Kidnapped katie (MM/F)

[tiedgirlie]

The late September air held the first crisp bite of autumn, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth of the high school hallways Katie had just escaped. Her Converse scuffed against the familiar, sun-bleached asphalt of Sycamore Lane, the sound a quiet metronome marking her journey home. At sixteen, Katie Morgan existed in that liminal space between childhood and adulthood, her world a carefully curated collection of college prep stress, whispered gossip in the cafeteria, and the deep, unspoken security of her tree-lined neighborhood.
Her father, Robert Morgan, was a partner at a prestigious venture capital firm, a fact that meant a sprawling colonial home at the end of a cul-de-sac and a constant, low-grade anxiety about living up to a name that carried weight. She was lost in the replay of a particularly awkward exchange with Liam Jacobs by her locker, a faint blush still warming her cheeks, completely oblivious to the van.

It was a late-model Ford Transit, industrial white and unremarkable, parked two houses down from her own with its hazard lights blinking—a universal signal of harmless, temporary business.
As Katie drew level with its side door, the world fractured. The sliding door shot open with a violent, metallic screech. A powerful arm, corded with muscle and smelling of stale cigarettes and cheap soap, hooked around her waist, yanking her off her feet. A startled gasp was all she managed before a thick, gloved hand clamped over her mouth, the leather pressing her lips painfully against her teeth.

Her backpack tore from her shoulders, spilling textbooks and a half-eaten bag of chips across the manicured lawn. She was hauled into the dim, cavernous interior of the van, the door slamming shut behind her with a sound of finality that stole the air from her lungs. The van was already moving, the engine a low growl as it pulled away from the curb with a casual speed that was terrifying.

There were two of them. The one who had grabbed her wore a black ski mask, his eyes flat and emotionless through the holes. The driver, his face also obscured, never looked back. The man in the back with her forced her down onto the cold, ribbed metal floor. “Don’t make a sound,” he grunted, his voice a low rasp that held no room for negotiation.

Panic was a live wire in her veins, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She thrashed, a primal, desperate instinct, but he was impossibly strong, his weight pinning her legs. He produced a coil of pristine, white nylon rope, the kind sold in hardware stores for tying down cargo. It was stiff and new. He worked with a brutal, practiced efficiency.
He forced her wrists together in the small of her back, crossing them.The rope bit into her skin immediately, the first wrap a searing line of fire. He looped it several times, pulling each pass taut with a sharp, professional tug that forced a muffled whimper from behind the glove. He then began a series of intricate, unforgiving knots between her wrists, creating a hard, unyielding fist of rope that fused her hands together.
The excess rope was then fed down, and he wrapped her ankles with the same relentless pressure, pulling them back and tying them to the wrist bindings in a harsh, effective hogtie. Every pull of the rope stole another fraction of her breath, another sliver of hope.

Finished, he rolled her onto her side. He produced a roll of heavy-duty silver duct tape. The tearing sound was obscenely loud in the confined space. He ripped a long strip and smoothed it over her mouth, the adhesive sealing her lips, gluing her lower lip to her teeth. The taste was chemical and metallic. He tore another, shorter piece and crudely pasted it over her eyes, plunging her world into a sticky, disorienting darkness.

[TightsBound]

Loving this. Very descriptive writing that pulled me right in. Do continue!