Taken is a new BDSM short story by John Gemini.

Taken is a new BDSM short story by John Gemini. It contains adult themes and acts of dubious consent, be warned!

The cigarette glowed orange in the dark, its smoke curling lazily upward before vanishing. Sarah exhaled slowly, watching the smoke mingle with the cold night air. The street was quiet — too quiet maybe — but she liked it that way. The click of her stilettos on the pavement was the only sound, sharp and deliberate, like she was marking time.

“Nice shoes,” a voice said from the shadows beside a parked van. Sarah didn’t jump — she’d known someone was there for the last twenty paces. She took another drag, exhaling a long plume of smoke as she turned her head just enough to see the man leaning against the van’s bumper. “Thanks,” she said, tapping ash onto the pavement. “They hurt like hell.”

“Cool…. Comfortable shoes are so overrated.” the man replied with a slow grin. He pushes off the bumper, the van creaking slightly under his shifting weight. Sarah doesn’t move, just flicks the cigarette away, watching it spark against the asphalt. His boots scrape forward — two steps, deliberate — close enough now that she can see the frayed stitching on his leather gloves.

Sarah saw the evil glint in his eyes a half-second before his gloved hand clamped around her wrist — tight, unyielding, the leather warm from his skin. Her pulse jumped, and she tried to pull away. The van door slid open with a metallic groan, and then she was being yanked forward, her stiletto heel catching on the curb. She stumbled, her free hand braced against his chest, fingers curling into the rough fabric of his jacket. “Careful,” he murmured, though he didn’t slow, didn’t stop. The van’s interior was a void, smelling of old oil and something sharper — anticipation, maybe.

“What the fuck….?”

Sarah’s breath hitched as the man’s grip tightened, his other hand already pressing firmly against the small of her back, guiding — no, forcing — her toward the yawning darkness of the van. The latex of her dress squeaked against his jacket as she twisted to catch her balance, her stiletto heels skidding on the pavement. The van’s interior light was off, leaving only the dim glow of a distant streetlamp to outline the shapes inside: a coil of rope, a duffel bag, the gleam of something metallic tucked just out of sight.

Sarah’s knee scraped against the van’s metal floor as she was shoved inside. Her blonde hair fanned out across the grimy surface, as the man climbed in after her, his boots thudding dully against the corrugated steel. The door slammed shut with a finality that made her ribs vibrate, plunging them into near-darkness — only the faintest sliver of light leaked through the van’s dirty rear windows.

The rope bit into Sarah’s wrists before she could even register the movement — his hands were quick, practiced, looping the coarse fibres around her crossed ankles and cinching them tight to her bound hands behind her back. The hogtie pulled her shoulders taut, arching her spine in a way that made the latex dress strain against her ribs. She gasped, but the sound was muffled instantly by the ballgag being wedged between her teeth, its leather straps pulled tight behind her head.

It was only now, far too late, that she realised she hadn’t even screamed for help before this opportunity had been taken from her. She was now silenced and helpless.

Sarah tested the ropes — just once — arching her back subtly to feel the precise give (or lack thereof) in the bindings. The coarse rope dug into her wrists and ankles with every shift, the hogtie pulling her body into an unrelenting curve that lifted her knees slightly off the van’s floor. The ballgag pressed her tongue down, saliva pooling at the corners of her lips, and she swallowed hard, the leather straps creaking against her skull as she turned her head. The van’s engine rumbled to life beneath her, vibrations traveling up through her spine as it lurched forward, throwing Sarah’s weight against the man’s thigh where he sat beside her.

He must have an accomplice. She could feel the heat of him through her skimpy dress, the rough denim of his jeans abrasive against her bare legs where the dress had ridden up. His fingers trailed along the curve of her hip, slow and proprietary, before gripping hard enough to leave bruises. “Comfy?” he asked, voice low and amused, as if they were sharing a private joke. She couldn’t answer, of course — just let out a muffled sound around the gag, her breath coming faster now.

Her mind raced, a kaleidoscope of imagined scenarios colliding with the raw, tactile reality of rope burns and the musky scent filling her nostrils. This wasn’t just some fleeting daydream — this was the culmination of every stolen moment spent imagining her fantasy, every hitch of breath when a movie scene veered a little too close to her secret cravings. Now it was happening… it was here, visceral and unforgiving: She’d craved this exact brand of helplessness — the kind that left no room for performative resistance, only the electric thrum of total surrender.

Was she scared? It was her fantasy after all, being kidnapped and forcibly taken, but she hadn‘t planned this. This was different. The van hit a pothole, jolting her bound body against the metal floor, and a whimper escaped around the gag before she could stifle it. Her pulse hammered in her throat, a frantic counterpoint to the engine’s growl.

The terror was a live wire under her skin, buzzing in time with the van’s vibrations. Sarah had fantasized about this — yes, obsessively, in the dark corners of her mind where shame couldn’t reach — but fantasy had edges, limits, a pause button. This had none. The ropes weren’t the smooth silk she’d imagined; they chafed, already raising welts on her wrists. The gag wasn’t the sleek small type she’d bought online and secretly tried on in her bedroom; it was a huge ball which strained her jaw way too wide open and tasted of rubber and someone else’s sweat.

And the man — his fingers digging into her hip — wasn’t some phantom conjured up for her pleasure. He was real, his breath hot against her ear as he chuckled at her muffled noises.

The terror didn’t crest — it increased, a cold weight pooling in Sarah’s stomach as the van accelerated, turning sharply onto what felt like a rougher road. Gravel pinged against the undercarriage, and the vibrations intensified, rattling her teeth around the gag. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to map the route in her mind — left turn, then straight, now right — but the disorientation was absolute. Were they heading toward the industrial district, where warehouses stood empty at this hour? Or out of town entirely, where the roads narrowed and the trees swallowed sound? Her breath came in shallow bursts through her nose, the latex dress constricting her ribs with every panicked inhale.

Sarah’s thoughts spiraled — had he done this before? The practiced way he’d tied her, the casual confidence of his grip, suggested he wasn’t improvising. Would they stop at some abandoned building, or was there a room already prepared, somewhere dark and soundproof where no one would hear her scream? For the first time a sickening thought entered her mind…. Would she even survive this? The question coiled in her chest like a live wire, sharp and insistent.

The van swerved sharply again, and Sarah’s body slid across the floor, her bound limbs twisting awkwardly until her shoulder slammed against a metal support beam. A grunt escaped around the gag, drowned out by the engine’s growl. The man’s hand found her hair, fingers tangling in her blonde strands to yank her head back, exposing her throat.

“You made that so easy you stupid little slut,” he murmured, though his grip didn’t loosen. “ I think you may live to regret that.” The words slithered into her ear, too intimate for the brutality of the moment.

Sarah’s scalp burned where his fingers twisted tighter, forcing her to crane her neck at an unnatural angle. Through the van’s grimy rear windows, she caught glimpses of flickering streetlights giving way to the inky black of unlit roads — they were leaving the city. The engine’s pitch changed as they hit an incline, the van laboring up what had to be the old highway toward the hills. She knew these routes; late-night drives with the windows down, hair whipping wild. Now, the same wind whistled through the van’s rusted seams, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.

Sarah’s heartbeat stuttered as the van’s tires crunched over gravel, slowing to a crawl before stopping entirely. The sudden silence was louder than the engine’s growl — just the creak of the suspension settling and the rasp of her own panicked breaths through her nose. The man released her hair, but the relief was short-lived; his boots thudded against the floor as he moved toward the van’s rear doors. A sliver of moonlight cut through the darkness when the doors swung open, revealing the silhouette of a dilapidated cabin, its roof sagging under the weight of untamed ivy.

The second man emerged from the drivers seat — taller, broader, his outline blurred by the moonlight — and Sarah’s stomach dropped as he approached the rear doors. He didn’t speak, just grabbed her ankles while the first man hooked his hands under her armpits. They lifted her in one synchronized motion, her body rigid between them like a rolled-up carpet. The ropes dug deeper, the hogtie forcing her spine into a painful arch as her hair dragged against the van’s threshold. Her muffled gasp was lost in the crunch of gravel under their boots.

Sarah’s world tilted as the men hauled her out of the van, her bound body suspended between them. The night air hit her skin — cool, thick with the scent of pine resin and wet earth — so different from the van’s stale interior. Her blonde hair snagged on a splintered edge of the doorframe, tearing a few strands loose as they dragged her forward. The cabin loomed ahead, its warped wooden steps groaning under their combined weight. A rusted hinge screamed when the taller man kicked the door open, revealing a single room swallowed by shadows.

The table’s surface was rough against Sarah’s cheek — splintered wood, unvarnished, smelling of decades-old stains. The men dropped her unceremoniously, her bound body thudding against the planks with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. Before she could even twist to see her surroundings, a gloved hand wrenched the ballgag free, the leather straps snapping against her skin. She gasped, her jaw aching from the stretch, saliva slicking her chin.

“Please — “ she managed, but the taller man was already pressing a calloused palm over her mouth, silencing her.

“Shut up bitch, you’ll only speak when given permission.. clear?” His breath smelled of stale coffee and tobacco, sour and invasive.

Sarah nodded quickly, her breath hot against the man’s palm. The taller one grinned, his teeth flashing in the dim light filtering through the cabin’s grimy windows.

“Good,” he said, dragging his hand away and wiping her spit on his jeans.

Sarah’s gaze darted between their faces — the first man’s sharp cheekbones shadowed by stubble, the taller one’s crooked nose — and the realization hit her like a fist to the gut: they weren’t wearing masks. No ski masks, no balaclavas. Their faces were bare, exposed, as if her seeing them meant nothing, as if she’d never have the chance to describe them to a sketch artist, to a courtroom. The taller man scratched his jaw and Sarah’s stomach twisted. They weren’t amateurs. They didn’t care if she knew what they looked like. At that moment, she knew that she wouldn’t be going home…. Unless she could manage to escape.

Sarah’s voice came out cracked, her throat raw from the gag. “What… what are you going to do with me?” The taller man exchanged a glance with his partner, and for a heartbeat, the cabin was silent except for the creak of old timber settling. Then the first man crouched beside the table, his gloved fingers tracing the curve of her hip.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, “you already know the answer to that.” His thumb pressed into the soft flesh above her thigh — not quite painful, not yet — but the promise in the pressure made her breath hitch. “And you’ve just spoken without permission…. That’s not good at all, but I’m going to let it slide just this once. Just so you know, the reason you are not allowed to speak is nothing to do with being heard. We’re miles from anywhere and you could scream your lungs out without anyone noticing. No, the reason is for you to learn discipline and respect before you open that slutty mouth of yours. You are nothing more than our property and play thing now. The sooner you accept that, the better life will be for you.”

Sarah’s mind reeled — property. The word echoed in her skull like a struck bell, its vibrations sinking into her flesh. She’d fantasized about submission, about being taken, but this — this was ownership, stark and unadorned. Her pulse throbbed where the ropes bit into her skin, each heartbeat a silent protest that felt laughably futile. The taller man’s fingers lingered on her thigh, his touch impersonal, as if checking the ripeness of fruit. A shudder ran through her, half-dread, half something else she refused to name.

Her breath hitched as the first man’s fingers trailed higher, the rough leather of his gloves catching on the slick latex of her dress. A traitorous heat pooled low in her belly, and she squeezed her thighs together instinctively. Horror prickled up her spine as she realized: her body was responding. The friction of the hogtie, the man’s casual dominance coupled with her total helplessness, her fear, even the stale-coffee stench of his breath — it all conspired to send a pulse of unwanted arousal throbbing through her. Her nipples tightened against the latex, and she prayed they wouldn’t notice.

Sarah’s breath came in shallow, panicked bursts — not just from fear now, but from the slow, creeping realization that her body was betraying her. The smooth feel of the latex against her skin, the way her hips involuntarily arched against the tabletop as the man’s gloved fingers skimmed higher — it was all wrong. She shouldn’t be wet. She shouldn’t be excited. But the evidence was undeniable: a slick heat pooling between her legs, her nipples taut against the tight dress.

Horror coiled in her stomach, sharp and nauseating. What kind of sick fuck gets off on this? The answer, whispered in the back of her skull, was worse: You do.

The taller man’s laugh was a low, grating sound as he straightened up, rolling his shoulders like a boxer before a fight. “Look at that,” he said, nodding toward the undeniably hot as hell sight of the sexy bound woman grinding in her bondage. “I think she’s rather enjoying it”. His partner smirked, pulling her skirt hem up and dragging a gloved finger through the slickness with deliberate slowness. Sarah tried to jerk her hips away, but the ropes held her fast, her movement only serving to scrape her against the rough wood of the table.

“Tell me this is what you want, slut.” His voice was low and gentle, but there was unmistakable menace in it.

Sarah’s mouth opened, but no sound came out — just a shaky exhale. The man’s fingertip traced her slit again, slow and mocking, and her hips twitched involuntarily. She hated herself for it. Hated the way her body arched toward his touch like a fucking bitch on heat. The taller man leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “You don’t get to lie to us,” he murmured. “Your body’s already telling the truth.”

Sarah clenched her jaw. The man’s fingers pressed deeper, his laugh a dark rumble as her thighs trembled. “See?” he said, twisting his wrist just enough to make her gasp. “You’re dripping wet.” The first man grabbed a fistful of her hair, wrenching her head back to expose her throat. “Tell us,” he growled, his breath sour against her skin. “Say it.”

Sarah’s throat worked around the words, her pulse hammering so violently she could feel it in her temples. The man’s finger curled inside her, a cruel mimicry of tenderness, and her traitorous hips rocked forward — just once — before she could stop them. The sound she made was half-groan, half-sob, muffled by her own clenched teeth.

Sarah’s useless hands flexed as the taller man’s fingers worked deeper, her body betraying her with every shuddering breath. “Say it,” the first man repeated, his grip tightening in her hair until her scalp burned. The words lodged in her throat — filthy, humiliating.

Sarah’s lips parted, her breath hitching as the man’s fingers curled deeper — mockingly slow, unbearably precise. The words clawed their way up her throat, bitter and thick.

“I — I want it…I think?…” she whispered, her voice breaking with confusion on the last syllable as tears started streaming from her eyes. The admission hung in the air like smoke, acrid and inescapable. The taller man chuckled, his finger withdrawing with a slick pop that made her stomach twist.

“Louder,” he commanded, dragging his gloved hand down her thigh, leaving a glistening trail.

Sarah’s chest heaved, her bound wrists twisting uselessly against the ropes as she fought to steady her voice. The cabin’s stale air clung to her skin, amplifying the sweat beading along her collarbone.

“I… I want it,” she forced out, louder this time, the words scraping her throat raw. The taller man’s grin widened, his crooked teeth gleaming in the dim light as he wiped her wetness across her trembling thigh.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the praise sour in her ears.