Jenni was sexy and everyone knew it. She loved that everyone knew it. Liked the risks that men took to glance at her when she went out, dressed in short shorts and tight shirts, showing off her long legs and gentle curves. She knew when the women looked, too. Knew the hatred but also the desire, some open and some secret, hidden behind a smirk or a bored, staring-into-nothing kind of look. They fantasized, and she liked to imagine their fantasies.
These days she was good at it. She could tell in a minute whether they would want it hard or gentle, whether they would take her in the aisles at the hardware store or meet her in an expensive hotel. She liked knowing; she teased them with it, subtly in the ways she walked or brushed a little too close so that her scent hung in the air between them. She watched them stiffen, watched them try to focus on the pipe fittings or lumber, and smiled. When she got home, she would play out their fantasies for herself.
Jenni loved to imagine. She had always written stories in her head, even as a child when they had all been about horses and castles and tall, blond princes. She loved the way the story ran away from her when she thought about the men at the store or restaurant, loved the way their imagined caresses became real while she lay naked and alone. Some of them were still princes, in her fantasy. She also liked to imagine other things, though. The strange dark man who took her away from her loving Prince, tied her up and forced himself upon her; the feeling of his rough, bruising kisses and the silk ropes twisting against her wrists.
The fantasies had been there since she was barely in her teens. She would act out the scene, imagine it as she squirmed against the blanket or jump-rope that she had carefully tied around her ankles, then her wrists. Sometimes she would manage to fold a bit of blanket between her thighs, grinding against the crumpled fabric as the fantasy continued. Back then she didn't know the word for it, but she knew it felt good.
The imaginary sultan (for that is who would invariably reveal himself to be) was impeccable in his attention to detail. Everything was accounted for in the retelling of her kidnapping. She was never alone — sultans had harems, naturally (sometimes friends and sometimes the women who had looked at her in passing while their husbands struggled to pick out doorknobs). They would wear chains, or silken ropes which did not permit them to leave the area in which they lived. They might have sumptuous meals served in their locked apartments, be plied with wine and candies and gentle words for hours ... and eventually the sultan would swagger toward them, powerful and intent on having his way with his captured beauties. They never escaped. She didn't really want to; she knew.
Every fantasy was similar. Jenni would struggle against her bonds while the sultan laughed, deep and menacing. While he ravaged her. His lips would bruise, his strong hands would hold her arms to the bed while he painstakingly undressed her, item by item, embarrassing her, exposing her to the night and the rest of the women. She would imagine the feeling of his hard cock against his silken pants, against her swollen skin. The ache of fear, the tingle of anticipation. She fantasized through college and while her roommate slept she would whisper to the dark: "Ooh, let me go."
The fantasies made her wet. She loved the scent of her wet pussy and the way it felt to walk in public with her thong soaked in sweet juices, watching men react instinctively to the aroma as she passed. She was waiting for her kidnapper today, wandering the mall and looking distractedly into the display windows at various stores. He had not told her where he would take her, only that he would be there, watching and waiting. She shivered with nervous anticipation, not daring to look around. She didn't know what he looked like, but he knew her. She had chosen a special outfit for him: a simple, clingy sundress that fell barely to her knees. Today she was not wet; not yet ... today she was nervous.
At the entrance to the lingerie store she paused. He would not follow her in, but she wanted a bra. Her bare nipples were hard under the thin fabric of the dress. A bra would be better; one more item to remove, one more step in the dance. She went into the store, wandered the racks. Outside several men paused and stared at the mannequins in the window, glanced at her ... she wondered if he was among them but a salesperson interrupted the thought. When she left the store, none of the men were in sight and she was carrying a new lace demi bra, white with matching thong. She quickly searched out the nearest restroom and changed; the moment was near and her heart fluttered. Leaving her old panties in the wastebasket and taking a deep breath, she exited the restroom and resumed her slow path around the mall's first level.
Behind her, a tall figure stopped and stared into the display window where she had been contemplating a silver bracelet. His hand found her arm; his grip was like iron, but his smile was gentle and none of the passerby gave them a second glance. She stared into his dark eyes and tugged weakly against his grip but found herself being gently ushered into the parking lot as casually as though they were husband and wife, finding each other after a long day of shopping. Her stomach fluttered and her heartbeat quickened.
His car had tinted windows. As soon as he had helped her inside he tied her wrists together in her lap with a silk rope that he tugged nonchalantly out of his pocket, as though tying up women were something he did every day. Only when she was secure did he loosen his iron grip on her arm. Then came the blindfold. She expected it, but she couldn't help but feel surprised and nervous as he slipped the soft black fabric over her eyes. She was blind and helpless in the passenger seat of his car, and her pussy grew warm even as she fought panic. No one knew what she was doing. He could murder her, if he liked.
.... There is more of this story ...