Blind Date

//Where... am... I...?//

Ouch, my head. Pounding. And... everything's dark... so dark... oooh...

(Later)

Oh my head! It hurts. And all this darkness? Something on my face... a blindfold. Jeeze, where am I? I can't move...! Oh no, I'm toasted... My head... Swooning...

(Even later)

I'm waking up, so slowly... It is not the first time? I seem to remember something, a feeling of déjà-vu... Everything's dark. Oh yeah, a blindfold, right. And my head is pounding, oh God... I try to move, but my entire body is numb. Come on, Alex, focus...! One thing at a time. My hand. Can it move? Fingers, at least? Oooh, yes... just a little, but I *can* move them. There's something cold and hard around my wrist. A handcuff would probably be a good bet I think?

And feeling the discomfort in my arm, I'd say my hand is tied on a level with my head? My, it's difficult to think with that throbbing jello inside my skull... Whoever sung that lullaby for me was good at it, fuck!

I try to move my head slightly. Ouch! The wall behind me is cold. Not to mention hard. What's wrong with my left shoulder? It seems twisted. The rest of my body... Hey, I don't feel anything! Oh no! I wonder... if I'm... still whole... or at least... not... less... than usual... Fuck, my head... It's swimming... again...

(Even more later)

Hmmm... Dark, so dark... oh, damn, the blindfold. I remember. My head is heavy... At least it isn't throbbing any more. Well, not that much. Time for a check-up, Alex.

Right wrist? Handcuffed, for sure. Beside my ear. When I move my hand, as far as I can I mean, I hear a metallic sound. A chain I guess. Left shoulder? I have no clue really. But it feels twisted and I can't move on this side. What did *they* do with my prosthesis? It's on: I can feel the straps around my chest. But there's a tugging sensation. I'm woozy... I've been drugged. Did *they* grant me a vet's dose or what? I really *hate* to be turned into a lab rat, ha ha.

Yes, I still can laugh at myself. And believe me, that's no good news for *them* - whoever they are. And who are *they*? What are my last memories?

Cancerman. He made a call on the cellular. Fixed an appointment in that warehouse in the Docks' district. It was, hum... Saturday night. Eleven. I parked the rented car three streets further and came back to check the surroundings to find a back alley and an emergency door... Then, blackness. Well played, Smokey. Am I getting slow?

I really can't move my legs though I feel the cold floor under them; concrete?

I must rely on my remaining senses...

Smell? Cold. Wet. Musty. Something... rusty? Rotting wood... Old scents only, I'd say. The housekeeper must be underpaid.

Hear? Aaah, now that's interesting. Adjusting to the lowest level I can reach, I perceive faint rumbles. One at a time, approaching then fading, irregular... Car engines. Traffic noise. But the area doesn't seem that frequented. A louder noise, from afar, slowly increasing... and fading away again to nothing. An aircraft, but not above this place, as I didn't feel any tremour in the wall behind me.

I tune in my hearing to closer surroundings - my whole conscience concentrated in that unique sense. I breathe slow and deep. //A Quiet Sun. A Quiet Sun. A Quiet Sun... // My personal mantra operates its little magic as I become aware of a very faint sound on my right side. Breathing. Very light. Undisturbed. Somebody who doesn't know I'm awake. If it's a guard, he doesn't know *me*, either. Fine. Very fine...

(Still no sense of time, you know!)

Shit, I dozed off. For how long? I'm immediately aware of my situation, and without moving I tense, listening to my right side. That's it, the guard's been moving and the part of my brain that never sleeps has rung its alarm. A rattling noise, decreasing steps... Coming to a stop. A door opening, not closing. Running liquid and a sigh. More liquid? Oh flushing. All right, the guy had a pee. He's coming back. Hey, didn't your mom tell you to wash your hands??? Rattling, cracking... I can see him in my mind, sitting down on a lonely little chair. For he's alone, I'm almost sure of that now.

He's yawning. He definitely *doesn't* know who I am.

My own private Cerberus' breathing gets slower and slower... A few minutes later a snore tells me that he has fallen asleep. Nightie-night, guy. If Uncle Alex can take care of you, your boss won't have enough left of you to chastise for your incompetence.

Time to elaborate escape plans. So, the story so far: I'm tied, handcuffed, blindfolded. My legs are numb - still that drug. But I can move my toes, I can feel... socks. Shoes. My knees? I can feel the contact of my denim jeans. And my buttocks are sore from that cold, hard, rough floor. I try to turn my hips a little bit. Hmmm. Yeah. My body is in the process of eliminating the drug. But, man, am I thirsty! My mouth is dry like an old parchment.

And I can't figure out how I'm going to get loose. I'm a survivor, right; but I'm not Houdini, what do you think? Shit. I shouldn't admit it, but I find this whole situation rather depressing. Pfew.

Wait!!! What's that noise?

...

Steps. Not the guard's; my little mate's sleeping like an angel. Shuffling steps, careful, muffled... Coming steadily closer on my right side...

*Shbonck*.

Yeah, it was a "shbonck". And the unmistakable sound of a body sliding to the ground accompanied by the shock of a chair following it. Uh oh.

More confused noises, then I clearly hear a door being unlocked. Is this the cavalry? Or the firing squad? In my field, one never knows...

The door opens. "You!!!"

Yeees, little ol'me. Isn't that a surprise? Glad to see you too. Well I mean, to *hear* you... Who are you, by the way? Okay, I know better than to ask... As far as you're concerned, I'm unconscious. Never mind. So?

Here comes a sound I don't like. Not at all. A brief hissing and a safety... unfastened? Of course, I had to fall on one of those guys who can dream of nothing more fulfilling for their lives than to shoot me on sight. Come to think of it, they outnumber my buddies by far. Even statistics are against me.

To shoot or not to shoot? It seems Mr. X hasn't still made up his mind. I'd like to think of it as a good point, but among the so-said guys, some would keep me alive only in order to see me suffer a little longer, believe it or not...

A rustle of fabric and a draught tell me that Mr. X has just knelt beside me. And a new metallic click... that he has secured his weapon again. God bless you my friend. For the moment anyway.

Two warm hands grope around my wrist and I'd swear Mr. X curses silently. I feel a new draught as he stands up and walks away without caring for the silence (so there are really no other guards? Data stored.) There are rummaging noises, then a clinging sound, and my saviour is back with what I hope is a key.

Yup, the warm fingers are back to the handcuff. I can't suppress a sigh of relief. FUCK! Mr. X instantly freezes. //Alex, you asshole! Couldn't you wait to be free, it was just a matter of seconds!//

Something soft touches my neck - a hand checking my pulse. Too late to fool him. "Drugged", I breathe. My voice is convincingly sticky even to my own ears. Mr. X doesn't answer but I feel his hand hesitate, before touching my cheek. Then a thumb lightly strokes my lower lip. Not a smoker's finger but there is a faint smell I *almost* recognize...? No, I can't place it.

The fleshy thumb lingers on my mouth, drawing it in a somewhat dreamy manner. "You..." I'd swear I know this voice, but Mr. X's monosyllables are too parcimonious for me to identify him. He seems to waver and I don't know what to make of it. I hear the resounding sound of a metallic device laid onto the ground and his second hand comes to my face. Then I feel a breath close to my nose and a mouth delicately lands on mine!

I'm disoriented and the drug has nothing to do with it. I can't turn my face away as he holds it gently but firmly. I must say the contact is rather pleasant and the mystery makes the almost chaste kiss even more erotic. But usually, I like to be the one in control.

Mr. X's mouth leaves mine with a sigh and I try to regain a normal breathing rhythm. Then the hands abandon my face. I'm waiting for them to loosen my bonds or at least to raise my blindfold but nothing happens... until they slide under my sweatshirt and cautiously stroke my chest, brush against my nipples. I'd think he's checking for possible injuries if not for the former kiss. I'm wondering what his aim is? Then I feel the feverish hands... on my belt. They're unfastening the buckle, then launching an attack on the fly of my jeans.

I can't believe it! This guy isn't going to rape me?!

I make an attempt to struggle but my legs are still too numb to provide me with any useful leverage. And I hear an unzipping sound before X's hands tear down my pants! I can't fight the inner panic that threatens to overcome my brain and my assailant utters a kind "Shhh." Oh, thank you, now I'm completely reassured!

At least he won't have the satisfaction of hearing me shout or even curse. I don't like to recall the thing, but it already happened. I know my silence didn't soften my rapists' intentions (yes, that was what you call a gang-bang), but sometimes I can be really stubborn, you see.

I strengthen myself, clench my jaws and try to empty my mind.

The hands that take my cock out are warm, careful, tender... And they begin to stroke me with such a delicacy that I'm caught off guard and my defence mechanism suddenly proves inacurrate.

I gasp despite myself - the sensation is overwhelming. Shut in complete darkness as I am, surrounded by an almost full silence (but for the short breathing of my "partner"), I feel all my attention drawn to my genitals, prisoner of the skillful fingers that rub my hardened flesh. Yeah, I'm hard, hard as hell! How can I be so aroused when at the mercy of somebody who can shoot me any time - or maybe part me from a portion of my anatomy I'm weak enough to value as much as my remaining arm??

The touch is light, feathery on my foreskin, holding it just enough to make it slide back and forth on my glans, sending shivers along my spine. Mr. X's second knowing hand searches lower and frees my balls. Silly, but a new surge of panic swamps my body... A man doesn't like to let unidentified hands take his most intimate legacy to a mysterious fate.

The hand - that shakes slightly - cups my right ball and squeezes it wonderfully. Nothing could stop me: I moan, causing my rapist to chuckle softly. Well, if the guy is a "rapist", then I'm Santa Claus.

I feel him getting in position for a more serious job, and soon my dearest part is swallowed with a greed I can't help but marvel at. The sweetest mouth I ever was engulfed by devours me with little sucking noises. His tongue is tickling the underside of my shaft whilst both his hands are busy with my balls, nursing them with loving attention. The lips go on, up and down, up and down, again, again, oh my God! Maybe I know the man but one thing's for sure: he never gave me head - I wouldn't have forgotten him! In the haze of my building climax I line up all the men I know in a row, on their knees, with open mouths for me to test... Giving a whole new meaning to Cinderella's glass slipper, isn't it?

Of course, if I must strike off all those who would rather blow my head off rather than making a job of it, the ranks are shrinking. Drastically.

Cinderella's mouth suddenly abandons my cock and my hips buck automatically to find again this haven of happiness - but he's just changed his mind and switched position as his lips are closing around my left ball and his fingers are back to take care of my aching member.

I whimper helplessly. My head rolls against the uneven wall and I stammer, "Please, oh God, please!" Whether I'm asking for a decisive caress to put an end to this exquisite torment or rather for an everlasting tease, I don't know any more.

His busy mouth utters an interrogative "Hmmm?" as his hand increases his pressure around me. The whispered humming sends a thrill into my lower belly and makes my swollen cock jerk between connoisseur's fingers. And it's my right ball's turn to be favoured with a succession of lickings, suckings, soft nibblings that don't fail to make my condition worse than it is.

I'm now begging wordlessly for his ministrations to take me over the edge. Another change in Cinderella's strategy brings his lips back to my dick, one hand around my balls and the other - well he's trying to slide his fingers lower, under my scrotum, against my perineum. I try to help him - I've completely forgotten the promise I made to myself earlier, no shouting, no cursing - but my sitting position isn't that appropriate. He's content with stroking the skin under my balls with regularity, and then he *really* swallows me.

I mean he deepthroats me as I've never been in my whole life. Has he no gag-reflex? Daily training on cucumbers?

My own reflexes cannot be slowed down any more - I feel burning fire gathering in my loins and my lava bursts out in a triumphant flood right in Cinderella's throat as shreds of flamboyant light tear apart the darkness that's blinding me. Load after load, he swallows everything and it seems to me he's purring around my member, sending more vibrations along my ragged nerves. He holds me till the last drop, and even a little longer. I'm grateful to him for not abandoning me to the coolness of my jail too quickly.

Mr. X licks me clean - this guy is a pearl - before dressing me again. At last his wonderful mouth comes back to mine, sharing my taste with me. With his lips against mine he breathes, "Thanks." I'd like to answer something kind, "You're welcome", you see, but I'm so drained that I'm merely able to pant.

I vaguely hear him fumbling beside my right hip and his wet hands bustle around my wrist. Then there's the ringing sound of a chain falling free against the wall. I want to raise the blindfold covering my eyes but he firmly holds my wrist immobile though without any roughness. I should struggle to free myself but I'm floatting in a hot afterglow, all my senses blurred.

Cinderella puts something small inside my hand, muttering, "Key." I still have this nagging feeling that I know him - but those one-syllable words uttered by a whispered voice protect his anonymity. A little rummaging and fabric noises later he adds something into my palm before closing my fingers around whatever he's given to me.

All of a sudden he's standing up and rushing towards the door! I hear his foot steps receding rapidly along what must be a maze of empty corridors if their resounding quality is anything to go by.

Still panting, I raise my now free hand in order to discard the blindfold, taking care to keep hold of Cinderella's gifts. The dim light coming from the opening on my right side doesn't really hurt and allows me to see two legs lying across the doorframe - my guard is still out, or worse.

Turning my face to the other side I see a vast empty room, a warehouse. Cold, wet, dusty. Cast iron pillars, and a few rotten crates. And against the wall, close to my eyes, my fake hand is handcuffed on a level with the good one. Not surprising that my left shoulder is twisted out. I had forgotten the discomfort for a little while if I'm to be absolutely sincere.

I stare dubiously at my closed hand. Time to know if Cinderella's mouth can be trusted for its words as much as for its talent. I carefully open my fingers and in my palm, yes, there is a handcuff key. And seeing what keeps it company, I softly whistle. I knew I'd already smelt that scent.

...Three sunflower seeds.