Some of you will have read this before on other sites, but it’s a fucking brilliant story, and completely and utterly true in every detail.
So I’d planned an evening of consensual adventuresomeness earlyish in my relationship with Helena who had often (occasionally? once?) expressed a vigorous interest in kidnap fantasies. I had covered all the details – the scene, the tools and accoutrements, the venue for her vile and filthy miscreant to have his evil way with her (and more or less what he was going to do – you have to leave a bit of room for freestyling). All was well and all was going to go to plan.
We met up for a drink in a pub, both on soft drinks, both driving. When I suggested that we might go for a bit of a drive to find somewhere a little darker and less overlooked, she was all enthusiasm – and why would she not be? We jumped into my car and headed off towards the secluded spot I’d found on Google maps. It was only 3 or 4 miles away, so it wasn’t going to take long.
Oh. Bugger. My plan had sort of revolved around arriving there with her securely trussed up in the boot. And there she was as large as life and twice as gorgeous in the passenger seat. And it was only going to take us about 10 minutes to wind our way down the country roads to the ‘venue’. Arsehole.
Oh! There’s an industrial unit. It’s got a car park. The gates are open … I know no plan survives first contact with the enemy (or real life) and you need to be able to cuff it vigorously to achieve the aim sometimes, so I did. I pulled into the car park with a bit of a screech and leapt out of the car with the engine still running. I ran around to her side, opened the door to a look of utter confusion, reached across to undo her seatbelt and pulled her out by her hair. She’s breathing heavily, so am I and the adrenalin is pumping. I bend her over the boot, open the back door of the car and grab my grip (unzipped, everything I need, in the order I’ll need it).
I pull out an old stocking and wrap it around her eyes as a blindfold. I know it’ll let her see light and dark – that’s part of the plan for later. I pull out the first piece of rope and tie her hands behind her back. This isn’t Shibari, this isn’t pretty. This is quick and effective. As I’m reaching for the home-made rope bit-gag, my spidey senses start to tingle … something isn’t quite right here. She’s fine. She’s breathing OK, she’s excited (I don’t know how I know, I just know). I glance over my shoulder … a fucking security guard!
Note to our American cousins: this is in the UK. Our night security guards do NOT believe they’re Dirty Harry. Unarmed, quite old, and clearly out of his comfort zone. He kind of shuffled towards us, clearly not wanting to actually have to do anything about it. Fuck! Fuckit! Fuck.
I did the one thing that any sane human being would do in that position. I fucking pissed myself laughing. Hysterics. Yeah, I know. Big fucking Domly Dom. Nope. I pulled my companion’s blindfold down, she scoped out the situation, started laughing too and dived for the back seat to get the fuck out of there. You know what? That sounds like a bloody good idea. I tucked all the stray rope ends into the car, closed the door and walked calmly around to the driver’s seat, all the time saying, ‘Sorry! We’re going now! Really sorry about that!!’
So … we drove another mile down the road, barely able to breathe for laughing. Fucking hell! The moment was broken until I saw another lay-by. Fuckit. I’m not having all my plans go to a bag of shite! I’m going to make this work. I pulled over, pulled her out of the car (again), blindfolded her (again), gagged her (got it right at the second attempt) and she ended up in the boot, hogtied, blindfolded, gagged, knickers around her knees, blanket over her and her first orgasm of the night safely in the bank.
I wheelspun (span?!?) out of the lay-by and headed to the spot I’d map-reconned earlier. The driving was deliberately just a little bit erratic. The accelerations just a touch unnecessary, the braking just a fraction hard. Oh, and over cattle grids for good measure. The spot was perfect, and I stopped.
I’m going to draw a discrete veil over the next couple of hours, because it’s frankly none of your business … this isn’t that story. However, I dropped her off back at her car a good bit later, and after much giggling and leave taking, we headed off our separate ways. Which, I thought, was a good end to a great night.
Until I got to about 5 minutes from home.
All of a sudden my phone fucking exploded! Texts, voicemail, WhatsApp, Kik, Facebook messenger, every method of communication known to modern man. What the fuck? When I stopped, I realised they were, with the exception of one from my play partner telling me she was home safely, all from my soon to be ex-wife.
“Can you contact me by any means as soon as you get this. We’re all fine, but I need to speak to you urgently!”
Now we’ve been civil but distant since we separated. I had a funny feeling that civil thing was about to change.
So … We had been in the carpark of that industrial unit at about 9.15pm (ish). At 12.15am the local police had arrived at my soon-to-be-ex-wife’s door (about 500 miles further north) and hadn’t realised there was a door bell. ‘Hello Mrs Duke. I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding, but …’
Yeah. My make and model of car. My registration number. My age, height, build and accent (although thanks to the security guard for taking 5 years off). Not much room for misunderstanding there, is there?
‘What has he done?’
‘We’re looking for him in connection with a possible kidnapping.’
‘ … ‘
Mrs Duke explains all this to me in her best Sybil Fawlty. That’s one of the reasons she’s the soon-to-be-ex Mrs Duke. And there are pregnant pauses. You know the ‘why don’t you fill in the gaps’ type? Yeah … not touching that one. It’s OK. It’s fine. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ll phone them and sort it all out. Yeah, honestly, it’s a mistake. Well, it IS a mistake. I’m not going to discuss who’s mistake.
So I called my play partner and let her know what was coming. There was a 5 minute conversation between us that mostly consisted of ‘Fuck’ batted back and forth like the the ball in a Scotland v Italy test match.
And then I phoned the non-emergency police number.
‘Hi, My name is Raoul Duke. I believe you want to speak to me?’
‘Oh yes. Registration number [this]? A [colour], [make], [model]? Give me your phone number, the Sergeant will phone you back.’
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckitty fuck, fuckit.
‘Ah Mr Duke. We’ve had a report and we were wondering if you could clarify a few details …’
‘Can I just stop you there, Sergeant? I’ll tell you exactly what happened.’
And I did. Pretty much exactly as I’ve told you it up there. Full-on anecdote mode. Every potential embarrassment played for laughs, heaping it on myself, trying to get the chuckle down the line that tells me I’m not going to be face-down, non-consensually bound and with no safeword. And … eventually …it came. Soooo off the fucking hook. And can I have her number to confirm your story, please? Of course, Sergeant, and I’m so, so sorry for wasting your time with a bit of high jinx gone awry.
That’s fine, sir. You’d be surprised how often this happens. Goodnight.’ [click]
Wait, what? How often this happens? What? Kidnap fantasies? No! Really? Bastards! I wanted to be the only one!