The Hostage – take two

From Whispers 2

Readers of the first issue of Whispers will be familiar with the Hostage story; the piece published here came as a response from a writer who felt he saw something more in the situation pictured.

The blindfold showed light; she was in a brightly lit room. The man had led her across the room, her high heels clip-clopping on a hard surface, and told her to sit. It sank down, soft and yielding. A bed. A mattress rather; she could feel it was a mattress with her hands. A bare mattress with no bedclothes. The man went out, she heard his footsteps and then the click of the door. Unless of course he hadn’t really gone out but was still there watching her.

Was she alone? Or was somebody — that man or someone else — silently watching? There was no way of knowing.

She could remove the blindfold of course, she knew that. She wasn’t tied up in any way. But she had been instructed that on no account was she to remove the blindfold. That was one instruction and the other was that she must do exactly what she was told. Exactly, without question or hesitation. If she complied with those orders she would not be harmed. She would be released when they were ready and Derek would be all right too. When he had done what they wanted him to do. It was a test for Derek and clearly she was a hostage.

She shivered. Not that it was cold. It wasn’t cold in England in August. Southern England. It must be Southern England and not desperately far from her home because that car journey had been no more than a couple of hours at the most. Unless of course she had been drugged. She hadn’t been drugged, had she? It was Wednesday afternoon…?

She moved her head from side to side trying to imagine the room. A bedroom? Or some bare basement? No, the floor was not the bare concrete of a basement. Yes, a bedroom — but no bedclothes. An empty house therefore. Empty and abandoned where no one would come to find her. So that if they wanted…

She felt a little shiver of terror.

Derek had been edgy, she had sensed something was up for some weeks now. Those people he had got involved with; she didn’t know who they were or what they did but they clearly had money and Derek had wanted to get involved, to get some for himself, she knew that. And of course he was very confident that he knew what he was doing. But with his sheltered background — public school and then a trainee in the bank — what  did that tell you about life and about people who were probably rough and tough?

‘It’ll be all right,’ he had told her. ‘They want me to do something for them and you’re — well, you’ll be security, I suppose.’

What did he have to do, rob the bank? He wouldn’t tell her, of course. She could see he was scared, but scared of what? Of what he had to do or of what could happen to her. ‘They won’t hurt you,’ he had said but she had felt it was said more in hope than belief.

She hadn’t been hurt, not so far. But in the car, on the leather back-seat sitting between the two men, one of them had slid his hand up her skirt. Up to the stocking tops and then beyond. Exploring suspender straps and warm bare thigh. She had got a choking feeling but had bit her lip and not struggled. She was blindfolded of course. The man with his hand up her skirt had given a little laugh and said ‘She’s got nice legs.’ The one on the other side had just grunted.

They had put the blindfold on when they came for her at the flat. Not the ones in the car, two other men. She had seen them of course — middle-aged with cockney accents. The one in the car who said ‘She’s got nice legs’ certainly wasn’t cockney, he had spoken with that precise English that you sometimes got with foreigners. And the hand up her skirt had seemed somehow un-English. A very hairy hand, the wrist and the backs of the fingers almost like an animal’s fur. A very frightening hand.

That was all he did, put his hand up her skirt. It was her purple party dress, heavy brocade. The man, one of the two cockneys at the flat, had pulled it out of her wardrobe. ‘Wear this, sweetheart; a nice party dress and you’re going to a party!’

He and the other one had both laughed.

They had made her put it on. They had also selected the other things that she now wore. The suspender belt and white stockings. Her fancy blue French knickers, a present from Derek. High-heeled pumps. They had crammed some more of her things in a suitcase. ‘All we need for a nice little stay,’ he had said. ‘A party,’ he repeated and they both laughed again.

Then they had put the blindfold on her. That was this morning. Or at least she thought it was. Then the car journey which had finished up at this place. Not a long trip, two hours perhaps. Unless of course…

She had been given a drink. The man, the one with the hairy hand which had explored up under her skirt, had told her to drink it. A cup from a thermos flask. It was coffee but it could have had something in it. They could have drugged her and it might not be Wednesday now. They could have…

At least she had all her clothes on. Including her knickers. But that didn’t necessarily mean…

She had been bundled out of the car when they got here. Gravel crunching under her high heels. Then in and up the stairs. She remembered now a carpet on the stairs, so did that mean that the house wasn’t an old abandoned place?

The man with the hairy hand asked if she wanted to go to the bathroom and his asking made her realise she did. She was led along and in. She asked ‘Please can you go out?’ and got the answer ‘Don’t be silly; go ahead.’

So that was what she had to do. Pull up her skirt and slide down her knickers and, blindfolded still, sit on the seat. A splashing into the bowl which knowing the man was watching sounded deafening.

When she stood to pull up her knickers he patted her bare bottom and gave a little laugh.

And then she was led out and into this room. This room with its bed with no bedclothes; a bare mattress. Was it Wednesday afternoon? What were they going to do? How long could she be kept? Derek had said ‘Not long’. And also ‘Don’t worry.’

She sat there, she didn’t know for how long. Time was impossible to judge when you were in a blind, sightless world. She wasn’t sure, she might have laid down on the mattress; slept. When you were like that, cut off, your mind did funny things. Then out of nowhere, the silence, she heard the door click. And footsteps which came towards her. A voice.

‘Hello my dear. Miss Kenyon; yes? Susan, I believe.’

A pleasant well-modulated upper-class English voice. Not the voice of the man with the hairy hand and certainly not a cockney voice. Perhaps an older man’s voice.

She answered ‘Yes,’ her own voice sounding funny, perhaps because she hadn’t heard it for so long.

‘Yes. It says here — and as you’ve been a sensible girl and not removed your blindfold you won’t see this but I am reading from a report — it says age 20, height 5’5”, slim build, brunette; ex-pupil of Sir George Mather School for Girls; mother, housewife; father, civil servant. Miss Kenyon is employed as a copy typist etc. etc. All that sounds like you, does it, Susan?’

She said yes. It was all correct.

‘Yes. And of course also the girlfriend of young Mr Derek Cornwell; or indeed fiancée I believe. They won’t miss you at work because you’re on holiday this week, aren’t you, Susan?’ The cultured voice gave a short laugh. ‘Of course if you’re not there on Monday — well, I daresay they can be told something. An extension to your holiday for instance.’

She swallowed. If today was Wednesday, Monday was four days away. They weren’t going to keep her…

‘You see it’s this boyfriend,’ the smooth voice said. ‘Or rather fiancé. Young Mr Cornwell has caused us a few headaches. Nothing serious but he has annoyed a few people. Someone said he should be given a little something to think about. And then someone also said ‘How about that pretty little Miss Kenyon that he’s got.’

Her hands clutched at the mattress.

‘So here we are.’ His voice was soft and smooth. Friendly, you could say, but you could also say like a snake. ‘Someone spoke to that young man and it was put to him that you might like to come and get… acquainted while he was doing something for us. What do you think of that, young lady?’

There wasn’t an obvious answer. Susan’s hands continued their nervous movement.

‘Yes, well there we are. We certainly don’t wish to harm you, Miss Kenyon. I don’t think we would ever wish to harm anyone; not even persons who are annoying at times. All we really want from you is some nice co-operation. A little show of friendliness, shall we say, in view of your young man’s past annoyances. Friendliness by a pretty girl can make up for an awful lot. Do you know what I mean, Miss Kenyon?’

Numbly she nodded her head. But what did friendliness and co-operation mean?

‘Why not lie down, my dear. Much more comfortable, I am sure. Lie down and relax.’

‘Just do as they say,’ Derek had told her. ‘I’ve got in a spot of bother but it’ll be all right if you do exactly what they say.’ Derek was prepared to sacrifice her to them, was that it?

She lay down on the mattress. Stretched out, on her back. She was certainly not relaxed though.

‘That’s better. What a pretty dress — and what a pretty girl as well. I have seen photographs of you of course so I have seen all of that pretty face, including those lovely covered up eyes. Yes. Lift the skirt, would you? Pull it up nice and high. Let’s see more of those pretty legs.’

She pulled it up. ‘Oh yes… A bit further, would you…’

The heavy brocade up round her waist. Her legs in the white stockings and the pretty suspender belt fully on display, and her sexy French knickers as well.

‘Very pretty.’ His voice was closer. ‘Yes, very pretty indeed. And you do seem prepared to be nice and co-operative. That’s excellent. Now shall we try some more? Can you slip those pretty knickers down?’

It was only what she had expected. Ever since they came to the flat and told her she was going with them, and then made her change into these clothes. ‘A party.’ Ever since Derek had said it. ‘I’m in a spot of bother. And… well, they want you.’

‘Why me?’ She had asked, shocked, and Derek had looked very embarrassed. ‘Oh no reason really. Just security.’

Just security.

Under the bright lights which filtered through the white blindfold, under the gaze of this man which she could feel boring into her, she slid the blue french knickers down. Halfway down her thighs. There was a desperate desire to put her hands across, over… but she made herself not do it. That wasn’t what he wanted, that wasn’t being ‘friendly’. She lay still, feeling the eyes hot on her…

‘Yes, we are being friendly.’ The voice had perhaps some emotion in it now. ‘Nice and sensible and friendly, and of course a very lovely girl. That young fellow of yours might have his awkward side but he has certainly got excellent taste as regards his lady friend. Can you slip them down a bit further, Miss Kenyon? Right down to those pretty shoes…’

She scrabbled the knickers down. ‘Do just what they want,’ Derek had said. ‘Otherwise…’

‘You don’t mean…?’ she had asked, looking him full in the face. ‘What if they…?’

Derek had gone red and avoided her eyes. He knew what she meant but pretended he didn’t. ‘They won’t hurt you,’ he said.

There had been an urge to blurt it out. ‘What if they want to screw me?’ But she hadn’t; she hadn’t been able to actually spell it out. But that was what she thought and she knew that was what Derek thought. And she had thought it ever since those two came and grabbed her dress out of the wardrobe.

‘A party.’ Someone was going to screw her. Maybe all those men were going to do it; all those men who had been getting annoyed with whatever Derek had been doing. They were going to teach him a lesson and they were going to do it by screwing his fiancée.

She lay still, on her back under the bright light, her knickers now down round her ankles, her dress up round her waist. The voice said, ‘Yes, very lovely. Our friend is a very lucky young fellow. I quite envy him. But at least she has agreed to come here and be friendly so to a certain extent we can all share his good fortune.’

She tried to make her mind a blank; but it didn’t want to.

‘Lift your knees,’ the voice said. ‘Right up. That’s it… that’s a very attractive position.’ A pause. ‘And now can you open those very pretty knees…’

What if she didn’t? Yelped ‘No!’ Or snatched the blindfold off? Would they really do dreadful things — to her — to Derek? It could be all just a threat and if you simply refused…

Susan opened her legs.

And then she felt his weight on the bed. He was sitting, next to her. She gasped as his hand slid over her knee. An English hand this time, the hand that went with the English voice, not that furry hand. But she shivered nonetheless.

The hand caressed. The voice made appreciative noises. The hand slid down her leg to her ankle; to slip the knickers off over her shoes; then came back up. Onto the soft, trembling inner thigh. Softly stroking the silky sensitive flesh. She wanted to jerk her legs together, but that now would anyway only trap the hand where it was. She kept them parted. The stroking hand was moving closer, to where the mass of springy-soft brown curls was.

‘Lovely,’ the voice breathed. ‘Very lovely indeed. And so nice and friendly too.’

Suddenly the fingers were there, and then the whole palm of the hand. A sudden bold move. Right to the centre of the soft curls where she had become, as an automatic consequence of the sensuous stroking, distinctly wet. The vertical split in the centre of all that abundant hair wet and ready. Her body responding blindly to the caressing, unable to make the distinction that this wasn’t Derek doing it. Unable to understand that she didn’t want it, that it was the last thing she wanted.

The hand, the fingers, stroked in the wetness. Fingers found, and entered, a deeper wetness. Susan’s head spun, her hands clutched frantically at the mattress.

From various parts of the room the watching eyes of cameras faithfully recorded. As they had done ever since the blindfolded girl was brought into this room with its bare-mattressed bed and its piled-up furniture. Faithfully recording. As they would continue to do until she was taken out again.