by Peter Loaf

As I climbed into the taxi I knew something was wrong. In the first place who ever heard of a cab with mirrored windows? As I settled back into my seat I looked in the rear view mirror to confirm the driverís face matched his picture on the license.

It did not match. The driver was a coal black Hindi, the license was for a red haired Russian.

I reached for the door handle, intending to get right back out. It was locked. I was a prisoner.

Suddenly the other door opened and this huge hairless gorilla climbed in and sat down beside me. I started to scream at him to get out but he punched he in the side of the head so hard that I was stunned. By the time I was ready to try screaming again I was tightly bound and gagged. I could hum a little, but with the radio blasting South Indian music I had little chance of making myself heard.

I lay, face up, at the gorillaís feet and tried not to be sick.

I got a glimpses of the George Washington bridge and the undersides of a hundred highway bridges, and I think we changed highways two or three times, but other than that I have no real idea where I have been brought. All I know is that it took us about three hours to get here.

Just before we stopped the gorilla bent down and pulled a canvas sack down over my head. I was blinded, gagged and hogtied. The car stopped and I was carried into what smelled and sounded like an abandoned factory.

I was put down on a chilly floor and left, my hogtie as tight as ever. The inside of that bag was soon very hot and stuffy. Breathing was soon going to be a problem, yet there was nothing I could do. I wiggled as much as I could, but got exactly nowhere.

After what seemed like an eternity the Hindi taxi driver came and untied the laces from around my throat. As the bag came off I squeezed my dazzled eyes shut and sucked in a lungful of life-giving air.

When I could see, I saw a film crew setting up equipment. There were four of them, the Hindi, the gorilla and two men in hangmanís hoods. When they were done they came over to me, lying hogtied and helpless.

My hands were untied and I was rolled over onto my back. I was quickly fitted with a collar and shackles welded together to hold my useless hands a foot in front of my face. Cutting my ankle rope they carried me over to a vertical post, sat me down so that it was between my thighs and attached my wrist and throat shackles closely to the post in front of me.

It wasnít until they lifted my feet and shackled them to the sides of the post, level with my shoulders, that I knew they intended to torture me.

My entire weight was balanced on my tailbone. It was as painful as a thumbscrew, only the pain was in my spine. I was left there to suffer while the video team filmed my misery, getting close-ups of my tears streaming down through the beads of sweat on my cheeks, the desperate pleading noises I could make behind my gag, the pupil dilated look of panic in my eyes.

Still fully dressed in my bibber shorts and tee-shirt, I never-the-less felt sexually exposed as the camera focused on my soaking wet crotch.

They took off one of my shoes, threatening my sole with a bippy, a long limber stick that would leave welts on any flesh it struck. I tried to twist my foot away but the ankle shackle held it in place, so that for a second, I forgot the pain in my ass.

They molested me, their slipping fingers on my sweating flesh, fiddling with my nipples, squeezing my breasts and tickling my clit.

I sat there, concentrating on the pleasures, turned on by the pain.

They brought straight razors and cut off my clothing, leaving only the one stupid shoe. I sat there and shivered, my nipples swollen strawberries, my pussy a fragrant bloom promising nectar.

The hairless gorilla stripped out of his clothes, sat down close behind me, lifted my weight from my tortured tailbone and sat me on his lap. It happened so quickly that it was several seconds before I realized I was being raped.

His fellow cameramen circled and focused, catching my every grimace, my every helpless squeal. The way his huge organ was stretching me, along with the buzzer ring on his middle finger I could not resist the rising tide of passion. The flaring base note of residual pain from my tailbone was in the background to the incredible pleasures I was getting from the gorillaís big cock.

When I came, it was like an explosion. Within me I felt his gusher of hot semen splash up into my womb.

I wonder how long itís going to take for daddy to get the ransom money together. That DVD they sent should make him hurry. Hope itís soon.