Soda - Reverse Hostage

The quiet days had become unbearable. Soda had spent weeks watching from a careful distance. At first it was only glances across the office, soft and fleeting. Then longer looks from the far side of the street when they left work. She told herself it was harmless. She was only curious. Only lonely. Only… attached. But attachment, for her, never stayed gentle. When the object of her quiet obsession began to smile at others, to speak too freely, to exist outside the narrow circle she had drawn around them in her mind, something inside her fractured. The soft-spoken girl who fidgeted with her sleeves and looked at the floor began to plan with cold, meticulous care. She waited until the street was empty and the hour was late. The delivery van she sometimes used for work was parked just out of sight. She had prepared everything days in advance: the ropes coiled neatly, the red ball gag polished, the spare coat and mask folded in the passenger seat. They never heard her approach. A cloth pressed firmly over mouth and nose. A brief, desperate struggle. Then the body went limp in her arms. Soda’s hands shook as she dragged them into the back seat of the car, but her movements never faltered. The obsession that had been burning under her shy exterior left no room for hesitation. She worked in silence, breathing soft and uneven, cheeks flushed beneath the brim of her beige cap. The tight blue top she wore stretched across her chest as she leaned over the unconscious form. Thick brown ropes were pulled tight around the upper torso first, looping again and again until the soft flesh was forced upward and outward, the diamond-shaped harness taking shape across the midriff with practiced precision. She cinched the waist hard, then bound the hips, then the thighs—tight enough that the knees were locked together, black stockings pressing firmly against each other. Ankles followed. Arms were pinned tightly to the sides. Every knot was deliberate. Every coil was checked twice. The red ball gag was forced between slack lips and strapped securely behind the head. A thin trail of saliva soon formed at the corner of the mouth. The black seatbelt was drawn across the bound chest, locking the body deeper into the leather seat. Only when the last rope was secured did Soda pause. She sat back for a moment, chest rising and falling, soft features half-hidden behind dark sunglasses. For a fleeting second the old shyness flickered across her face—an almost apologetic little tremor. Then it vanished, replaced by something quieter and far more dangerous. She opened the brown trench coat she had brought and draped it carefully over the restrained body, arranging the heavy fabric so that it covered the ropes and the tight harness completely. The coat settled around the figure like a second skin, hiding the elaborate bondage from any casual glance. Last of all she fitted a plain dark mask over the lower face, adjusting it until the red ball gag and the glistening trail of saliva were completely concealed. From the outside, the person in the back seat now looked merely asleep—or perhaps a little unwell—wrapped in an oversized coat, face partially covered, head resting against the seat. Soda closed the door with a soft click. She slid into the driver’s seat, hands still trembling faintly on the wheel. Her voice, when she finally spoke to the silent, thoroughly bound figure behind her, was the same quiet, hesitant tone she had always used. “…You can’t leave now,” she whispered. “I won’t let you. You’re mine.” The engine started. The car pulled away into the dark street, carrying its carefully hidden cargo into the night.