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From: Erotales <Erotales@aol.com>
Subject: "Ruthie's Afternoon" (Part 1/2) (bdsm, nc(?), Mf)
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For the benefit of AOL users who are stuck trying out
AOL 4.0, which seems to truncate postings whose
length it doesn't like, I'm re-posting "Ruthie's Afternoon"
in two parts.

e-t

***

Story: "Ruthie's Afternoon" by Erotales (bdsm, nc(?), Mf)

This is a work entirely of fiction. It shouldn't be read by anybody
under 18 or taken seriously by anyone who does read it. Send comments
to Erotales@aol.com.

This story is dedicated to Ruthie, who is a real person and likes this
kind of thing. :)

                       RUTHIE'S AFTERNOON (Part 1/2)

Ruthie hated flagging down cabs in the rain, but she hated the subway
even more. She nearly gave up when three cabs sped past in a spray of
dirty street-water, but a fourth finally jerked over to the curb and
stopped about ten feet ahead of her. She ran ahead gratefully towards
the flung-open rear door and was halfway in before she noticed the back
seat was already occupied.

"Oh... Ow!" She'd banged the back of her head on the top of the
doorframe in her haste to back out, then realized that if the cab hadn't
been stopping for her then it must be about to let its passenger out --
whereupon she could claim it. She hesitated, rubbing her head.

The man in the back seat had an Italian look to him, with a darkness to
the bottom half of his face that would probably always be there unless
he shaved every few hours. He was big, but his suit was well-tailored
and made his bulk seem less threatening. He smiled at her. "Where ya
goin', lady?"

Ruthie didn't care for the brusqueness and didn't really feel it was his
business, but his smile was charming enough -- sincere, not
ingratiating. She fought with her umbrella and said, "I'm trying to get
to a restaurant on West 42nd."

"No problemo, I'm goin' close to there. I tol' the cabbie to stop for
ya -- hated seein' ya out there gettin' soaked." He slid to the far side
of the seat and waved her in, gathering the coat beside him into his
lap.

She slipped in gratefully, telling the cabbie in front, "Porter's. Do
you know where it is? On 42nd?" The driver nodded without turning and
pulled away from the curb.

She started fumbling with her purse. The man beside her said, "Listen,
you're already havin' a bad lunch hour. This ride's on me, how 'bout
that?"

She sensed the beginnings of a pickup line. "No, there's no need for
that, really. You've already been very nice, stopping for me."

She expected him to insist, but he shrugged and repeated the smile. She
couldn't help smiling back. She felt safe with him. Her warning sensors
backed off a notch.

He seemed content to ride in silence, watching the crowds on the
sidewalks hunched against the rain. It had receded to a thick mist by
this time.

She was used to cabs taking unexpected short cuts, so the first turn
onto a quieter side street didn't bother her. She felt the first squirt
of adrenaline when the car suddenly turned into a narrow alley in the
middle of the block.

"Where are -- no!" she gasped, as her new friend, in an obviously
practiced motion, drew his coat out of his lap and threw it over her
head, pushing her sideways down onto the seat. Through the fabric she
felt something push against her throat, like a finger but too hard,
unyielding. It seemed prudent to assume it was a gun, and she listened
when the man said, "Don't yell. Don't get up."

She closed her eyes, useless under the coat anyway, and concentrated on
breathing shakily, her heart trying to pound out of her chest. She tried
to ask, "Where are you taking me?" but her lips felt like cheap plastic
imitations.

The man looked too rich to need her money -- of course, maybe that's how
he got rich. He couldn't be going to rape her, could he? The cabbie was
a witness... Ruthie, you idiot, the driver's in on it, she told herself.
The guy hadn't told him to turn. Oh God, she thought, if You'll just let
me make it through this...

"Whatta ya think, Tino? You seen her close up now. She okay?"

She heard the cabbie's voice for the first time, a nasal Puerto Rican
cadence. "She tall, real pretty. Got nice legs, man. She be okay."

"Good. I was tired o' lookin'. She's it, then."

She moaned to herself, her eyes tearing up. It was something sexual.
Just the other day she'd told Daniel she didn't feel ready for sex.
Ready or not, she thought, here it comes now.

* * *

Ruthie couldn't be sure, but she thought most of the trip had been on
the Long Island Expressway. About forty minutes or so, maybe. The man
had kept her prone on the seat, under the coat but had not made any
further threats. Her thoughts ran wild in waves -- losing focus for
minutes at a time, and then reassembling in terrified imaginings. They
turned off the expressway at last, onto a busy road at first and slower,
quieter streets afterwards. At last they came to a stop at which the man
rolled his window down -- she could feel the breeze on her legs -- and
said, "Jimmy, open up, it's me." She could hear the clinking sound of a
metal gate opening, and they drove on. Moments later they stopped again.

"Okay, lady, we're here. Everybody out." He pulled the coat off her
head, and she shakily sat up, running her fingers through her mussed
blonde hair -- and froze. The view out the window was nothing like what
she'd expected.

They were parked in the drive in front of an enormous mansion. Out the
left windows a trimmed lawn rolled out to a line of trees, several
hundred yards away. The rain had stopped, and the sun was poking through
the clouds, giving the wet grounds a near-heavenly glow. Immediately to
the right was an entrance of marble steps that began very wide and
narrowed towards the top.

She jumped as the door on her side was opened -- she'd been too absorbed
in examining the house to notice anyone approaching. She looked back at
the man next to her, who waved her out with a friendly smile as if he
hadn't just kidnapped her and threatened her with a gun. She felt she
ought to be more scared than she was, but the house was so far outside
her expectations that she couldn't help feeling now that it was some
sort of elaborate practical joke. She went up the steps and through the
front door, held open for her by an elderly maid in a black dress and
white apron. Having no idea where she was meant to go next, she stopped
and waited for the man from the cab.

As he passed her and beckoned her to follow him, she felt it was time to
get some answers. "You live here?"

"Not me. My boss does. I just work here."

"Who's your employer?"

"He din't tell me ta tell ya that. I better not say."

"Well, what does he want with me?"

"He wants ya ta wait upstairs. Up this way." He swept his arm to
indicate a long, curved staircase that led to an upper level.

She shrugged. She could tell a dead end when she saw one, and her sense
of danger was lessening by the second. Maybe an eccentric millionaire
had decided to share his wealth with her. She could live with that.

They arrived at an open door and the man smiled and waved her inside
with a flourish. She returned his smile and then froze, partway through
the door. Again, just not quite what she'd been picturing.

It was obviously a bedroom, by definition: there was a bed in it. That
was pretty much all, though: queen-size, with a bare mattress, a nice
carpet on the floor underneath it and no other furniture in the room.
She turned back to the man. "This has to be the wrong room."

"No, this is the place. Wait here, we'll have ya fixed up in no time."

Rolling her eyes and muttering "This better not get any more nuts" she
walked halfway to the bed. She stopped when she heard a click behind
her. She whirled to see if that was what it sounded like. It was. The
existence of the previously theoretical gun had now been proven.

She tried to maintain a steady voice with marginal success. "Wh-what do
you want? It can't be money."

"I want ya ta take off all your clothes." As she gasped and folded her
arms across her chest, he went on, "It ain't for me, if that's what
you're thinking. I got orders. Go on," he gestured with the gun.

"C-could you tell me what's going to happen, at least? What this is
about?" Her fingers started fumbling with the top button of her blouse.
They didn't have much success, partly due to shaking, partly as a stall.

He shook his head, and pointed the gun directly at her. She suddenly
remembered how the buttons worked. He said, "Toss that over ta me," as
she started to drop the blouse on the bed. Her short skirt followed, her
bra, her thigh-high stockings. She stood shakily in her brief panties,
unable to make herself take the final step, until he sighed impatiently.
Quickly she slid the panties down her legs and stood in the middle of
the room, naked, shivering, telling herself it must be awfully cold in
the room. It wasn't. She found that standing naked in a strange house
while your host points a gun at you isn't as much fun as many people
suppose.

She stifled a yell as he casually tossed her clothes out into the
hallway. His instruction to lay on the bed wasn't difficult to follow,
as she had been backing towards it and nearly fallen over it anyway. The
yell came out anyway, as he moved towards her.

Minutes later, she lay on the bed, thinking belatedly that being shot
might not have been such a bad idea. There was an itch on her upper
thigh, but she couldn't do much about it. She was laying on her back, in
a very stretched-out X, her wrists cuffed to the bedposts, her ankles
cuffed with chains running to opposite corners at the foot of the bed,
her legs straining outward like calipers measuring just how wide a
queen-sized bed really is. He had cut off her protests early on with a
ball gag, now filling her mouth and secured with a cord running around
her head.

It was quiet in the room now: she was the only one in it. The man had
left, pulling the door closed. She wished she had fought harder, gun or
no. She wished she had waited for another cab. She wished she had
ordered lunch in. She wished the itch would stop.

Obviously the man's boss meant to rape her. He must be rich enough to
think he could have anything he wanted. He probably assumed he could buy
her silence afterwards. Not this baby. Ruthie meant to see him in court
and later in prison. She buried her fear for a few moments with a
satisfying fantasy of visiting him in the slammer. Asking him if the Big
House was as nice as his former one.

After a few minutes it became clear that whatever was going to happen
wasn't going to happen immediately, and she made her first attempts to
get loose. It didn't take long to get over that idea. The cuffs on both
her wrists and her ankles were professional heavy-duty ones, gripping
her extremities snugly, not quite enough to cut off circulation but
enough to tell she couldn't wriggle free of them. The chains connecting
the cuffs to the bed were thick links of metal, and breaking them was
obviously well beyond her strength: several minutes of tugging, her
muscles in her arms and thighs quivering with tension, produced no
effect she could detect. She struggled to twist her head enough to get a
view of her wrists, looking for any obvious way to get them free, then
lifted her head off the bed, her neck muscles screaming, to look down
her body towards her feet. All she got for her pains was an overwhelming
sense of helplessness. While she wasn't stretched enough to be
immediately painful, she could tell her arms and legs, and even her
stomach muscles, were going to be tired of the taut tension before too
long. She didn't bother to try yelling through the gag -- even if it
hadn't been there she doubted anybody within earshot would be of a mind
to help her.

She started to cry and, in near panic, frantically ordered herself to
stop: she couldn't afford to let her nose get plugged with snot. Safer,
she decided, to get back to her revenge fantasies.

She gasped and nearly choked as the door opened suddenly: this is it! A
young, dark-haired, bare-chested man in shorts walked in, Italian or
Hispanic, Ruthie thought. He was looking back towards someone he was
talking to in the hallway.

"Louie, I don't get it, there's nothing in here. Why's Dad want me in
here? Are you sure..." His gaze turned into the room and he suddenly saw
Ruthie. He stopped dead and stared, his mouth open in shock. "Louie!
What the fuck..."

A hand on the doorknob, presumably Louie's, pulled the door closed with
a slam. Judging from the sleeves Ruthie could see, it was the man who'd
kidnapped her in the cab. The young man whirled and lunged at the
doorknob, obviously eager to get out of there. Equally obviously, the
door was locked.

The young man pounded on the door. "Louie, this isn't funny. Open up!"

>From beyond the door, a muffled voice that Ruthie recognized. "Can't,
Danny. I got orders."

"WHOSE orders? Louie, if you're screwing with the family, you know my
dad will..."

"It's your dad's orders, Danny. And you know what this is about."

The young man, Danny, stopped pounding on the door as the words struck
home. "Jesus, Louie, it's impossible. He was never serious about that."

"I always take your dad serious, Danny, and you should too."

"Louie, let me out and I'll make it worth it to you."

"You can't, Danny. I'll let you out when it's time. You know when that
is."

Danny continued staring at the door for several seconds. Ruthie watched
him, nonplussed. She thought she should be more scared, but her mind was
occupied trying to make sense of what was happening. Whatever danger she
was in, Danny didn't seem to be a source of it.

The silence stretched, rather unproductively from Ruthie's point of
view. She wasn't sure Danny would help her, but nobody else was
available. She hmmmmm'ed into the gag and flexed her stretched legs the
tiny amount she could, making the chains rattle. Danny looked
automatically towards her and then looked quickly away, the back of his
neck reddening, muttering "Jesus Christ" under his breath.

She rolled her eyes in frustration: the only person in the entire drama
so far that was showing any sympathy for her was afraid to admit she was
there. She shook her legs again and mmmmm'ed a little louder, letting a
little pique creep into it.

Danny looked down and shook his head, and started backing towards her
like a small child required to approach the closet that had the monsters
in it.

"L-look, I'm... sorry about all this. I -- I'm sorry, I'll have to look.
I'll try to see if I can get you out of this." He turned towards her,
squinting as if trying to see as little of her as possible. Sitting on
the mattress, he bent down to look closely at her right wrist, the one
on his side, checking on the nature of its imprisonment. He held her
wrist with his thumb and forefinger as if it was a ticking bomb,
carefully trying to ease it through the narrow ring of the metal cuff.
Giving up, he faced the other end of the bed, his back still towards
her, to check out her ankle. Finally he looked away from her, closed his
eyes and sighed.

Ruthie bounced her head on the bed and mmmm'ed still more insistently.

"Oh! Jeez, yes, I'm sorry, at least I could do that. Here..." He turned
towards her again and untied the cords holding the gag in place. She
spat it into his hand and blew air through her lips to loosen them up,
giving her jaw some exercise. She looked at the back of his still
reddened neck.

"Danny, is it? I heard the man say you know what this is about. What's
going on?"

He shook his head. "It's kind of a long story."

"I've got time."

"I -- It's -- " He sat for at least a minute, until Ruthie decided she
needed to come at it more obliquely.

"Danny is for -- Daniel? I've got a friend named Daniel." If she could
persuade him to be a friend... well, it couldn't hurt.

He shook his head. "Dante. Nobody calls me that, though."

She made herself smile. "Dante. That's a nice name. I'll call you that."

He turned just enough to see her face, and smiled. It wasn't like
Louie's smile; it was a sad, remote, but hopeful smile.

Ruthie squirmed slightly on her buttocks to take some of the strain out
of her arms, at the expense of adding it to her legs. "Why am I here,
Dante? Why won't Louie let you out?"

Dante sighed again and looked down at his hands. Ruthie was about to
speak again when he asked, "Did you ever see a 28-year-old virgin?"

"Probably, Dante. I don't pry into everybody's sexual history. You're
one, you mean?"

Mutely, he nodded.

"It's not a big deal, Dante, really. I'm sure there's more people in
that boat than we know. It's nobody's business."

"It's a big deal to my dad, and everything's his business."

"Are you... well, this isn't my business either, but I guess I deserve
*some* answers here... are you gay?"

"No!" He threw up his hands. "I mean, I don't think that's insulting or
anything, it's just you're about the hundred-and-first person to ask me.
No, I'm not, I'm just... a little shy around women. A lot shy."

"You just can't even talk to women, is that it?"

"Yeah, that's about it. I open my mouth and I freeze up."

"You're doing okay with me. I'm a woman, in case you missed that." She
saw him redden again. "I'm sorry, Dante, I wasn't making fun of you,
really...  I can't say I'm glad about the way we're meeting, but if
somebody had to walk in on me here I'm glad it was somebody like you.
I'm Ruthie, by the way."

He half turned and caught himself, stifling a giggle. "I was going to
shake hands, but..."

"You can. It's up here." She wiggled her fingers. At that his giggle
opened into an actual laugh, and he wrapped his fingers around hers and
let go after a quick squeeze.

"Did you really mean that, Ruthie? About being glad it was me?"

"God, Dante, of course. Can you imagine what I thought was going to
happen to me? Dante, could you do me a little favor? There's an itch on
my thigh that's been driving me nuts. Could you... you're going to have
to look at me to do this, you know."

He turned towards her, put his hands over his face and laughed
nervously, shaking his head, and finally put his hands down. "I've never
even see a naked woman before. Outside of pictures, I mean. Okay,
where?"

"Oh God, this is tricky, I can't even point. Put your hand over my right
hip, start from there. Put your finger on it."

Still more nervously, he touched the skin on the upper side of her hip
as if testing for mouse traps. "There?"

"Yes, I mean that's not where it itches, go about... nine inches
straight down my leg from there."

He moved his finger. "Here?"

"Yes, scratch there. No, an inch farther inside... yes! Ooooh, that's it
exactly. Dante, you're a lifesaver." She closed her eyes in relief.
"Dante, have you just never wanted sex?"

"Oh, yeah, I want it! I've had erections thinking about women, but I've
never had one when I'm *with* a woman. I just get too nervous. I've been
seeing a shrink for years. It's helping! I asked a woman for a date last
week! She said no, but... well, I think I could work through it. My dad
likes to take things in his own hands, though." He had turned farther
towards her, his posture visibly relaxing, looking mostly at her face,
but she could see his eyes flicking towards her breasts frequently.

"And so... this is all his idea."

"Exactly."

"And... oh!" She followed the thought to the end, finally. "This isn't
just to get you a captive audience to talk to. You're supposed to have
sex with me. Louie won't let you out until you do."

She could see him tighten up again, looking away once more. "Ummm,
yeah."

"Dante, for God's sake, just tell him we did it and let me get out of
here. I like you okay, but nobody's going to tell me who I have to have
sex with!"

"Ruthie, they'll... check you. For... you know. We'll both be in deep
shit if we try to fool them. You more than me, probably."

"Is your dad totally nuts?" She backtracked when she saw the pain in his
eyes. "I'm sorry, Dante, he's your dad, I shouldn't say that, but this
can't work. What's he plan to do afterwards, pay me off? There's no
amount of money that would get me to keep quiet about this. He can't
possibly think he can do this to somebody."

Dante was shaking his head. "He can do it because of who he is. He's...
connected. He's Family. You know what that means? And no, he wouldn't be
planning to buy you off. If you told anybody about this, you'd just...
disappear."

She stared at him as she let this thought sink in. It had hardly seemed
possible she might be in even more trouble than she had thought, but she
was.

[continued in Part 2]


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