Boulder City Ambush (MF/M) (Part 2 published)
Posted: Thu Oct 29, 2020 3:23 am
As a YouTuber might say, I commonly experience repeated lapses in judgment, and today’s tale is no exception.
For some context, my name’s Sean and I’m a twenty-something travel writer and photographer for a magazine that very few people probably read. This issue has sent me packing out west, to cover various ghost towns left behind from the Gold Rush. More interesting than the stuff I usually cover. And it’s in our western setting that my story begins.
It started off with me waking up (cliché, I know) in a motel room with a hangover. I’d definitely hooked up with someone the night previously, but she was now gone. She’d left a note on the side table, however.
“See you in Boulder City! - Lisa”
I’ve changed name and location for privacy’s sake, which may seem gracious in context of future events. Anyway, “Boulder City” was a little known ghost town on my itinerary, one I was headed for today. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to see her again, thought my naive, hungover self.
I took off from the roadside motel I had been staying at, and headed for Boulder City. It’s a few miles out of the way of anything, and you have to break away from the interstate to get to it. From a distance it looks like little more than a smudge on the desert landscape.
So, a mile into the desert and a few miles away from any settlements, I arrived in Boulder City. I took out my camera with me. I took a few shots of the old, dilapidated place. Even got a nice panorama shot, though that wouldn’t make it into the magazine.
Chances are I caught my assailant in it, somewhere.
Continuing through, my photo session came to an end just as I reached the old saloon. Typical western shot, good for some photos. I took a couple, but before I could lower my camera and go inside the place, I was ambushed.
First off I was tackled to the ground from behind. Bizarre as it may sound, my first concern was for my camera. I’d later come to wish it had been broken, but that’s for later.
My attacker then forced a gag into my mouth, some sort of panel thing with an oddly-phallic plug to fill your mouth. Not pleasant. This was followed up by a blindfold, looked kind of like the sort of thing you’d wear to get some better sleep (not me, I was too paranoid about the sort of thing happening to me now happening to me back at home).
Then came a simple pair of handcuffs, holding my arms behind me, and then the attacker stood up, wiped his hands off and I assume, admired his handiwork for a moment. I tried to get up while moaning exclamations through the gag. Both were foiled. First, he pinned me back to the ground with a simple shoe to the back, and anything I said was rendered inaudible. Swearing at him was mildly cathartic amid the panic though, I will admit, even if only I knew what I was saying.
He picked up my camera while saying “what have we here?” It was definitely a man’s voice. “I’m sure we’ll get plenty of use out of this.” He pulled me to my feet and pushed me up the stairs of the saloon decking and pushed me inside. But three pairs of feet ascended those stairs, the last coming after me and my captor.
He paused for a moment, so I took the opportunity to try and struggle out of his grip. No luck, and he simply grabbed both of my upper arms to quell me. He’d handed my camera to somebody.
Now yes, he could have simply had it around his neck, but when he saw what he wanted and started pulling me towards it, the shutter snapped once. A hand left my arm and he said “no pictures of me! Do you want me to get caught?” The shutter went a couple of times more, but then stopped. The photographer didn’t say anything.
After wrestling me to a spot to the left of the saloon, he stopped again and started searching me. His hands lingered on my butt and crotch for far longer than was comfortable. He took my wallet and my car keys, but didn’t find anything else.
I heard the jingle of my car keys being thrown onto a nearby table, and then my cuffs were unlocked, though a firm grip on my upper arm made sure I wasn’t running off anywhere. My shirt was slowly pulled off, and I was pushed to the floor. My arms were pulled above my head, and the cuffs began to rattle again. My back was against a stair railing of some kind.
“Cuffs aren’t going to work.” The man said.
There came a sigh, and the sound of a bag being unzipped. Something was tossed over my head, which the man caught. Pulling my hands back up, he wrapped the rope around them a few times, before tying a knot between them, forcing them slightly apart. He then tied my hands to something secure, presumably the top of the railing. After a few pulls, they only pulled tighter. The bindings were so tight my butt hovered ever so slightly off the ground.
The binding stopped for a moment, and at least a dozen photos were taken, judging from the shutter. When it stopped, the tying continued.
My feet were pulled up and onto a small table of some kind, making me hover completely. One ankle was tied, and after a moment, so was the other one with a loop from the same rope. He then pushed my feet together until the rope connecting them, going under the table, was pulled tight. With an additional, short rope, I felt him tie one ankle to the other yet again. I tried struggling, but my legs were held together tightly.
“I think you’re done.” Said a woman’s voice. The photographs continued to be taken. I shouted into my gag, before I realised something. I knew that voice.
As soon as the realisation set in, I stopped struggling, it was pointless anyway. When I stopped, the blindfold rather suddenly came off. When my eyes readjusted to the light, my suspicions were affirmed.
There she was. Though the camera, my camera, was obscuring part of her face, it was definitely her.
Lisa.
~~
Back again from my slumber with another story. Maybe I'll finish this one.
Decided to go for a pulp fiction-y title with this one. Hope it got your attenton
Feedback, comments, all of that are, of course, appreciated.
For some context, my name’s Sean and I’m a twenty-something travel writer and photographer for a magazine that very few people probably read. This issue has sent me packing out west, to cover various ghost towns left behind from the Gold Rush. More interesting than the stuff I usually cover. And it’s in our western setting that my story begins.
It started off with me waking up (cliché, I know) in a motel room with a hangover. I’d definitely hooked up with someone the night previously, but she was now gone. She’d left a note on the side table, however.
“See you in Boulder City! - Lisa”
I’ve changed name and location for privacy’s sake, which may seem gracious in context of future events. Anyway, “Boulder City” was a little known ghost town on my itinerary, one I was headed for today. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to see her again, thought my naive, hungover self.
I took off from the roadside motel I had been staying at, and headed for Boulder City. It’s a few miles out of the way of anything, and you have to break away from the interstate to get to it. From a distance it looks like little more than a smudge on the desert landscape.
So, a mile into the desert and a few miles away from any settlements, I arrived in Boulder City. I took out my camera with me. I took a few shots of the old, dilapidated place. Even got a nice panorama shot, though that wouldn’t make it into the magazine.
Chances are I caught my assailant in it, somewhere.
Continuing through, my photo session came to an end just as I reached the old saloon. Typical western shot, good for some photos. I took a couple, but before I could lower my camera and go inside the place, I was ambushed.
First off I was tackled to the ground from behind. Bizarre as it may sound, my first concern was for my camera. I’d later come to wish it had been broken, but that’s for later.
My attacker then forced a gag into my mouth, some sort of panel thing with an oddly-phallic plug to fill your mouth. Not pleasant. This was followed up by a blindfold, looked kind of like the sort of thing you’d wear to get some better sleep (not me, I was too paranoid about the sort of thing happening to me now happening to me back at home).
Then came a simple pair of handcuffs, holding my arms behind me, and then the attacker stood up, wiped his hands off and I assume, admired his handiwork for a moment. I tried to get up while moaning exclamations through the gag. Both were foiled. First, he pinned me back to the ground with a simple shoe to the back, and anything I said was rendered inaudible. Swearing at him was mildly cathartic amid the panic though, I will admit, even if only I knew what I was saying.
He picked up my camera while saying “what have we here?” It was definitely a man’s voice. “I’m sure we’ll get plenty of use out of this.” He pulled me to my feet and pushed me up the stairs of the saloon decking and pushed me inside. But three pairs of feet ascended those stairs, the last coming after me and my captor.
He paused for a moment, so I took the opportunity to try and struggle out of his grip. No luck, and he simply grabbed both of my upper arms to quell me. He’d handed my camera to somebody.
Now yes, he could have simply had it around his neck, but when he saw what he wanted and started pulling me towards it, the shutter snapped once. A hand left my arm and he said “no pictures of me! Do you want me to get caught?” The shutter went a couple of times more, but then stopped. The photographer didn’t say anything.
After wrestling me to a spot to the left of the saloon, he stopped again and started searching me. His hands lingered on my butt and crotch for far longer than was comfortable. He took my wallet and my car keys, but didn’t find anything else.
I heard the jingle of my car keys being thrown onto a nearby table, and then my cuffs were unlocked, though a firm grip on my upper arm made sure I wasn’t running off anywhere. My shirt was slowly pulled off, and I was pushed to the floor. My arms were pulled above my head, and the cuffs began to rattle again. My back was against a stair railing of some kind.
“Cuffs aren’t going to work.” The man said.
There came a sigh, and the sound of a bag being unzipped. Something was tossed over my head, which the man caught. Pulling my hands back up, he wrapped the rope around them a few times, before tying a knot between them, forcing them slightly apart. He then tied my hands to something secure, presumably the top of the railing. After a few pulls, they only pulled tighter. The bindings were so tight my butt hovered ever so slightly off the ground.
The binding stopped for a moment, and at least a dozen photos were taken, judging from the shutter. When it stopped, the tying continued.
My feet were pulled up and onto a small table of some kind, making me hover completely. One ankle was tied, and after a moment, so was the other one with a loop from the same rope. He then pushed my feet together until the rope connecting them, going under the table, was pulled tight. With an additional, short rope, I felt him tie one ankle to the other yet again. I tried struggling, but my legs were held together tightly.
“I think you’re done.” Said a woman’s voice. The photographs continued to be taken. I shouted into my gag, before I realised something. I knew that voice.
As soon as the realisation set in, I stopped struggling, it was pointless anyway. When I stopped, the blindfold rather suddenly came off. When my eyes readjusted to the light, my suspicions were affirmed.
There she was. Though the camera, my camera, was obscuring part of her face, it was definitely her.
Lisa.
~~
Back again from my slumber with another story. Maybe I'll finish this one.
Decided to go for a pulp fiction-y title with this one. Hope it got your attenton
Feedback, comments, all of that are, of course, appreciated.