FIC: Gone Horribly Wrong [2/?]
Mar. 12th, 2012 10:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixI seriously think this is the guiltiest pleasure fic I've written in ages. Is it awful that I love that Martin Crieff is canonically prone to tears and fainting spells and begs for mercy when he's beaten up? Well, if it is, then color me awful. GOD, this is fun. :D
Title: Gone Horribly Wrong
Author: Alex
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: John Finnemore, Pozzitive Productions for le BBC.
Summary: From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. Douglas gets in a little over his head in regards to his smuggling, but it's Martin who suffers for it.
Warnings: Nonconsensual sex.
Notes: This is my very first Cabin Pressure fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
Continued from Part 1
*
CAPTAIN COURAGEOUS: PILOT OUTWITS SMUGGLERS
Not quite.
I WOULDN’T TELL THEM ANYTHING: BRAVE MARTIN RELATES TWO-DAY ORDEAL
No…try again.
SAD BERK TRUSSED LIKE CHRISTMAS GOOSE, STRUGGLES FRUITLESSLY, CRIES
Yes. Yes, that was more like it.
Martin sighed and rested his forehead on the cold concrete floor. It wouldn’t have been so bad, really, if he didn’t hurt so much. The man who’d dragged him into the back of the van had thumped him behind the ear, hard enough to knock him out and to give him a stabbing headache; when he’d been awakened by the thudding of tires over a patchwork road, he saw the man sitting across from him, smiling and aiming a gun at him. Too frightened to speak or even beg, Martin had cowered in the corner until the van had stopped and the others had entered. They’d pulled his anorak off, wrapped it around his head, and dragged him out and into…this place, a sort of deserted factory or warehouse office, pulling the anorak off and letting him gape in silence and terror for a moment.
Before he could even think to protest or argue, they were tying his wrists together behind his back with some horribly spiny twine that bit into his skin. The man who’d hit him reached out, tore his t-shirt down the front, ripped the entire front bit off, laughing at Martin’s squeak of terror, rolled it up, and shoved it in his mouth. Then he’d gone to a drawer and produced a roll of gaffer tape, torn off a piece, and stuck it over Martin’s mouth for good measure. He’d patted Martin’s cheek. “Keep you nice and quiet, love.”
Then they’d pushed him to the floor and tied his ankles and knees together, and finally ran a length of the twine from his ankles to his wrists, pulling at it until he’d groaned in pain. They’d laughed and tied off the knot, and then just left him there, with mock-concerned admonishments to behave himself. He’d waited until their footfalls died away, then cried, sobbing until his nose was clogged and he was afraid of choking. Sniffling, chilled from his bare chest pressing against the cold floor, he looked around as best he could, but he wasn’t able to raise his head much, and even then all he saw was chair legs and the heavy mass of a metal industrial desk. The only light came from the door’s transom window, and it didn’t reveal anything except that he was alone, and in deep, deep trouble. Which was really very obvious. The tears started again, and he writhed against the ropes, succeeding only in making them tighter and tearing the skin on his wrists.
Calm, Martin counseled himself, blinking wetness from his eyes. You’ve read the manuals. He’d not done too badly on the skyjacking/hostage-taking portion of testing (after the first three times, admittedly) although to his recollection, the instructions had been a bit hazy on what exactly one was supposed to do after being totally immobilized by the criminal element. He suspected, though, that had the instructions been very specific, they would have been more along the order of “stay calm and collected” and not “cry and wriggle like a worm on a fishhook.”
Oh, God. I’m so scared.
But it wasn’t as if they actually planned to harm him, was it? What had the man in the bespoke suit said? They were just going to keep him safe. True, the way he said it had been about as sincere and honest as the man who’d sold him his (extremely, extremely faux) Patek Philippe (it had played the Simpsons theme, for God’s sake; that should have clued him in) but if all went well, then nothing untoward would happen. As long as Douglas stuck to the plan, not that Martin knew what the plan was. Douglas never told him more than what was absolutely necessary about his little covert operations, but then, he was reasonably certain that Douglas had never transported…six hundred times six was thirty-six hundred kilos of cocaine before.
Oh, God, oh God!
He was sunk. They’d have sniffer dogs out, or…or cocaine-detecting robots, and Douglas would get caught, and it would all fall apart. They’d shoot Martin and then torture him. No, torture him and then shoot him. Oh, God! He squirmed wildly on the floor. How would he ever, ever get away from this place? He was gone so frequently, the students who lived below him would never miss him. He hadn’t any removal jobs lined up. Carolyn and Arthur had some family do going on in Sussex. His rent grace period ended in five days, and by that time, his body would have already washed up on the riverbank, if they didn’t tie his ankles to lead weights when they threw him in the water. Nobody would notice his untimely departure at all.
Oddly, the person who would probably be the most adept at getting him out of this had got him into it. He’d never particularly wished Douglas great success in the smuggling trade (not that he’d wished Douglas ill, so to speak, but it was illegal and not…not very nice) but now he wanted nothing more than a silk-smooth black market transaction and for Douglas to come back home and for the smugglers to untie Martin and let him go. Because his shoulders and wrists and the muscles in his thighs were really starting to hurt.
Martin rolled onto his side. That took the pressure off his shoulders a bit, and he drew his knees up the tiniest bit to ease the ache in his thighs. Of course, doing that made the rope around his wrists tighten and abrade already raw skin. He worked at the wadded-up cloth in his mouth (with many regrets; that had been one of his favorite t-shirts, a Moby concert shirt properly worn and soft) but the tape over it wouldn’t budge. His head still throbbed from the blow (a blunt instrument, maybe the handgrip of the thug’s weapon) and he was cold (only the back half of his t-shirt covered him, and his anorak was a few feet away on the floor, not that it would do him a bit of good now) and he wanted to cry again, but he was too exhausted and dispirited to wring out even a single tear, so he closed his eyes and waited, wondering if they’d keep him tied up for the entire two days and how on earth he’d be able to bear it.
Amazingly, after about fifteen minutes, he fell asleep.
*
He woke with a jolt. He’d been dreaming; he was in GERTI’s captain’s chair, spruce and clean in his uniform and cap, and Douglas had been sitting beside him holding a huge silver tray mounded with piles of pristine white cocaine. Arthur and Carolyn had been there, too, snorting it up with what appeared to be rolled-up pages of the Air England cabin manual. He’d protested, and Douglas had given him that look of mingled patience and boredom. “Come on, Martin, join in,” he’d said, and as he’d torn a page out of the manual and rolled it up, Martin had awakened with a start. He’d blinked owlishly and looked around, and then cramps had seized his legs. He’d groaned and rolled onto his stomach despite the cold floor against his chest, and waited for the pain to subside. His headache was worse than ever, his jaw hurt from being stretched, and his wrists, knees, and ankles, still firmly pinioned, throbbed so badly it was as if he could actually see the pain, glowing red in his joints. Also, he was thirsty and he needed a pee.
He closed his eyes again and willed the pain away. Unfortunately, it was utterly stubborn and refused to depart.
So much for the power of positive thinking.
Gradually, an odd sensation started to prickle over his skin. It was the most peculiar thing, almost as if….
Martin heard his breath wheezing out of his nose, and the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears. Was there another sound, almost beneath hearing? Slowly, he turned his head, and let out a muffled cry of startlement to see the man in the bespoke suit sitting in a chair not two meters away, watching him. Instinctively, he cringed, though the man was alone and didn’t appear as if he was about to hurt him.
“Hello there, Martin.”
Martin stared – no, perhaps gaped would be a better word. The man sat casually, a polystyrene cup in one hand, one leg crossed over the other as if he’d joined Martin for a friendly chat.
“Comfortable?”
The manuals always said never to make eye contact with skyjackers if one could possibly help it – too often, eye contact was perceived as a challenge and usually resulted in hostage abuse – but Martin couldn’t drag his gaze from the man’s. He had dark eyes, candid and sad, and his smile, when he turned it on, was almost sweet.
“Oh, stupid of me. Of course you’re not, are you? But I think you realize the necessity of having to keep you…well, contained.”
You could have tied me to a chair or something. God knows I’m not going anywhere.
“My name’s Eddy Groves,” the man went on. “And you and the boys and I are just going to keep each other company until Douglas gets back safe and sound. I think that’s the wisest course of action, don’t you?”
Martin didn’t know if he was supposed to nod or shake his head or try to answer despite the t-shirt stuffed in his mouth. It was amazing that even in this crisis he felt like an awkward git. Not bad enough he’d had to rent out his attic room so that one of his housemates could screw his girlfriend in luxurious privacy, not bad enough that the bloody van had broken down in Luton, not bad enough that the customers outright refused to pay him the agreed sum (he’d only had a few sundries left on the van; surely they could have waited a day until he’d been able to fix it?) but he’d stumbled onto Douglas’ smuggling operation and now he was tied up on a concrete floor wondering if he could try to converse with a kidnapper through a mouthful of cotton and tape. His week was shaping up beautifully….
“I don’t know that it was necessary to hogtie you, but cheers to the lads for being thorough, I suppose.”
Oh, absolutely. Well done, lads. Well done.
Groves reached forward, and Martin flinched. A smile crossed Groves’ face, and he clicked on a desk lamp, bright enough to make Martin’s eyes water. “You’re a little red in the face. Maybe you should stop fighting. You might as well relax. You’re not going anywhere.” His dark gaze traveled up and down Martin’s helpless body, and his smile widened a bit.
I know that, I know that, for God’s sake. It’s just that I’m in pain and I’m thirsty and I need to PEE, so please, please leave me alone and stop staring at me like that.
“Something wrong?”
Martin shook his head, the tiniest side-to-side motion, and couldn’t prevent a soft whimper escaping his throat. He had to pee very badly. Oh, God, I’m going to wet myself. Christ, the crowning glory of the day.
“Ahh.” Sudden understanding flooded Groves’ face. “Do you have to spend a penny, Martin?”
Martin squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, another tiny motion. He wasn’t going to cry again, not in front of this man who seemed bent on humiliating him.
“Right.” Groves scraped his chair back and stood up. “Well, we don’t want you pissing yourself, do we? Back in a flash.”
As the door shut behind Groves, Martin rested his head on the floor and moaned softly. It was probably a ruse, something to torture him. Groves would let him lie here until he wet himself, and then the thugs would probably beat him, just to have something to do. Psychological torment and humiliation, a major component of the terrorist/kidnapper/smuggler mindset.
But then the door opened again, and one of the men strode close to him, bent down, took out a knife, and cut the rope connecting Martin’s wrists and ankles. His legs thumped to the ground, and Martin whimpered in pain as blood flowed back into restricted veins.
The man rested the tip of the knife against Martin’s cheek. “Right, I’m going to cut your feet and legs free, but if you try anything funny, I’ll fucking gut you. Understand?” He patted Martin’s bum in friendly fashion and effortlessly cut the twine binding Martin’s knees and ankles.
Martin gasped in relief and pressed his burning face against the concrete floor. Then the thug stood up, slid his hands under Martin’s belly, and yanked him to his feet. Dizzy, Martin swayed, afraid he was going to black out, and then crumpled on legs too blood-starved to support even his slight weight.
The man caught him as easily as he would a child and clamped an arm round Martin’s waist. “All right, come on.” He dragged Martin through the door and down a short corridor into a grimy toilet. Martin struggled to get his feet underneath him and then gave up, letting the man tote him along as if he were baggage.
Groves was inside, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, eyeing Martin with decided amusement. “Well, go on, Pete. Nothing you haven’t seen or done before.”
Without missing a beat, the thug – Pete – set Martin upright, held his arm with one hand to steady him, and unzipped his fly with his free hand. Casually, he yanked down the front of Martin’s underwear, grabbed his cock, and aimed it at the urinal. “Go on, then.”
Too shocked to react, Martin had been frozen still through this performance, but now he couldn’t keep his emotions in check. He bowed his head, knowing his face had gone pure crimson, and started to cry again.
“What?” Pete snapped. “What, for fuck’s sake?”
“I think our Martin has a modest streak,” Groves said softly.
“Oh, Jesus.”
Martin shook with cold and fear and the awful sensation of the man’s hand pulling at his cock and trying to get him to pee. He sniffled, not caring now if he sounded pathetic. I can’t, I can’t, stop touching me, oh God someone please get me out of this, Douglas, PLEASE –
“Oh, dear.” Groves moved close to Martin and carefully peeled the tape from his mouth, then pulled out the shredded remains of the Moby shirt. “Is that it, Martin? Are you possessed of what some might describe as a delicate sensibility?”
Martin licked dry lips with an almost equally dry tongue. “I – I can’t,” he said, and half-choked on a strangled sob. “I can’t go if he’s…touching me. I’m sorry, I can’t. Please, please….”
“Cut him loose. Just for a moment, though, Martin. Don’t get any ideas.”
“No – no, of course not. I promise.” Martin fought to contain himself and maintain his dignity, like the manuals had instructed.
“Waste of fucking twine,” Pete muttered, and sliced through the ropes.
Martin bit his lips as the ropes fell away. Oh God, it hurt! Painfully, he brought his hands together and tried to massage some life back into them. They were ice-cold and almost blue.
“Come on.” Pete prodded him. “Don’t stall.”
“Okay.” Martin took his cock in one bloodless hand and finally managed to pee. He re-ordered his clothes and stood in docile, absurd silence for a moment. Amazing; he’d learned how to become a prisoner with astonishing rapidity. They never mentioned that in the manuals.
“Back to the office,” Groves said, and Pete grabbed Martin’s arm and hauled him out of the loo. Pete rummaged in a closet and came up with a large roll of packing twine.
“Oh, look,” Groves said. “You won’t run out at all, will you?” He smiled at Martin. “Sorry, Martin. Security measures. You understand.”
Martin nodded. Clearly these men were utterly mad. “Could I have a drink of water?”
Groves tilted his head to one side. “Mmm…no. Maybe later.”
“Please. My mouth is so dry, I’ve been –“
“Shh.” Groves moved close to Martin and laid a finger on Martin’s lips, then traced the bow with a fingertip. “Pretty mouth, Martin. But you’ve got to keep it quiet, don’t you understand?”
“Please,” Martin whispered. “I’m so thirsty.”
“Come on. You’ve only been here for –“ Groves consulted his watch, what looked to be a real Patek Philippe. “Four hours. We’ve got lots of time yet. Tell you what – I’m going to go home and have a sleep, and when I come back, you can have a drink. What do you think of that?”
Martin pressed his lips together, stared at the floor, and nodded.
“Good boy. Very good. You’re learning.” Groves tugged at a lock of Martin’s hair. “I always did fancy a ginger. And your collar and cuffs matched, I noticed. Now –“ He put his hands on Martin’s shoulders and tugged down the remnants of the Moby shirt. “I left the other bit in the loo, but fortunately you’ve got more.” He twisted it into a rope and made a knot in its center. “Open up those pretty lips, Martin.”
“Please, no,” Martin said. “I won’t call for help, I swear.”
Groves shook his head. “Too many people near here, Martin. Can’t risk that, I’m afraid.” He pushed the knot into Martin’s mouth and tied the ends behind his head. “There you are. Pete? Just the wrists and ankles will be fine.”
Pete obliged, shoving Martin to the floor and tying him up again. Martin didn’t move. He was beginning to become thoroughly frightened – not that he hadn’t been frightened before, but these men were just…far too intimate for him. The manuals had never mentioned that, either, but he decided the best course of action was none at all. Or, which was to say, do nothing and take care not to antagonize the crazy, far too fondle-y, criminal smuggler kidnappers.
He lay on the floor, not daring to look up at them. Groves – at least he thought it was Groves – gently nudged Martin’s thigh with his foot. “We’ll be back. You be a good boy, quiet as a mouse. And just so you know, Tony is going to be right outside that door if you try any mischief. All right then?”
Martin didn’t move.
The foot kicked him, hard, sinking into the large muscle of his already abused thigh. Martin moaned loudly and curled up to avoid another blow.
“I said, all right?”
Frantically, Martin nodded.
“Good. See you later, darling.”
The lights went out, the door shut, and Martin was thankfully, blessedly alone. He still hurt everywhere, he was even colder than before, and he was no closer to freedom than before, but at least he was alone. He would be quiet and still and not make a fuss, nothing to attract attention.
Inwardly, he began to recite the standard operating procedures manual. It would kill a few hours at least.
Just before he reached “Captain dons cap, enters cabin to assist passengers,” he fell asleep again.
*
He woke up to silence and dimness, but a watery light from the transom lent a faint pale greyish cast to the office. Painfully, he struggled to a sitting position, leaning against the heavy desk. His thirst was murderous now, his throat and tongue dry and swollen. His hands and feet were raw and numb, but at least he didn’t have to pee. He rolled his head back and forth to clear the cobwebs and focused his aching eyes on a low shelf, just to have something to look at.
His heart leapt.
Sitting in a mug was a pair of bright silver scissors.
*
To be continued in Part 3
Title: Gone Horribly Wrong
Author: Alex
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: John Finnemore, Pozzitive Productions for le BBC.
Summary: From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. Douglas gets in a little over his head in regards to his smuggling, but it's Martin who suffers for it.
Warnings: Nonconsensual sex.
Notes: This is my very first Cabin Pressure fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
Continued from Part 1
*
CAPTAIN COURAGEOUS: PILOT OUTWITS SMUGGLERS
Not quite.
I WOULDN’T TELL THEM ANYTHING: BRAVE MARTIN RELATES TWO-DAY ORDEAL
No…try again.
SAD BERK TRUSSED LIKE CHRISTMAS GOOSE, STRUGGLES FRUITLESSLY, CRIES
Yes. Yes, that was more like it.
Martin sighed and rested his forehead on the cold concrete floor. It wouldn’t have been so bad, really, if he didn’t hurt so much. The man who’d dragged him into the back of the van had thumped him behind the ear, hard enough to knock him out and to give him a stabbing headache; when he’d been awakened by the thudding of tires over a patchwork road, he saw the man sitting across from him, smiling and aiming a gun at him. Too frightened to speak or even beg, Martin had cowered in the corner until the van had stopped and the others had entered. They’d pulled his anorak off, wrapped it around his head, and dragged him out and into…this place, a sort of deserted factory or warehouse office, pulling the anorak off and letting him gape in silence and terror for a moment.
Before he could even think to protest or argue, they were tying his wrists together behind his back with some horribly spiny twine that bit into his skin. The man who’d hit him reached out, tore his t-shirt down the front, ripped the entire front bit off, laughing at Martin’s squeak of terror, rolled it up, and shoved it in his mouth. Then he’d gone to a drawer and produced a roll of gaffer tape, torn off a piece, and stuck it over Martin’s mouth for good measure. He’d patted Martin’s cheek. “Keep you nice and quiet, love.”
Then they’d pushed him to the floor and tied his ankles and knees together, and finally ran a length of the twine from his ankles to his wrists, pulling at it until he’d groaned in pain. They’d laughed and tied off the knot, and then just left him there, with mock-concerned admonishments to behave himself. He’d waited until their footfalls died away, then cried, sobbing until his nose was clogged and he was afraid of choking. Sniffling, chilled from his bare chest pressing against the cold floor, he looked around as best he could, but he wasn’t able to raise his head much, and even then all he saw was chair legs and the heavy mass of a metal industrial desk. The only light came from the door’s transom window, and it didn’t reveal anything except that he was alone, and in deep, deep trouble. Which was really very obvious. The tears started again, and he writhed against the ropes, succeeding only in making them tighter and tearing the skin on his wrists.
Calm, Martin counseled himself, blinking wetness from his eyes. You’ve read the manuals. He’d not done too badly on the skyjacking/hostage-taking portion of testing (after the first three times, admittedly) although to his recollection, the instructions had been a bit hazy on what exactly one was supposed to do after being totally immobilized by the criminal element. He suspected, though, that had the instructions been very specific, they would have been more along the order of “stay calm and collected” and not “cry and wriggle like a worm on a fishhook.”
Oh, God. I’m so scared.
But it wasn’t as if they actually planned to harm him, was it? What had the man in the bespoke suit said? They were just going to keep him safe. True, the way he said it had been about as sincere and honest as the man who’d sold him his (extremely, extremely faux) Patek Philippe (it had played the Simpsons theme, for God’s sake; that should have clued him in) but if all went well, then nothing untoward would happen. As long as Douglas stuck to the plan, not that Martin knew what the plan was. Douglas never told him more than what was absolutely necessary about his little covert operations, but then, he was reasonably certain that Douglas had never transported…six hundred times six was thirty-six hundred kilos of cocaine before.
Oh, God, oh God!
He was sunk. They’d have sniffer dogs out, or…or cocaine-detecting robots, and Douglas would get caught, and it would all fall apart. They’d shoot Martin and then torture him. No, torture him and then shoot him. Oh, God! He squirmed wildly on the floor. How would he ever, ever get away from this place? He was gone so frequently, the students who lived below him would never miss him. He hadn’t any removal jobs lined up. Carolyn and Arthur had some family do going on in Sussex. His rent grace period ended in five days, and by that time, his body would have already washed up on the riverbank, if they didn’t tie his ankles to lead weights when they threw him in the water. Nobody would notice his untimely departure at all.
Oddly, the person who would probably be the most adept at getting him out of this had got him into it. He’d never particularly wished Douglas great success in the smuggling trade (not that he’d wished Douglas ill, so to speak, but it was illegal and not…not very nice) but now he wanted nothing more than a silk-smooth black market transaction and for Douglas to come back home and for the smugglers to untie Martin and let him go. Because his shoulders and wrists and the muscles in his thighs were really starting to hurt.
Martin rolled onto his side. That took the pressure off his shoulders a bit, and he drew his knees up the tiniest bit to ease the ache in his thighs. Of course, doing that made the rope around his wrists tighten and abrade already raw skin. He worked at the wadded-up cloth in his mouth (with many regrets; that had been one of his favorite t-shirts, a Moby concert shirt properly worn and soft) but the tape over it wouldn’t budge. His head still throbbed from the blow (a blunt instrument, maybe the handgrip of the thug’s weapon) and he was cold (only the back half of his t-shirt covered him, and his anorak was a few feet away on the floor, not that it would do him a bit of good now) and he wanted to cry again, but he was too exhausted and dispirited to wring out even a single tear, so he closed his eyes and waited, wondering if they’d keep him tied up for the entire two days and how on earth he’d be able to bear it.
Amazingly, after about fifteen minutes, he fell asleep.
*
He woke with a jolt. He’d been dreaming; he was in GERTI’s captain’s chair, spruce and clean in his uniform and cap, and Douglas had been sitting beside him holding a huge silver tray mounded with piles of pristine white cocaine. Arthur and Carolyn had been there, too, snorting it up with what appeared to be rolled-up pages of the Air England cabin manual. He’d protested, and Douglas had given him that look of mingled patience and boredom. “Come on, Martin, join in,” he’d said, and as he’d torn a page out of the manual and rolled it up, Martin had awakened with a start. He’d blinked owlishly and looked around, and then cramps had seized his legs. He’d groaned and rolled onto his stomach despite the cold floor against his chest, and waited for the pain to subside. His headache was worse than ever, his jaw hurt from being stretched, and his wrists, knees, and ankles, still firmly pinioned, throbbed so badly it was as if he could actually see the pain, glowing red in his joints. Also, he was thirsty and he needed a pee.
He closed his eyes again and willed the pain away. Unfortunately, it was utterly stubborn and refused to depart.
So much for the power of positive thinking.
Gradually, an odd sensation started to prickle over his skin. It was the most peculiar thing, almost as if….
Martin heard his breath wheezing out of his nose, and the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears. Was there another sound, almost beneath hearing? Slowly, he turned his head, and let out a muffled cry of startlement to see the man in the bespoke suit sitting in a chair not two meters away, watching him. Instinctively, he cringed, though the man was alone and didn’t appear as if he was about to hurt him.
“Hello there, Martin.”
Martin stared – no, perhaps gaped would be a better word. The man sat casually, a polystyrene cup in one hand, one leg crossed over the other as if he’d joined Martin for a friendly chat.
“Comfortable?”
The manuals always said never to make eye contact with skyjackers if one could possibly help it – too often, eye contact was perceived as a challenge and usually resulted in hostage abuse – but Martin couldn’t drag his gaze from the man’s. He had dark eyes, candid and sad, and his smile, when he turned it on, was almost sweet.
“Oh, stupid of me. Of course you’re not, are you? But I think you realize the necessity of having to keep you…well, contained.”
You could have tied me to a chair or something. God knows I’m not going anywhere.
“My name’s Eddy Groves,” the man went on. “And you and the boys and I are just going to keep each other company until Douglas gets back safe and sound. I think that’s the wisest course of action, don’t you?”
Martin didn’t know if he was supposed to nod or shake his head or try to answer despite the t-shirt stuffed in his mouth. It was amazing that even in this crisis he felt like an awkward git. Not bad enough he’d had to rent out his attic room so that one of his housemates could screw his girlfriend in luxurious privacy, not bad enough that the bloody van had broken down in Luton, not bad enough that the customers outright refused to pay him the agreed sum (he’d only had a few sundries left on the van; surely they could have waited a day until he’d been able to fix it?) but he’d stumbled onto Douglas’ smuggling operation and now he was tied up on a concrete floor wondering if he could try to converse with a kidnapper through a mouthful of cotton and tape. His week was shaping up beautifully….
“I don’t know that it was necessary to hogtie you, but cheers to the lads for being thorough, I suppose.”
Oh, absolutely. Well done, lads. Well done.
Groves reached forward, and Martin flinched. A smile crossed Groves’ face, and he clicked on a desk lamp, bright enough to make Martin’s eyes water. “You’re a little red in the face. Maybe you should stop fighting. You might as well relax. You’re not going anywhere.” His dark gaze traveled up and down Martin’s helpless body, and his smile widened a bit.
I know that, I know that, for God’s sake. It’s just that I’m in pain and I’m thirsty and I need to PEE, so please, please leave me alone and stop staring at me like that.
“Something wrong?”
Martin shook his head, the tiniest side-to-side motion, and couldn’t prevent a soft whimper escaping his throat. He had to pee very badly. Oh, God, I’m going to wet myself. Christ, the crowning glory of the day.
“Ahh.” Sudden understanding flooded Groves’ face. “Do you have to spend a penny, Martin?”
Martin squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, another tiny motion. He wasn’t going to cry again, not in front of this man who seemed bent on humiliating him.
“Right.” Groves scraped his chair back and stood up. “Well, we don’t want you pissing yourself, do we? Back in a flash.”
As the door shut behind Groves, Martin rested his head on the floor and moaned softly. It was probably a ruse, something to torture him. Groves would let him lie here until he wet himself, and then the thugs would probably beat him, just to have something to do. Psychological torment and humiliation, a major component of the terrorist/kidnapper/smuggler mindset.
But then the door opened again, and one of the men strode close to him, bent down, took out a knife, and cut the rope connecting Martin’s wrists and ankles. His legs thumped to the ground, and Martin whimpered in pain as blood flowed back into restricted veins.
The man rested the tip of the knife against Martin’s cheek. “Right, I’m going to cut your feet and legs free, but if you try anything funny, I’ll fucking gut you. Understand?” He patted Martin’s bum in friendly fashion and effortlessly cut the twine binding Martin’s knees and ankles.
Martin gasped in relief and pressed his burning face against the concrete floor. Then the thug stood up, slid his hands under Martin’s belly, and yanked him to his feet. Dizzy, Martin swayed, afraid he was going to black out, and then crumpled on legs too blood-starved to support even his slight weight.
The man caught him as easily as he would a child and clamped an arm round Martin’s waist. “All right, come on.” He dragged Martin through the door and down a short corridor into a grimy toilet. Martin struggled to get his feet underneath him and then gave up, letting the man tote him along as if he were baggage.
Groves was inside, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, eyeing Martin with decided amusement. “Well, go on, Pete. Nothing you haven’t seen or done before.”
Without missing a beat, the thug – Pete – set Martin upright, held his arm with one hand to steady him, and unzipped his fly with his free hand. Casually, he yanked down the front of Martin’s underwear, grabbed his cock, and aimed it at the urinal. “Go on, then.”
Too shocked to react, Martin had been frozen still through this performance, but now he couldn’t keep his emotions in check. He bowed his head, knowing his face had gone pure crimson, and started to cry again.
“What?” Pete snapped. “What, for fuck’s sake?”
“I think our Martin has a modest streak,” Groves said softly.
“Oh, Jesus.”
Martin shook with cold and fear and the awful sensation of the man’s hand pulling at his cock and trying to get him to pee. He sniffled, not caring now if he sounded pathetic. I can’t, I can’t, stop touching me, oh God someone please get me out of this, Douglas, PLEASE –
“Oh, dear.” Groves moved close to Martin and carefully peeled the tape from his mouth, then pulled out the shredded remains of the Moby shirt. “Is that it, Martin? Are you possessed of what some might describe as a delicate sensibility?”
Martin licked dry lips with an almost equally dry tongue. “I – I can’t,” he said, and half-choked on a strangled sob. “I can’t go if he’s…touching me. I’m sorry, I can’t. Please, please….”
“Cut him loose. Just for a moment, though, Martin. Don’t get any ideas.”
“No – no, of course not. I promise.” Martin fought to contain himself and maintain his dignity, like the manuals had instructed.
“Waste of fucking twine,” Pete muttered, and sliced through the ropes.
Martin bit his lips as the ropes fell away. Oh God, it hurt! Painfully, he brought his hands together and tried to massage some life back into them. They were ice-cold and almost blue.
“Come on.” Pete prodded him. “Don’t stall.”
“Okay.” Martin took his cock in one bloodless hand and finally managed to pee. He re-ordered his clothes and stood in docile, absurd silence for a moment. Amazing; he’d learned how to become a prisoner with astonishing rapidity. They never mentioned that in the manuals.
“Back to the office,” Groves said, and Pete grabbed Martin’s arm and hauled him out of the loo. Pete rummaged in a closet and came up with a large roll of packing twine.
“Oh, look,” Groves said. “You won’t run out at all, will you?” He smiled at Martin. “Sorry, Martin. Security measures. You understand.”
Martin nodded. Clearly these men were utterly mad. “Could I have a drink of water?”
Groves tilted his head to one side. “Mmm…no. Maybe later.”
“Please. My mouth is so dry, I’ve been –“
“Shh.” Groves moved close to Martin and laid a finger on Martin’s lips, then traced the bow with a fingertip. “Pretty mouth, Martin. But you’ve got to keep it quiet, don’t you understand?”
“Please,” Martin whispered. “I’m so thirsty.”
“Come on. You’ve only been here for –“ Groves consulted his watch, what looked to be a real Patek Philippe. “Four hours. We’ve got lots of time yet. Tell you what – I’m going to go home and have a sleep, and when I come back, you can have a drink. What do you think of that?”
Martin pressed his lips together, stared at the floor, and nodded.
“Good boy. Very good. You’re learning.” Groves tugged at a lock of Martin’s hair. “I always did fancy a ginger. And your collar and cuffs matched, I noticed. Now –“ He put his hands on Martin’s shoulders and tugged down the remnants of the Moby shirt. “I left the other bit in the loo, but fortunately you’ve got more.” He twisted it into a rope and made a knot in its center. “Open up those pretty lips, Martin.”
“Please, no,” Martin said. “I won’t call for help, I swear.”
Groves shook his head. “Too many people near here, Martin. Can’t risk that, I’m afraid.” He pushed the knot into Martin’s mouth and tied the ends behind his head. “There you are. Pete? Just the wrists and ankles will be fine.”
Pete obliged, shoving Martin to the floor and tying him up again. Martin didn’t move. He was beginning to become thoroughly frightened – not that he hadn’t been frightened before, but these men were just…far too intimate for him. The manuals had never mentioned that, either, but he decided the best course of action was none at all. Or, which was to say, do nothing and take care not to antagonize the crazy, far too fondle-y, criminal smuggler kidnappers.
He lay on the floor, not daring to look up at them. Groves – at least he thought it was Groves – gently nudged Martin’s thigh with his foot. “We’ll be back. You be a good boy, quiet as a mouse. And just so you know, Tony is going to be right outside that door if you try any mischief. All right then?”
Martin didn’t move.
The foot kicked him, hard, sinking into the large muscle of his already abused thigh. Martin moaned loudly and curled up to avoid another blow.
“I said, all right?”
Frantically, Martin nodded.
“Good. See you later, darling.”
The lights went out, the door shut, and Martin was thankfully, blessedly alone. He still hurt everywhere, he was even colder than before, and he was no closer to freedom than before, but at least he was alone. He would be quiet and still and not make a fuss, nothing to attract attention.
Inwardly, he began to recite the standard operating procedures manual. It would kill a few hours at least.
Just before he reached “Captain dons cap, enters cabin to assist passengers,” he fell asleep again.
*
He woke up to silence and dimness, but a watery light from the transom lent a faint pale greyish cast to the office. Painfully, he struggled to a sitting position, leaning against the heavy desk. His thirst was murderous now, his throat and tongue dry and swollen. His hands and feet were raw and numb, but at least he didn’t have to pee. He rolled his head back and forth to clear the cobwebs and focused his aching eyes on a low shelf, just to have something to look at.
His heart leapt.
Sitting in a mug was a pair of bright silver scissors.
*
To be continued in Part 3
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2012-03-13 04:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 04:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 05:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 02:17 pm (UTC)I fear I'm going to enjoy this a lot more than he will.
Hee hee, oh dear me....
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Date: 2012-03-13 08:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 02:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 08:39 am (UTC)It is also a bit tension and worry-making for the chap too. And Eddie has 'intentions?'
You are marvellous with your stories, after you'd been saying it was all 'in the downs, and no plots and you didn't feel like it etc.' you come up with Edmond and Martin! (two so different aspects of your beloved BC! Really very very clever of you!)
Roll on the next instalment.
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Date: 2012-03-13 02:19 pm (UTC)I know, I think that's why I like him so much. Every once in a while it's fun to write a character who's about as competent as I would be in a sticky situation.
Benedict is very versatile, indeed he is. I'm just having fun playing with his characters. Bless. :)
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Date: 2012-03-13 09:10 am (UTC)It's funny, reading something that you don't know the background of. Kudo's for you to make me want to read it this much and leave me already wishing for more.
Now get that pair of scissors, Martin.
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Date: 2012-03-13 02:21 pm (UTC)Mmm, what a thought. :D Martin's supposed to be short, but unless we cut BC off at the shins, it's hard to imagine.
I'm so glad you're reading even if you don't know the background! I really appreciate it, dear. Thank you!
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Date: 2012-03-13 10:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 02:26 pm (UTC)Ehehe.
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Date: 2012-03-13 12:54 pm (UTC)I feel so sorry for the poor man and very scared for him too. Being that this is Martin, I can't imagine him being able to get the scissors and free himself, so fear that this is going to end badly for him. :( I have to admit though, ashamed as I am to do so, that helpless and imperilled Martin is hot.
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Date: 2012-03-13 02:28 pm (UTC)I may have to change that. :D I'm sooo happy you're enjoying it! And of course it's Martin, so...yes indeed. But I'm delighted that you think helpless and imperiled Martin is hot. :D :D
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Date: 2012-03-13 05:38 pm (UTC)LOL!
I'm quite enjoying poor Martin's peril. ;)
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Date: 2012-03-13 05:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-13 06:07 pm (UTC)Fantastic and dramatic writing
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Date: 2012-03-13 07:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-14 01:03 pm (UTC)And what lovely timing! I just started listening to this the other day and am completely addicted to it. And to this.
Hee!
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Date: 2012-03-14 03:02 pm (UTC)It's a great show! It gets funnier with each succeeding episode, although I do want to just give Martin a sandwich and a cuddle - he is so downtrodden. :(
Thank you for your lovely comment! It's much appreciated.
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Date: 2012-04-16 04:12 am (UTC)...which is to say, I'm so glad you've finished it! Poor Martin, but he is very lovely indeed. Inspired by the The Last Enemy at all, or am I just projecting? LOL.
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Date: 2012-04-16 04:15 am (UTC)Not really inspired, so much, but I'd be lying if I said there weren't particular pervasive images in my head from that thing that helped. :D