He was known as the go-to man when you wanted some dirty work done. Threats, kidnappings, scare tactics, beatings; he did it all. His only stipulations were no women; that and he wouldn’t kill anyone. Anything short of that and he was available…for the right price.
Getting a meeting set up was a long, arduous process. He only worked on referrals, dealing with people who knew people he had done work for before. He operated very much under the radar…he had to. There was too much at stake for any slip-ups. He had done jail time once before and had no desire to return. His was a life lived in the shadows, the life of a loner.
The envelope was from a local businessman; a friend of someone he had done a kidnapping for a couple of years back. He wanted his business partner captured and held for ransom. The family was extremely wealthy and would gladly pay a cool million for their little boy. The two of them would split it evenly. The manila packet contained everything he requested: $15.000 in cash; numerous pictures of the intended victim; his address; license plate number, make, model and color of his vehicle; and an extremely detailed list of his daily routine. He wanted to know everything that could be provided. The one piece of information not included was the victim’s name. There was no need for him to know, as he usually referred to his victims only by their license plate number.
His price for kidnappings was substantially below what others in this shadowy world charged for the same job, half up front, the other half when the job was completed. The reason, known only to him, was the sick pleasure he derived from them. He decided long ago that he might as well get something besides just money from his endeavors.
Setting the cash aside, he dumped the remaining contents of the envelope onto the table. He picked up the pile of surveillance photos and looked them over carefully. The man in the pictures was impossibly handsome. KB1 P2L was six feet of chiseled muscle in a dress shirt, tie, and slacks; his dark hair cut into a flattop. A thin beard ran along his angular jaw. A muscular physique filled out the athletically cut clothing. His neck resembled the trunk of a small tree, sitting atop a pair of broad shoulders. The photos from behind displayed a hard round ass hugged by light gray pinstriped dress slacks. He resembled a taller, dark haired Pat Tillman. His cock pressed hard against his pants. This was going to be fun.
Scanning the hunk’s routine, he started categorizing his habits. Gym every morning from 6:30 to 8:30. God, no wonder he was built like a brick shit-house. After that, it was to Starbucks to pick up coffee for himself and his office staff. While there, he would stop into the restroom for a piss. Then to the office, lunch at 12:30, usually brown-bagged, healthy and eaten outside whenever the weather was nice enough. On his was back, he would go into the garage and put his lunch container on the front passenger seat of his black Ford Explorer and then return to the office. It was notated here that every day he would go directly from the parking garage to the handicapped stall in the restroom on the 18th floor for about 20 minutes. The notes emphasized that this happened always, as regular as clockwork. He stopped reading for a moment to mull this over. The partner wrote that on occasions when he caught him on his way to the bathroom, he was fidgety and seemed anxious to cut the conversation short.
He sent word to the partner that it would happen the following Friday, as he returned to his vehicle after lunch. There would be time to tail him for a few days to make sure nothing changed in his routine. He rubbed his crotch with horny anticipation.
The next few days were spent casing the subject and his habits. He trailed his victim to ensure his routine didn’t change drastically. He cased the garage and parking situation. KB1 P2L had an assigned parking spot on the lower level of the garage. This area was dimly lit and mostly deserted at lunchtime, especially on Friday as many of the employees worked four 10-hour days Monday through Thursday. He observed that, although the garage had some security cameras, there were none that captured that particular area. This would be perfect.
Early on Friday morning, he pulled into the garage in a nondescript white panel van to which he had affixed a magnetic sign that duplicated the name and corporate logo of a local plumbing company. He was dressed in a blue uniform with the same logo sewn onto the shirt, a cap pulled down low over his eyes. Driving to the lower level, he stopped in front of the adjoining spot and got out of the truck to move the orange cone he had placed there the night before. He knew it wouldn’t raise any red flags as this was done throughout the garage to reserve certain spots. Throwing the cone in the van, he maneuvered into the spot and killed the engine. Now the only thing to do was wait.
He crawled nimbly over the console into the windowless rear cargo area, and proceeded to triple-check everything. Pulling a small flashlight from his chest pocket, he first opened the black leather bag and looked over its contents. He pulled out various vials and a syringe, mixing a potent cocktail to immobilize him and create certain side effects. Inserting the needle into the vials, he drew the appropriate amount of the drugs to knock his victim out in seconds. He also pulled out a thick white towel, with which he would cover the stud’s mouth to minimize the noise he would make during their brief struggle. He checked the chains and restraints bolted into the floor of the van, to which the young man would be secured during transport to the remote location in which he would be held. Strong as he appeared, he would be no match for the iron cuffs and chains. This guy wasn’t going anywhere.
He heard the Explorer pull into the space next to his van, causing him to look at the strategically adjusted mirrors so he could see his victim up close. He watched him exit the driver’s side of the vehicle and walk around to the front passenger door, open it and remove the Starbucks caddy containing four drinks. He peered through the magnifying peep hole hidden in the van’s sliding door. The guy was even more handsome up close than he appeared in the pictures. He turned to look out the passenger mirror so he could continue to see him move around the corner towards the lower lobby door. He was wearing the same clothes he had on in the surveillance photos; bright red dress shirt and tie, and those pale gray pinstriped slacks that hugged his rear so well. He watched that ass swaggering up and down in those snug pants until he moved out of the range of the mirror. He sat back on the hard metal floor of the van to wait, rubbing his hard member in anticipation.
The alarm on his cell phone beeped softly, alerting him to the time. His target would soon be returning to the SUV from his lunch break. His heart pounded in his chest. Although he had done this many, many times before, there was a distinct rush associated with it; the excitement of the stalking, the fear of getting caught or something going wrong. It made him feel alive.
Watching the mirror intently, he saw the beautiful stud come around the corner, his lunch bag in one hand, keys in the other. He saw him point the fob in his direction and heard the “bleep bleep” of the car alarm disarming. Crouching by the panel van’s sliding door, he readied himself; syringe at the ready in his right hand, his left hand holding the towel and gripping the door handle as he peered through the peep hole, trying to perfectly gauge his timing to catch his prey off guard. His unsuspecting victim walked up between the vehicles, opened the passenger door and leaned in to place his bag on the floorboard of the Explorer. Like a lion taking down its catch, he silently flung the sliding door to the side and leapt out onto the concrete floor, simultaneously throwing his left arm around the man, covering his face with the towel, and thrusting the syringe into the upper right buttock of the handsome stud, pressing the plunger in and withdrawing the needle in a microsecond.
It happened so fast, there was barely a reaction. With a puzzled grunt, he began to reach up towards the arm around his face. The sedative was already taking effect, however, and his strength ebbed. His captor began dragging him backwards into the van door, barely getting him onto the van floor before he passed out completely. Grabbing him by the legs, he pulled the unconscious man the rest of the way in, stepped out to grab the keys he dropped on the ground and activated the door lock and alarm on the SUV. He then stepped through the opening in the side of the van, slamming the sliding door behind him. It was all over in less than ten seconds.
He would have to work fast, as the drugs’ effects would be short lived. He knew he had only about ten minutes before the unconscious man would slowly begin to come around. Keeping him under for longer than that would require careful, professional monitoring in order to not kill him. Such was a precision he was neither equipped for nor experienced in. He needed only knock him out long enough for the abduction. He reached into the bag, withdrawing a leather plug gag, through which a breathing hole had been drilled. In the event he suffered from nasal congestion, he would be able to breathe through the hole. Prying his mouth open, he inserted the plug, fastening the strap securely behind his head. A blindfold was placed over his eyes for the two-plus hour transport. Rolling the stud onto his belly, he secured his wrists and ankles to the restraints bolted to the van floor. Once all four were locked on, he crawled back to the driver’s seat, started the engine and backed out, driving slowly through the garage to the unmanned exit and onto the street.
The van was on the freeway, just leaving the city limits when he started to hear the metallic rattle of the chains on the van floor, realizing that his captive was beginning to awaken. It was a weak sound, for the moment at least, as it would take a considerable amount of time for the stallion to come to completely. Soft moans were coming through the gag, barely audible above the drone of the tires on the pavement. As the trip progressed, he knew that the struggle from the rear of the van would become substantially more violent as the tranquilizer wore off and the side effects of the other drugs began to intensify.
The last 30 minutes of the drive were along seldom used country roads, well rutted from weather and poorly maintained. It was a rough ride, the van tossing about and rattling over the well rutted lanes. Loud protests were coming from behind him. He couldn’t understand a word that the man was trying to yell through the thick leather gag, but the tone of it was angry and desperate. No surprise as the poor guy was lying directly on the hard metal of the van floor, no padding protecting him from the rough jostling he was receiving. He was sure other things were also making the man wince and yell, but that would be dealt with in short order, once they arrived.
The driveway was so overgrown that a car passing would probably miss it completely. He turned up the overgrown path, heading to the top of the hill through the thickly forested surroundings. At the top, a ragged, collapsing barn stood to the right, about 25 feet from a weathered peeling cabin. He pulled into the barn and killed the engine. In the silence, he could hear loud moaning and protesting coming from the back. After closing the barn door, he returned to the sliding door of the van, thrusting it open and climbing inside, his victim’s head turning towards the sound. As the restrained man started to protest through his gag, his kidnapper drew the pistol from his waistband and pushed it firmly against the other man’s head. “Shut up! Listen carefully and don’t say a word. I’m going to unlock your wrists now. As soon as I do, put your hands behind your back. If you don’t, your brains are going to be splattered all over the back of this van. Capiche! Do you understand me? Nod if you do.” The man nodded his head carefully, the barrel of the revolver still pressed against the back of his head. He undid the locks holding the wrist restraints in place and the man reluctantly obeyed, putting his large masculine hands behind his back. A pair of handcuffs were snapped onto his wrists tightly, causing a grimace from the dark-haired hunk. He undid the legs next, pulling the man to the van door and out onto the floor of the barn. “Don’t try nothin, or I will shoot you. Do exactly what I say and you won’t get hurt.” He pushed the stud forward with his left hand, right hand still pressing the muzzle of the gun against his head. They made their way slowly to the cabin, as the blindfolded man stumbled occasionally on the uneven ground.
Once inside, the kidnapper led his prey to the basement stairs and down to the dark, smelly cellar. In the center of the small, damp space, a single bare light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dull yellow glow in the otherwise dim space. Underneath, an old metal office chair sat, its legs bolted to the concrete floor. The victim was pushed into the worn black vinyl seat, his arms behind the chair back. A metal bar ran between the back legs of the chair, under the seat; another pair of handcuffs hung from this bar. Moving behind the chair, he grabbed the loose end and fastened it around the chain of the handcuffs on the victim’s wrists. On the floor next to him lay a thick, black leather strap with a double buckle. He wrapped this around the stud’s chest, under his arms and fastened the buckles securely to the chair back, causing a wince from the businessman. His ankles were secured to the front legs of the chair with two shorter straps. Having fully restrained his target, he stood in front of him and finally shared with him what was happening. “You have been kidnapped and are being held for ransom. A demand has been sent to your family. You will remain here until the ransom is paid, at which time you will be released. If you cooperate fully, and don’t try anything, you won’t be harmed.” He then turned and climbed the stairs, leaving the confused businessman to struggle in his new prison.
Upstairs, he went to the small, sparsely furnished bedroom. A single cot resided against one wall, next to a tacky, worn nightstand with a tattered light fixture on top. In the small closet hung a few shirts and pairs of jeans. He stripped out of the blue uniform he wore for the kidnapping. Standing only in boxer-briefs, he admired his own physique in the cracked mirror on the door. He was a strong, well built man. Not quite as cut as the man tied to a chair in the basement, but a formidable presence nonetheless. He moved toward the closet to retrieve a pair of snug jeans and a leather hood. He wanted to remove the blindfold of the man downstairs. He needed to see the agony and desperation in his eyes. He didn’t want to be ID’d however, so the hood was a necessity. As he bent over to pull the jeans on, the fullness in his own gut made itself well known. He had been so preoccupied the last couple of days that he ignored his own needs; that and he wanted to feel what his captive was feeling. It wasn’t all by chance that he stood here with tremendous pressure on his back side. He needed to experience a little of the desperation himself.
As he stared at himself in the mirror, he could hear the distant struggle underneath him. He wanted to experience what was happening, even though he was videotaping everything. To be in the moment, he had to hasten to the dark cellar to see for himself. He proceeded to the stairs and began his descent.
He could hear the desperate struggle echoing up the stairwell. He had done well.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could see the bound man squirming and struggling frantically in the chair to which he was bound. He didn’t know why he was experiencing such discomfort. He didn’t know that the drug cocktail he had been injected with wasn’t just to knock him unconscious; the mixture was the result of years of trial and error. What he was now feeling was deliberate, the stimulation of his bowels, excess flatulence, and extreme fullness in his bladder were well planned pharmaceutically, the mixture of drugs specifically designed to create a feeling of fullness and desperation. His captor planned even the timing of the kidnapping to take full advantage of this. The boy was nabbed just before his daily visit to the can to drop deuce. As they were hours beyond that, the foundation for his extreme discomfort was set. The chair in which he sat had entertained many men in the same circumstance, the faded, tattered vinyl permanently scented with the urine and feces stains of dozens of men in the same well-restrained situation. This is why he really did this; not so much for the money, but the excitement of a tied, desperate hunk screaming for relief.
He walked up behind the man and undid the blindfold covering his eyes. They were puffy and red from the strain of holding what wanted…needed to be let go. His reddened face was distorted in agony. From past experience, the hunky kidnapper knew that human nature would not lead these men to prematurely seek relief. Theirs was a mindset of disbelief; it was inconceivable that they would not eventually be taken to a toilet, so they held on with furious resolve, despite the extreme fullness and discomfort.
He looked into the man’s gorgeous brown eyes, well reddened from sweat and strain. The screams came through the gag. “Mleafe, I habta go bafroom! Mleafe! Ooooh, Gob! Aaaahhh, hep me!”
His strong haunches squirmed about on the chair, the metallic clacking of the handcuffs rubbing against each other was a twisted aphrodisiac. A loud fart echoed off the vinyl, followed shortly by three short, soft braaps of gas. His captor stood before him, watching the dance of desperation taking place on the tattered chair. The poor tortured man scooted his muscular butt down in the chair, moaning loudly for relief that wasn’t to be. His powerful thighs scissoring back and forth in an attempt to hold the contents of his overfilled bladder in. A small wet spot appeared on the crotch, followed by an agonized grunt. He looked at the man standing in front of him with disbelief. Why wasn’t he helping him? It didn’t register in his brain. So he continued to fight, sure he would soon be allowed relief.
The struggle reached a crescendo, a beautiful dance of torture. His athletic body pulled at the bindings with every ounce of strength he possessed. Sweat poured down his sculptured brow, dripping off his square chin. Circles of sweat soaked through the underarms of his red dress shirt, staining it. His deodorant had given up quite some time ago; the acrid scent of his body odor replacing it. The room filled with the heady smell of his bowels as he farted again and again, his turd prairie-dogging; moving ever closer to contact with his white boxer-briefs.
Tears ran down his cheek as he began to lose the battle to contain himself. Squirts of piss began to darken the crotch of his light gray trousers, each spurt followed by an agonized grunt. He looked at his captor dancing in a trance-like state in front of him, his hard-on pressing firmly against his fly. The flow increased, spraying through the expensive fabric, soaking down his legs and under his buttocks, puddling to the floor and into his black loafers.
About halfway through his violent piss, he cut two light hissing farts into the liquid under his ass cheeks, lifted his haunches off the chair, and screamed desperately. His kidnapper looked down at the pee stream dripping off his ass, and saw the small lump at the seam of his pants. It retreated momentarily, then reappeared, tenting the fabric outward. It grew larger, hissing farts and crackling sounds accompanying the filling of his suit trousers with this huge invader. He still fought it with quickly ebbing strength, as it squeezed into his shorts, smashing down towards his ball sack and filling the crack of his ass.
His kidnapper began to push at his own load, squeezing it into the seat of his snug jeans. The whole scene pushed him over the edge as he filled his pants. Without even touching himself, he began to spunk into the crotch of his Levi’s, spurt after spurt forming a sticky mess on the button fly. His body trembled in ecstasy and relief as he began to relax, the stench of his mess melding with the smell coming from the man tied in front of him.
For a brief period, the captive held his position, rear end off the chair. His body was too worn to maintain it for long. Fatigue forced him back on the chair, the massive load in his seat squishing into his firm, athletic ass as he sat in his corpulent load. He sobbed gently, the humiliation of the situation overcoming him; a grown man sitting in his own waste, puddles of piss pooling on the floor at his feet.
His captor walked back to the stairs, climbing to the main floor to clean himself. His victim would receive no such consideration, cruelly imprisoned in the chair in which he would remain for days to come, adding regularly to the mess in which he was seated.