore feet -- before the sun rose the next morning.

Ten months was the longest David had gone without a rape, so his cock was naturally excited to see me.

"Nnnn..." I mewl into the gag as he pulls my feet out from under me and straightens my legs, pushing my knees apart so he can look between my thighs. By now he doesn't care what noise I make; he's already ensured my compliance enough that I've let the situation get hopelessly out of control -- I'm trapped, naked, alone, and afraid, attempting to fend for myself against a 250 pound man with my hands tied behind my back. At this point rape isn't a possibility; it's inevitable.

David straddles my thighs, rubbing his hard penis against them as he pushes me down on the bed and squeezes my breasts.

"MMMM! NNnn!" I squeal and cry into the gag, prompting him to bite them instead. He reaches down, pushes my thighs open, and penetrates me enthusiastically.

"MMMMMM!" The weight of David's body, coupled with the width of his happens, causes my legs to splay as he settles between them. White-hot pain shoots through my loins as his thick, hard penis stretches the channel to capacity. My bare feet rise into the air and I kick helplessly as he starts pushing in and out.

And so I become #20. It's not a particularly glamorous occasion. I lay on my bed beneath a sweaty, hairy naked man who is old enough to be my father; I have trouble breathing because the rape is painful and my mouth is taped, not to mention, David is holding himself in a sit-up position and using my breasts as hand-holds. I scream for most of the occasion, which doesn't go heard by the neighbors because they're too far away from the house; even then, they wouldn't be able to see inside since David closed all the blinds.

So for ten minutes, David squeezes my breasts, licks my gagged face, bites my neck, and shoves his hips up and down against my inner thighs. The room is silent save for the bed squeaking beneath us, David's groans, and my muffled sobs.

I'm in a daze when it finally ends -- when his hands clench crushingly on my breasts and his butt goes tense, and his penis discharges inside me. He collapses atop me for a few minutes to recover. I'm barely conscious as he leads me out to the living room and lays me on the floor.

The price for borrowing the truck, ski mask, rope, duct tape, and switchblade: Jason Bueller wants pictures of me after the rape. David obliges, taking a wide-angle shot of me on the floor, and then kicking my legs open to take pictures between my thighs. He sends the pictures along to Jason who, being a fetishist, requests pictures of my feet, prompting David to roll me over and take pictures of the undersides of my feet. Jason approves, so David starts getting ready to leave.

It should have ended there: David had every intention of leaving me there on the floor, half unconscious, abandoning me to clean up his mess on my own, were it not for Cindy Lawson (Girl #21).

Cindy Lawson: a friend of mine who happens to see my lights on and decides to drop by. Hearing the knocking at the door, David (still naked) peers through the peep hole. Cindy is a young blond girl with a cute freckled face, pretty smile, and perky demeanor. David decides she's pretty so he unlocks the door and, as Cindy is distracted by the sight of me bound and naked on the floor, grabs her by the face and slams her head against the door frame. He drags her inside by her hair and closes the door.

Safely out of visibility, David gets to work on her. He starts by forcing her to completely undress for him, then makes her duct tape her own mouth before binding her hands behind her back. Rather than force her legs apart like he did with me, David holds the knife to Cindy's throat until she spreads her legs so David can take pictures. Then he makes her lay on her stomach so he can take pictures of her feet.

It is at this point that Jason Bueller decides that pictures were not enough of a payment for the things he loaned to David -- he wants David to bring us with him. So twenty minutes later Cindy and I are both bound, gagged, and naked in the back of the van. We make it about halfway to Phoenix before David pulls off the highway, finds an unmarked dirt road, comes into the back of the cab and turns Cindy Lawson into Girl #21 while I look on helplessly.

So instead of being left on the floor after David was done with me, Cindy came to visit, which prompted him to take us with him. Jason takes a particular liking to our respective bodies and we replace his top floozies, becoming the floozies that David Davison does periodically rape without any comments about sexually transmitted diseases.

So Cindy and David and I work for Jason Bueller. David has returned to transporting drugs and Cindy and I spend our days handcuffed to radiators, blindfolded and ball gagged, waiting for visits from Jason.

Eventually David goes on to find #22. I never know about her; she's an athletic young brunette named Karen he follows home and rapes on the floor of her kitchen, having convinced her she's the victim of a robbery.

Ironically -- and again, something that I don't know -- as David is stripping Karen naked and forcing himself on her, I'm on my knees, performing fellatio on Jason Bueller. You might think David would get jealous of Jason having his way with Cindy and I, but he doesn't -- we're just #20 and #21, and he's moved on to #22.

December 27, 2015, 09:47:17 AM
Reply #1

Offline vile8r

A great new addition to the story forum! Love your story roped_wrists! I especially like your little back stories, those are great. I like throwing in stuff like that in my stories as well.

December 27, 2015, 02:49:01 PM
Reply #2

Offline roped_wrists

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A great new addition to the story forum! Love your story roped_wrists! I especially like your little back stories, those are great. I like throwing in stuff like that in my stories as well.

Thanks vile8r! Your positive reaction is a huge compliment :)

Yes, the little back stories are incredibly practical as well as erotic. I started doing them out of necessity -- most of my RPs have been via Instant Messenger, so there's not a lot of time to come up with/type lengthy exposition; everything that takes place is mostly moment-to-moment. What I was finding was that my partner (whoever it happened to be at the time) and I would be exchanging paragraph-length posts at the start of an RP, but as the constraints started appearing (me getting tied up, gagged, the initiation of the actual rape), the post lengths would diminish in spades (as well as the quality of said posts).

When I was first getting started, this meant that I'd abandon my partner out of boredom, which usually made me feel guilty.

Then I got the idea to do the back stories. It's different from God-modding because I'm not interfering with the current action; furthermore, the stories usually underscore my partner's numerous rapes and expertise, so I'm stroking his ego (while simultaneously stroking his genitals). They started popping up in the stories for a similar reason -- they break up the monotonous bits, and I love to write them. Even while writing the stories, they serve a practical purpose -- talking about being tied up, carried around, raped, etc gives me ideas for different story ideas. The back stories let me acknowledge that my mind is wandering and helps me keep focused on the moment-at-hand.

My favorite instance of this working was during an RP a while back, when I was playing a tourist who wandered down the wrong alley and got a cattle-prod to the kidney. While the action was warming up, my captor called his associate and told him where to find my three traveling companions. So while he was getting my clothes off and having his way with me, I was ALSO able to digress regularly to talk about the other three being taken away, stripped, raped, and sold. It was a good scene. :D

December 28, 2015, 10:31:03 PM
Reply #3

Offline vile8r

I have always found it a good way to flesh out characters, to show you where they're coming from, what makes them do what they're doing, makes them less one-dimensional. And it helps fill in lulls in the action, like you say. Even the victims, I like to explore their past as well. Read ANY of my stories, and you will always find some little backstories scattered throughout

December 29, 2015, 03:11:52 AM
Reply #4

Offline roped_wrists

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I have always found it a good way to flesh out characters, to show you where they're coming from, what makes them do what they're doing, makes them less one-dimensional. And it helps fill in lulls in the action, like you say. Even the victims, I like to explore their past as well. Read ANY of my stories, and you will always find some little backstories scattered throughout

I'm noticing that in Black Limo -- specifically the beginning part, when Calvin's past is discussed, and then later on while the guys are refitting the limo and Calvin learns about Doug's past.

December 29, 2015, 05:28:31 AM
Reply #5

Offline blondiecath

Well written and a very nice female perspective. Keep it up!

December 30, 2015, 02:25:27 AM
Reply #6

Offline roped_wrists

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Well written and a very nice female perspective. Keep it up!

Thanks Blondiecath! I'm glad you enjoyed it!

Yes, a lot of thought has gone into perspective when it comes to RPs and stories of this nature -- I settled on first person omniscient for a specific reason.


Brief digression on 1st, 2nd, 3rd person, and limited vs omniscient in case you don't know -- if you know all this stuff, just skip through it.

1st person: Told from the POV of the narrator, using "I" and "Me" terms. E.G. "I feel a rag clamp over MY mouth as the rapist kidnaps ME".

2nd person: Told using "you" and "your" statements. E.G. "YOU feel a rag clamp over YOUR mouth as the rapist kidnaps YOU".

3rd person: Narrator is separate from action. "MEGAN feels a rag clamp over HER mouth as the rapist kidnaps HER".

Limited: The narrator can only see through the eyes of the character. E.G. "I/You/Megan woke up in the trunk with no idea what was happening."

Omniscient: The narrator knows everything. E.G. "I/You/Megan woke up in the trunk with no idea what was happening. Little did I/You/Megan know, the kidnapper was sitting in the front seat, thinking of all the things he had in store once he got to the abandoned warehouse".


So as far as anything that involves kidnapping goes, I've tried 3rd person (limited or omniscient, it doesn't matter) and found that I prefer 1st person. It's a matter of taste. I like being right there, with the rapist's sweaty body on top of ME. :)

The switch from limited to omniscient took a while. You don't really see the benefits as much in stories like these, but you see them especially clearly in roleplays (the one I'm doing with Vhorani right now, "Payment Past Due", is a good example).

In that particular roleplay, Vhorani recently had me tied up in the trunk of a car. Now, in first person limited, this severely constrains my writing options, because I can ONLY talk about being tied up inside a trunk.

Seeing as I can't move, see, or speak while I'm tied up in a trunk, that's going to lead to some short posts (and possibly leave my partner feeling like he's doing all the work, which is unfair).

Examine the same situation from a first-person omniscient standpoint: as the author, I can enjoy describing being bound and gagged in a trunk (it happens a lot, and I love it every time) but I can ALSO keep my posts interesting because I'm not constrained solely by what my character knows. So while I'm flopping around in the trunk, I can also be talking about my kidnapper's previous "conquests", I can elaborate on the organization for which he works, etc.

In short, first person omniscient (in this context) is the POV that allows me to produce the maximum amount of enjoyment with every single post.

Obviously this is subjective and if you ask another author, you might get agreement, or you might get something totally different.

So thank you for the 'very nice female perspective' compliment. As you can see, it means a lot. :)

January 02, 2016, 12:02:51 PM
Reply #7

Offline Delaware_Dary

Well written from a female it is something i find hard to emulate writing from the victim's point of view...keep it up