How did I get into this nightmare? I got up this morning with nothing more in mind than to take my niece to lunch to celebrate her new job. Now look at me: I'm tied to a seat in an airplane God knows where, half drugged, and aching in my crotch from where an impossibly good looking but very implacable young man just stuck a finger inside me to test my virginity. I really wish I'd paid more attention to that New Age crap they've been spouting the last ten years. Maybe then I could meditate, or channel, or something, and get away. Because I don't like this reality at all.

Actually, I don't suppose reality has a whole lot to do with this situation. In the real world they haven't had 'capture brides' for centuries. Though that's where a lot of the old wedding traditions came from. The best man, for instance. A man wouldn't set out to snatch a bride by himself, he'd have his most trusted companion to watch his back. The quick drive away from the reception was the escape. Carrying the bride over the threshold. The groom was dragging his spoils home. Terrific. I had to run into social throwbacks.

But I still can't understand why me. I wouldn't wish this situation on Eva, God knows. I'm glad she's still safe. But there were other attractive women in the bank. This is scaring me terribly because I've said before that one of the reasons I've never been with a man is that I never found one who wanted me and not just a warm body. That old saw, 'Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it' runs through my mind.

I suppose I could be cursing and raising hell right now, but that doesn't seem sensible given the altitude, and my bound state, and that big ass knife he's using to cut up that peach he pulled out of the cooler. He carefully slices it into neat sections, putting the pit in the plastic trash bag then wipes the knife and puts it away.

He starts to eat the sections slowly, obviously relishing each mouthful. Apparently he's someone who's very sensual, enjoying even the smallest sensory experience. I try staring at the floor or out the glass ahead at the dark night, but my eyes keep turning back to him. My life rests with him now, and that makes him very interesting. He sees me watching and smiles. Why hasn't this man gotten his fill of hot nymphets by now? I know that if Eva had met him in a club she would have practically climbed into his lap.

He scoots to the edge of the seat, getting closer to me, and holds out a peach slice. "Dessert?" I just bite my bottom lip. There is a tiny edge of warning in his voice. "What did I tell you about refusing to eat?" I sigh and open my mouth to accept the fruit. Surely he doesn't intend to keep doing this? I'll have to feed myself sometime.

It isn't till later I remember reading something about conditioning, brainwashing. Often, part of it is making the subject as totally dependent on his controller as possible. It's possible to reach a point where someone cannot perform the simplest function without being ordered. If left alone, they'll starve to death in their own wastes, because no one told them to eat, or go to the toilet, or clean themselves. That isn't what this guy, Jerry, seems to want. He just wants co-operation, and if he has to paradoxically force it at first, he's okay with that.

He continues eating the peach, occasionally feeding me bits. I don't try to refuse it again. The fruit is very ripe, very juicy. By the time he's finished, his hands are a sticky mess. He starts to get a wet nap, then says, "It's a shame to waste all this good juice," and licks the fingers of his left hand clean. It's rather fascinating, the way he seeks out each sticky smear, tongue swirling and darting.

Then he stands up and moves over to me. He stands astraddle my knees and presses the juice dripping fingers of his right hand to my mouth. "Clean that up for me, would you darlin'?"

I look up at him in dumb appeal, silently begging him not to do this, not to play with me this way. He just smiles, and rubs his fingers slowly over my lips. With a sigh I bend my head and tentatively lap a drop off his pinkie. He twists his hand to give me easier access and I proceed to lick his fingers clean. The peach juice is delicious, and it mingles with the slightly salty taste of his skin. There is also a very faint, indefinable musty taste I can't identify. I stop when it occurs to me that I might be tasting a lingering trace of my own body on his hand.

He says, "Now, wasn't that good? Wasn't that sweet? I bet you'd taste even better, though. I know I'm gonna find out pretty soon."

His fingers are clean now, except for a light film of my saliva, but he doesn't pull away. He strokes my hair with his left hand, then grips a handful and pushes his index finger against my lips insistently. No, I don't want to do that. Isn't it enough?

His voice is gentle and coaxing. "Come on, darlin'. Open up for daddy." A twist of the hair, not brutal, but enough to make me wince. Resigned, I part my lips and he slips the finger into my mouth. I know what he wants me to do, and I begin to suck it, moving my tongue against it. His grip loosens into a caress, moving over my hair. I close my eyes, squeezing them shut. He's... petting me.

After a few moments he eases a second finger into my mouth, then a third. He begins to slide them in and out slowly. I feel his breath against my ear and know that he's bent down close. I hear the other one, Ron, say, "Boy, you two are gonna have me jumping Lally as soon as I get her alone."

"She's a good girl." Jerry breathes in my ear. "Such a good girl." He pumps his fingers in and out, his thumb hooking under my chin. "Do you like that, baby? You do it so nice. You're gonna be a champion little cock sucker, you are."

I stiffen, eyes flying open. My first instinct is to bite and somehow he senses that, because he whispers, "Don't make me hurt you, now. Because I'll hurt you just as much as you hurt me. That's a promise, Scribe. If you're sweet to me, I'll be sweet to you. But this is goin' to be just as hard as you make it."

I want to cry. That isn't fair, trying to put all the responsibility on me. Allow him to do whatever he wants or get hurt, perhaps badly.

In hopeless defiance I close my teeth on his invading fingers, but not hard. He moves to look into my eyes and breaths, "Gentle, girl." I can feel a tear escape, tracking down past my nose. I tighten my grip slightly, enough to pinch. The muscles in my jaw are trembling with the desire to clench. He doesn't speak again, doesn't move, just stares, eyes boring into me.

At last I release the pressure. His fingers move against the pad of my tongue, stroking. With a muffled whimper, I start sucking again, more tears tracking down. His smile now is gentle, pleased. "You're learnin'."