Million ransom (MMM/F)

[tiedgirlie]

The rain-slicked streets of Munich gleamed under the sodium glow of streetlamps, a labyrinth of cobblestone alleys and shadowed facades that hid the city’s underbelly. Elias Voss, the CEO of VossTech Industries—a titan in the world of European semiconductors—had built an empire on precision and control. But empires, like all fragile constructs, could crumble with a single, calculated strike.

His daughter, Lena Voss, was seventeen, a porcelain-skinned vision with raven hair that cascaded like midnight silk and eyes the color of storm-tossed seas. She was the unwitting jewel in her father’s crown, shuttled between elite schools and guarded estates, her life a gilded cage. Tonight, that cage would shatter.

It was just past 10 PM when Lena stepped out of the Alte Pinakothek, the grand art museum where she’d spent the evening at a private gala for young philanthropists. Her bodyguard, a burly ex-special forces operative named Klaus, lingered a few paces behind, scanning the plaza. The air hummed with the distant chatter of tourists and the low rumble of trams. Lena adjusted the strap of her designer backpack, her school uniform—crisp white blouse, pleated skirt, and knee-high socks—clinging slightly from the evening’s drizzle. She was texting a friend about the Van Gogh exhibit when the van appeared.

A nondescript white Mercedes Sprinter, its plates muddied with grime, screeched to a halt at the curb. The side door slid open with a metallic rasp, and three men erupted like shadows given form. The first was broad-shouldered, his face obscured by a black balaclava, moving with the predatory grace of a wolf. He lunged at Klaus, slamming a chloroform-soaked rag over the bodyguard’s mouth. Klaus thrashed, his muffled roar cut short as his knees buckled, body crumpling to the wet pavement.

Lena barely had time to scream. A second man—leaner, with a scar twisting his lip into a perpetual sneer—grabbed her from behind, one iron arm clamping around her waist, the other clamping over her mouth. Her phone clattered to the ground, screen shattering like her composure. She kicked wildly, her polished loafers scraping against the cobblestones, but his grip was unyielding, fingers digging into her ribs like vices. “Quiet, Fräulein,” he hissed in guttural German, his breath hot and sour against her ear. “Or your papa pays extra.”

The third man, wiry and quick, scooped up her backpack and phone, then vaulted into the van’s open maw. They hauled her inside in a blur of motion, her skirt riding up as she flailed. The door slammed shut with a finality that echoed in her chest. Tires squealed as the van peeled away, merging into the nocturnal traffic like a ghost.

Inside, the air was thick with the stench of stale cigarettes and motor oil. Lena’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat. She twisted in the scarred man’s grasp, nails raking at his arm, but he only laughed—a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through her. “Feisty one,” he muttered, shoving her face-down onto the van’s grimy floor. Rough hands pinned her shoulders while another pair yanked her wrists behind her back. She felt the bite of zip ties cinching tight, plastic teeth gnawing into her skin, drawing a sharp yelp that dissolved into a sob.

“Shut her up,” barked the driver from the front, his voice muffled by the partition. The scarred man produced a roll of duct tape, ripping off a strip with his teeth. He pressed it over her mouth, the adhesive sealing her lips with a sticky smack, muffling her cries to pathetic whimpers. “Mmmph! Mmm!” Panic clawed at her throat as they looped more ties around her ankles, binding them together with ruthless efficiency. A thick black blindfold followed—a scratchy hood of fabric that plunged her world into suffocating darkness. Her senses sharpened in the void: the van’s engine growling, the men’s heavy breathing, the faint metallic tang of blood from where she’d bitten her lip.

The journey stretched into an eternity of jolts and turns, Lena’s body rocking against the cold metal floor with every pothole. She strained against the bonds, wrists chafing raw, but they held fast. Sweat beaded on her skin, soaking through her blouse, the fabric clinging to the gentle swell of her breasts and the curve of her spine. Minutes blurred into what felt like hours until the van lurched to a stop. Doors opened, and hands—cold, calloused—hauled her out, slinging her over a shoulder like a sack of flour. She dangled there, blind and gagged, inhaling the damp earthiness of a forest or alleyway, the crunch of gravel under boots.

They carried her down—down into a chill that seeped through her clothes, the air growing musty and stale. A basement, she realized dimly, her mind reeling. Stone steps echoed beneath their feet, and then she was dumped unceremoniously onto a hard surface—a thin mattress on concrete, she guessed, from the unforgiving chill seeping into her bones.

Rough fingers tore off the blindfold first. Lena blinked against the dim light of a single bare bulb swinging overhead, casting long shadows across a cramped, windowless room. Exposed brick walls wept moisture, and the air hung heavy with mold and rust. Chains dangled from iron rings bolted into the stone, and a rickety wooden chair sat in one corner, its legs scarred from use. Her captors loomed: the broad one, the scarred one, and the wiry one, all masked, their eyes gleaming with predatory intent.

“Welcome home, Prinzessin,” the scarred man sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. He knelt beside her, slicing through the zip ties with a utility knife. Freedom was fleeting; they retied her immediately, this time with coarse rope that bit deeper into her wrists and ankles. They forced her into a sitting position against the wall, looping the ropes through a metal loop in the floor, securing her in a half-crouch that strained her thighs and forced her skirt to hike up, exposing the pale skin above her socks. Her arms were wrenched above her head, tied to a pipe running along the wall, stretching her body taut, her blouse pulling tight across her chest.

Lena’s eyes darted wildly, tears streaking her cheeks. “Please,” she whimpered through the tape, the words garbled and desperate. “Let me go. My father will pay you—anything!”

The broad one chuckled, a deep bellow that filled the room. “Oh, he will. But first, we make sure he knows we mean business.” They blindfolded her again, the fabric tighter this time, plunging her back into darkness. Then the real torment began.

It started with the tickling—a cruel, insidious prelude to worse. The wiry one, his touch feather-light at first, dragged his fingers along the soles of her feet. They’d stripped off her loafers and socks, leaving her bare arches exposed and vulnerable. Lena jerked instinctively, a muffled giggle escaping despite the terror, her body betraying her with involuntary spasms. “Nngh! St-stop!” she tried to plead, but the tape turned it to nonsense.

He didn’t stop. His nails skittered up her arches, tracing the sensitive curves, then along the undersides of her toes, wiggling into the spaces between. Laughter bubbled up unbidden, tearing from her throat in choked bursts—“Hnn-hnn-mmph!”—her ribs heaving as she twisted against the ropes. The tickling spread: fingers dancing along her sides, slipping under the hem of her blouse to graze the soft skin of her ribs, her belly, the tender hollows beneath her arms. She bucked wildly, sweat slicking her skin, her skirt twisting higher, revealing the white cotton of her panties clinging damply to her hips.

The broad one joined in, his massive hands kneading her thighs, thumbs pressing into the ticklish spots behind her knees. Lena’s world dissolved into hysteria, her body convulsing in helpless mirth that bordered on agony. Tears soaked the blindfold, her breaths coming in ragged gasps through her nose. They toyed with her for what felt like hours, alternating between light scratches and firmer prods, forcing peals of laughter that left her throat raw and her muscles aching from the strain.

But tickling was merely the appetizer. As her giggles faded to exhausted sobs, the torture escalated. The scarred man peeled back the tape from her mouth with deliberate slowness, ripping it free in one yank that split her lips and drew a sharp cry—“Aah!” He stuffed a thick cloth gag into her mouth, a wadded rag tasting of oil and dirt, then secured it with fresh layers of tape, winding it around her head until only muffled hums escaped.

They retied her then, hoisting her arms higher, forcing her onto her tiptoes, her calves burning from the stretch. The wiry one produced a small leather strap, thin and flexible, and began with light lashes across her thighs—snap! snap!—each strike blooming red welts on her pale skin. Lena whimpered, “Mmmph! Nooo,” her head thrashing, but the blindfold kept her in darkness, heightening every sting.

The broad one took over with his fists, not full blows but calculated presses—kneading her shoulders until they screamed, then pinching the soft flesh of her inner arms, twisting until she arched in pain. “Your father’s money built this life,” he growled, his voice a rumble close to her ear. “Now it breaks you.” They alternated: the strap whipping her calves, fingers digging into pressure points along her spine, nails raking down her sides until her skin prickled with fire. One tormentor held ice cubes—pilfered from a cooler in the corner—against her neck, the freezing burn contrasting the heat of fresh welts, making her shiver uncontrollably.

Lena’s mind fractured under the assault, time losing meaning in the basement’s gloom. Her blouse hung in tatters, buttons popped and fabric torn to expose the lacy edge of her bra, her skirt a rumpled band around her waist. Sweat and tears mingled, dripping onto the concrete. She sagged against the ropes when they paused, her body a map of bruises and red lines, breaths shallow and ragged.

Finally, after what must have been dawn creeping into the world above—though no light pierced their lair—they stepped back. The scarred man untied her legs, letting her slump to her knees, then forced her chin up, ripping off the blindfold once more. Her eyes, bloodshot and wild, met his cold gaze. “Time for the message,” he said, pulling out a battered laptop.

They propped her against the wall, ropes still binding her wrists overhead, gag firmly in place. The wiry one filmed it all on a cheap camera, the red light blinking like an accusatory eye. Lena stared into the lens, her face streaked with grime and tears, body trembling. The scarred man leaned in, speaking in flawless English for the international audience her father commanded.

“Elias Voss,” he intoned, his voice steady and menacing. “We have your daughter. She’s alive—for now. Look at her: tied, broken, begging through that pretty gag. Fifty million euros, wired to this account by midnight tomorrow, or we start sending pieces. Not fingers—something more… personal. You have our word.” He rattled off a numbered account in a Cayman shell bank, then nodded to the wiry one, who zoomed in on Lena’s face—her wide, terrified eyes, the duct tape glistening with saliva, the raw rope burns on her wrists.

The camera clicked off. They blindfolded her again, the darkness a small mercy, and left her there, retied in a hogtie on the mattress: ankles bound to wrists behind her back, body arched in humiliating exposure. The basement door slammed shut, the lock clicking like a death knell.

Lena lay in the suffocating quiet, every muscle throbbing, the ropes creaking with her shallow breaths. Upstairs, the men would upload the video, watch it worm its way into her father’s secure feeds. The game had begun, and in the dim heart of that German basement, she was the prize—and the pawn.

[Jenny_S]

This needs to continue. I'd love to know if Lena gets released.

[Dpsiic]

A great start,if a little brutal. Very well written,

[GreyLord]

As @Dpsiic said, brutal. But inquiring minds want to know. Please continue.