Looking back on it all, I still can’t believe how preternaturally calm I was the day I kidnapped her.
I practically grew up at the lodge, staying with cousins and grandparents for long lazy weeks each summer – but that was when being naughty in bed still meant reading comic books by flashlight. Over the course of thirty years, the deed to the family retreat fell to me. No doubt campfire marshmallow roasts and trail rides on horseback would ably honor a legacy of three generations. But that’s a little too Norman Rockwell for me, I’m afraid.
Instead, I waited for the last day of final exams, and effectively converted the isolated hunting lodge into a prison for a girl I’d been eyeing all semester. She’d been in the third row all term, alert – even perky – during class discussions. She spent time in my office reviewing for tests, sharpening papers. It paid off. Even if her farm girl good looks hadn’t caught my eye, she’d have earned an “A” on her own merits.
When she stirred from the thick fog of sedative, I was casually sipping coffee, my 6’3” frame folded into a favorite leather armchair. She’d been out a long time; twenty minutes longer than the half-hour it took me to drive from her dorm. While I built a fire and brought in groceries, I suppose I could have been fucking her unconscious body. But there was little sport and no satisfaction in picking such low-hanging fruit.
A few weeks earlier, she’d casually mentioned a holiday skiing trip. Her parents weren’t expecting her for Christmas. I didn’t feel at all hurried, because I expected her to be with me – her absence unnoticed – for quite a while.
Understandably groggy, she was discovering the handcuffs that secured her arms in the small of her back. “Professor?” she slurred. I never had been able to convince her to use my first name. A moot point, since she’d soon be calling me “Sir.”
I practically grew up at the lodge, staying with cousins and grandparents for long lazy weeks each summer – but that was when being naughty in bed still meant reading comic books by flashlight. Over the course of thirty years, the deed to the family retreat fell to me. No doubt campfire marshmallow roasts and trail rides on horseback would ably honor a legacy of three generations. But that’s a little too Norman Rockwell for me, I’m afraid.
Instead, I waited for the last day of final exams, and effectively converted the isolated hunting lodge into a prison for a girl I’d been eyeing all semester. She’d been in the third row all term, alert – even perky – during class discussions. She spent time in my office reviewing for tests, sharpening papers. It paid off. Even if her farm girl good looks hadn’t caught my eye, she’d have earned an “A” on her own merits.
When she stirred from the thick fog of sedative, I was casually sipping coffee, my 6’3” frame folded into a favorite leather armchair. She’d been out a long time; twenty minutes longer than the half-hour it took me to drive from her dorm. While I built a fire and brought in groceries, I suppose I could have been fucking her unconscious body. But there was little sport and no satisfaction in picking such low-hanging fruit.
A few weeks earlier, she’d casually mentioned a holiday skiing trip. Her parents weren’t expecting her for Christmas. I didn’t feel at all hurried, because I expected her to be with me – her absence unnoticed – for quite a while.
Understandably groggy, she was discovering the handcuffs that secured her arms in the small of her back. “Professor?” she slurred. I never had been able to convince her to use my first name. A moot point, since she’d soon be calling me “Sir.”
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