Stories of Tie Up Games

Chapter I -Normal Days


Franco Blaquier was a 16-year-old young man, the only child of one of the wealthiest families in Buenos Aires. The Blaquier were known not only for their fortune, but also for their influence in Argentine high society. Jorge, Franco's father, was a successful businessman, owner of several companies and with investments in various sectors. Micaela, his mother, was a renowned philanthropist and organizer of charity events. Together, they formed a family that seemed to have everything: money, power and a life full of privileges.

Franco had grown up in a luxurious mansion located in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the city. The house, with its large gardens, swimming pool and multiple rooms, was the scene of numerous parties and social events. Despite the opulence that surrounded him, Franco was a pretty normal boy, at least in appearance. He attended an elite private school, where he stood out for his qualifications and his skill in sports, especially in tennis and soccer.

Franco's hobbies reflected his life of privileges. He enjoyed traveling, having visited multiple countries with his family. He was also an enthusiast of luxury cars, and although he did not yet have a license, his father had promised him one of the latest models of his favorite brand for his next birthday. He liked to spend time with his friends from school, going out to dinner in expensive restaurants or attending the most exclusive parties.

Despite his lifestyle, Franco had a calmer and more contemplative side. He loved to read, especially adventure and mystery novels. He often escaped to the mansion library, a cozy space with dark wooden shelves and comfortable armchairs, to get lost in his favorite books. He also played the guitar, a hobby he had inherited from his mother, and spent hours practicing in his room.

The relationship with his parents was good, although sometimes he felt the pressure to meet the high expectations they had for him. Jorge, although busy with his business, always found time to play a tennis game with his son or to teach him about investments and business. Micaela, on the other hand, was more protective and often filled him with affection and pampering, always worried about his well-being.

However, behind this facade of perfection and comfort, Franco could not help but feel isolated at times. Life at the top could be lonely, and although he had many acquaintances, it was difficult for him to find true friends. In addition, I was always aware of the risk of being part of such a visible and wealthy family. But he would never have imagined what was to come, an event that would change his life and that of his family forever.

I woke up that morning feeling the cold of winter sneaking through the windows. It was one of those Friday mornings when you wanted to stay in bed all day. I was in my usual pajamas: a Pink Floyd t-shirt and black sweatpants. As usual, I slept barefoot. I always liked the feeling of the sheets on my bare feet, although I have never been a big fan of showing them in public. I'm a little embarrassed, I don't know exactly why. Maybe because I have always felt somewhat insecure about them, even though I take good care of them.

I stretched out on the bed, trying to wake up completely, while I was looking at the clock. It was still early, and the idea of going to school didn't excite me at all. Something inside me told me that today was not a good day to attend. It wasn't just morning laziness; it was a strange feeling, as if something wasn't quite right.

I thought about my usual routine: getting up, having breakfast with my parents in the dining room, and then going to school in the car with a driver. Despite the comfort, there was something monotonous in all that. But today, that monotony felt different, almost like a warning.

While I was considering the possibility of missing, I reminded myself of what my parents always told me about the importance of discipline and perseverance. Jorge always insisted that I should be responsible and not let myself be carried away by whims. But that inner voice kept whispering to me that I should stay at home.

I got up slowly, my bare feet touching the cold floor of the room. I walked to the window and looked out. The street was quiet, covered with a slight layer of frost. I looked at the watch again and I knew I had to make up my mind soon. If I wanted to miss it, I needed a good excuse.

I went to the bathroom, trying to clear my mind. I washed my face with cold water, hoping that it will help clarify my thoughts. But the feeling persisted, that uncomfortable intuition that something was not right. While I was brushing my teeth, I looked in the mirror and wondered what I should do. It was a simple decision, but at that moment it felt much more important than it should.

Finally, I left the bathroom and went back to my room. I fell on the bed again, my bare feet hanging from the edge. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to listen to my instinct. Maybe today I should listen to that internal voice and stay at home.

Finally, I decided to get out of bed. With some laziness, I got going and started preparing my things for the day. Fridays were swimming days at school, so I made sure to pack my bathing suit and a towel. It was one of the few activities I really enjoyed, although the idea of facing the cold after getting out of the water didn't excite me at all.

Once I was ready, I went down for breakfast. The kitchen was warm and cozy, the aroma of the coffee and the freshly made toast filled the atmosphere. My parents were already sitting at the table. Micaela smiled at me and asked me how I had slept.

"Well, mom," I replied as he served me a glass of orange juice. Just a little tired, as always.

We sat down to have breakfast together, something we always tried to do, despite our busy schedules. The conversation revolved around the plans of the day. Like every Friday, we were going to have dinner at my grandparents' house, Jorge's parents.

"Franco, do you want us to pick you up at the exit of school to go to the grandparents' thing?" my father asked, as he spreaded butter on a toast.

"No, Dad. "Today is not necessary," I said, without looking up from my plate. After school, I go straight to the grandparents' thing. It's just a few blocks away.

Jorge looked at me with concern.

"It's okay, but be careful. The street is dangerous lately," he warned me.

I sighed, feeling that mixture of frustration and rebellion typical of teenagers.

"Dad, I'm big. I know how to take care of myself," I replied with a slightly more abrupt tone than necessary.

Micaela intervened, trying to soften the conversation.

"He just wants to make sure you're okay, Franco.

I nodded, but I didn't say anything else. I finished my breakfast in silence, thinking about how absurd it seemed to me that my parents were still so worried. But deep down, I knew they only wanted the best for me. It was one of those things that you understand better on time.

I got up from the table and took my backpack.

"See you later," I said, giving them both a quick kiss on the cheek.

I left the house feeling that mixture of emotion and nervousness that always accompanied me when I decided to do something on my own. I knew my parents were worried, but I also wanted to show them that I could handle myself. After all, the grandparents' house wasn't that far away.

In a dark room, the only light came from a small lamp in the corner, barely illuminating the space. The environment was loaded with tension, and the air was impregnated with cigarette smoke. Two figures moved in silence, their shadows projecting on the bare walls.

One of them, a man of robust build, was checking a black canvas bag. Inside, several objects were meticulously inspected: handcuffs, adhesive tape and a gun. The silence was interrupted only by the sound of the objects when they were placed back in the bag.

The other man, thinner and nervous, was sitting on an old wooden chair, reviewing a map of the neighborhood. The marks on the paper indicated routes and strategic points. From time to time, he looked at the window covered by thick curtains, making sure that no one could see what they were doing.

The room was full of stacked boxes, some open and showing more equipment and provisions. One of the boxes, particularly large, contained a mattress wrapped in plastic. The presence of that object in the middle of the room added a sense of restlessness to the environment.

On a small table, a detailed map of the area around a school was extended. Red dots marked certain locations and paths. The precision and meticulous planning behind those brands showed that everything had been carefully thought out.

The most robust man stopped checking the bag and approached the table, looking at the map. They murmured some words, almost inaudible, but the tone of voice made it clear that they were discussing the last details of a plan. His looks were serious, concentrated, and in his gestures the determination was noticeable.

In a corner of the room, an old radio broadcast background music, a soft and almost ironic melody considering the atmosphere. The men didn't pay attention to the music; they were too immersed in their preparations.

Finally, the thinnest got up, turned off the lamp and left the room in twilight. They went out, closing the door behind them, leaving the room in a sepulchral silence. Outside, the day was cold and gray, with dense clouds covering the sky, adding an air of mystery to the scene.

Outside, a white van was waiting with the engine running. They got on, exchanged one last look of complicity and set out. The feeling that something dark and cloudy was about to happen became more and more palpable, as the vehicle slid through the empty streets of the morning.

In the twilight of the room, a female figure moved with care and precision. The only light source came from a small lamp in the corner, casting elongated shadows on the bare walls. The atmosphere was dense and full of tension.

The woman leaned over a metal bed that occupied the center of the room. With effort, he lifted a yellow foam mattress and placed it on the structure. He made sure that it was tight, slightly hitting the corners so that they fit in place. The room had an air of abandonment, and the mattress, with its vibrant color, seemed like a discordant element in the midst of so much darkness.

At the foot of the bed, the woman worked with long handcuffs. With agile fingers, he secured them to the metal bars. The handcuffs shone under the dim light, reflecting disturbing flashes. He tested the strength of the anchor, pulling them slightly to check that they were firm. Satisfied, she straightened up and looked at her work with an indecipherable expression.

In one corner, an old radio rested on a small table. The woman approached and turned on the device. The static filled the room for a moment before a soft melody emerged from the speaker. He turned the dial, looking for a clear frequency, and finally found a station that transmitted quiet and melancholic music. The radio worked, a little relief in the midst of so much mystery.

The woman stopped for a moment, looking at the room. The mattress, the handcuffs, the radio; each element seemed carefully placed for a specific purpose. A feeling of restlessness filled the air. The woman took a deep breath, turned off the lamp and let the darkness take over the space.

Before leaving, he took one last look at the room. The scene had a murky quality, as if it were suspended in a limbo between reality and a nightmare. Without further ado, he turned off the main light and closed the door behind him, leaving the room immersed in absolute darkness, waiting for the next act in the gloomy scenario he had prepared.

Franco's school day passed between classes and laughter with his friends. Despite the cold morning, there was something in the environment that kept him distracted and a little restless. The subjects followed one after another, and finally the last class of the day arrived: swimming.

Franco went to the changing rooms, where the sound of water and laughter resonated in the environment. He changed quickly and joined his classmates in the pool. The water was cold at first, but he soon got used to it and began to swim with determination, forgetting for a moment the strange feeling he had had when he woke up.

At the end of the class, Franco returned to the locker room soaked but happy. While changing, he realized a small problem: inadvertently, he had taken the blue buttons that he uses exclusively for the pool and had forgotten to bring his crocs. He frowned, thinking about the long and cold road that awaited him to his grandparents' house.

With resignation, Franco dressed in his school sweatpants, French blue pants with two red stripes in the shape of a circle on the side of his left foot, and the gym jacket of the same blue. Behind was the name of the school, "St. George Academy," in red and, in front, on the side of the heart, the logo of the institution. He felt his fingers exposed to the cold winter air and shuddered slightly.

He left school and, with a firm step, went to his grandparents' house. The streets were empty and the wind cut the skin. Every step resonated on the sidewalk, and Franco couldn't help but feel a little vulnerable.

As he walked, he tried to stay positive, thinking about the warm welcome he would receive when he arrived at his grandparents' house. However, the cold filtered through the eyelets and made his feet tremble. He hurried, wishing to arrive as quickly as possible, while the sun began to descend, staining the sky with orange and pink tones.

Finally, he saw his grandparents' house in the distance. He accelerated the pace, feeling an immense relief to know that he would soon be in a warm and safe place. However, something inside was still restless, a feeling that he could not shake completely as he approached the door of the house, ready to leave behind the cold and the strange discomfort of the day.

A man was sitting on a bench in the park in front of the school "St. George Academy". With his glasses on and a dark coat that protected him from the cold, he held his cell phone in his hand. However, his eyes were not fixed on the screen, but on the door of the institution. He watched carefully the coming and going of the students who went out, each in their own routines, carefree.

The light of the winter sun began to fade, casting long shadows on the sidewalk. The leafless trees shook slightly with the wind, adding a disturbing atmosphere to the stage. The man maintained a relaxed posture, but his eyes were cold and calculating, scanning every face that left school.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up with a spark of recognition. In the distance, he saw Franco Blaquier, with his French blue sweatpants and the school jacket. The young man, with his somewhat rushed walk, stood out among the other students.

The man set off with a meticulous calm. He got up from the bank, put his cell phone in his pocket and walked towards a white van parked a few meters away. As he advanced, he took a quick look around, making sure that no one was paying too much attention.

When he arrived at the van, he opened the passenger's door and slid inside. Inside, two men were waiting for him. One of them was behind the wheel, with his hands firmly attached to the steering wheel and his eyes fixed on the road. The other, in the back seat, checked some papers with an expression of concentration.

The man in the park closed the door behind him and turned slightly to look at his companions. "It's time," he said in a low but determined tone. The other two men nodded, and the engine of the truck started with a low purr. The van set in motion, mixing with street traffic, while the man's cold eyes focused again on Franco Blaquier, now walking towards his next destination, completely oblivious to what was coming.

Franco walked through a rather empty and quiet street, his mind still absorbed in the events of the day and the plans for the night. The winter breeze made him adjust the hood of his French blue jacket, while his flip flops resounded softly against the pavement. In the distance, he saw a white parked van. Something in it gave him a bad vibe; the two rear windows seemed sealed, a disturbing detail that did not go unnoticed by the young man. However, in a gesture of adolescent stubbornness, he decided to ignore the feeling.

As he approached, he tried not to pay attention to the truck, focusing on the road in front of him. However, when he passed right next to it, he heard the door open quickly, first the one in the back, then that of the co-pilot. It all happened in the blink of an eye. A man came out of the back and, without giving him time to react, covered his mouth with one hand as he grabbed him firmly by the arms. Another man, who had come out of the co-pilot's seat, rushed on his feet, lifting him off the ground.

Franco tried to scream, but the sounds were suffocated under the hand of the man who was holding him. His eyes opened wide, full of panic and surprise, while his efforts to free himself were useless. The coordination and speed with which the kidnappers acted was impressive; there were no hesitations or mistakes.

In a matter of seconds, he had been pushed into the truck, the doors slammed shut and the engine roared when it came to life. Franco, now imprisoned in the dark and cold interior of the vehicle, heard the sound of the bolts making sure and the drowned murmur of his own screams.

The van moved away quickly, disappearing in the distance while the street was again in a disturbing silence, as if nothing had happened.

Inside the truck, the atmosphere was oppressive. A wood divided the driver's cabin from the rear, which was slightly illuminated by a disturbing red light. Franco, breathing with difficulty, was lying on the floor, with his heart beating wildly.

One of the men pushed him down hard and began to handcuff his feet.

"Stay still or I'll blow your head!" the second man told him threateningly, who put a gun on his tempen. The voice was hard and cold, leaving no room for pity.

"If you make a single noise, this will end very badly for you," added the first, with an equally icy tone.

Franco, terrified, tried to stay calm while the second man immobilized him even more, holding his hands from behind. The first man, focused on his feet, leaned them pointing at the boy's head, abruptly removed his eyelets and threw them violently against the floor of the truck.

The man who had handcuffed his hands took out a third pair of handcuffs and secured them in such a way that Franco's hands and feet were together, in an extremely uncomfortable and painful position.

"This is so that you learn not to be brave," the first man murmured, as he took out a rag and pushed it violently into the young man's mouth, securing him with a cloth that he tied around his head. Not satisfied, he finished the work by placing strips of adhesive tape on his mouth, completely sealing Franco's ability to emit some sound.

Finally, one of the kidnappers laid him on his side, leaving him on the right side of his body, facing him. With a last gesture of humiliation and control, they applied pieces of tape over his eyes, plunging Franco into total darkness.

The truck continued on its way in silence, with the boy completely immobilized and terrified, not knowing what fate would be in store for him.

I'm lying in the back of the truck, the metal cold of the handcuffs burns my skin and prevents any attempt at movement. My heart beats hard, every heartbeat resounds in my ears. My body trembles involuntarily, shaken by nervousness and fear. The gag in my mouth gives me gagging, every attempt to breathe deeply is an effort that I can barely sustain.

The position I'm in is strange and painful. My hands and feet are handcuffed together, immobilized in a way that prevents me from any comfort. I feel constant pressure on my wrists and ankles, as if the handcuffs wanted to crush my bones. My feet are cold, exposed to the icy air that sneaks into the truck, increasing my discomfort.

Fear consumes me. I think about my parents, if I'll ever see them again. Darkness and silence only increase my sense of despair. The images of what could happen to me crowd into my mind, each one more terrifying than the previous one. I can't help it, tears begin to flow from my eyes, rolling down my cheeks and soaking the adhesive tape that covers my mouth. Sobs are inevitable, I can't contain them.

Suddenly, one of the kidnappers, visibly irritated by my tears, leans towards me and begins to shout:

"Shut up once and for all! You're going to be in that position for a long time, so you better get used to it! If you don't stop crying, I assure you that it will be much worse for you."

The threatening tone of his voice fills me with panic, but I can't stop crying. I try, with all my strength, to contain the sobs, even if it is to avoid more punishments. Impotence invades me, and every second feels like an eternity. I'm alone, scared and I don't know if I'll ever be able to get out of this nightmare.

ohhh!!!!

It's a fantastic, wonderful start!!!!!

alkaid_ wrote: 11 months ago ohhh!!!!

It's a fantastic, wonderful start!!!!!

Thanks bud !!

Love this. Great start.
Looking forward to the next chapter

Smythdean wrote: 11 months ago Love this. Great start.
Looking forward to the next chapter

Thanks, im working on 2nd part

Chapter II - New Life

I'm here, in the dark, immobilized, and every second that passes I feel more humiliated. The handcuffs squeeze my wrists and ankles, and the gag in my mouth is a constant torture. I can't see anything, I can't talk. My bare feet are cold, the metal of the handcuffs feels frozen against my skin.

I feel like a kind of inert being, as if I were no longer a person, but an object without life, without will. The cold and discomfort are unbearable, but even more unbearable is the feeling of humiliation. I am completely at the mercy of these men, and that makes me feel weak and embarrassed.

Time has become a confusing fog. I don't know how long it's been since I was kidnapped, but every minute feels like an eternity. My mind is trapped in a cycle of fear and despair, and every second that passes only aggravates my torment. The tachycardia is uncontrollable; I feel my heart beating hard against my chest, as if I were trying to escape.

I can't help but think that somehow this is my fault. Maybe if I had done something different, if I hadn't been so stubborn when I walked alone to my grandparents' house... Guilt consumes me. How could I allow this to happen to me? Why wasn't I more careful?

The fear for my future is a constant weight in my chest. I don't know what they're going to do with me, and every second that passes terrifies me more. Will I see my family again? Will I survive this?

Tears continue to fall, silent but relentless. I feel lost, hopeless. I want to scream, I want to fight, but I'm stuck in this position, not being able to do anything to change my destiny. Fear and despair surround me, and all I can do is wait, with my heart beating furiously, for something to change.

Every time I hear a movement in the truck, my fear intensifies. These men, their harsh and threatening voices, fill me with terror. I don't know what they're going to do to me, but I know it's not good at all. I'm scared, so much that I feel paralyzed. I'm at your mercy and that's what terrifies me the most. I am completely defenseless and I feel so small, so insignificant.

The white van slides down the highway, an anonymous snake between the constant flow of vehicles heading to their destinations. It's late, and the sky is dyed with the last orange tones of the sunset, giving way to the darkness of the night. The headlight lights and the illuminated advertisements create a colored kaleidoscope that illuminates the road, but for most drivers, it's just another day in the daily routine.

No one in the neighboring cars could imagine what was happening inside that white truck. Society follows its course, alien and indifferent to the shadows that move on the margins of its reality. Drivers think about their own concerns: traffic, work, family. But inside the van, a very different story unfolds.

In the back of the truck, Franco Blaquier is trapped in a living nightmare. Handcuffed, gagged, barefoot and blindfolded, his body shakes with every bump on the road. The young man is terrified, his heart beats wild and his mind is consumed in a storm of fear and despair. Every second is an endless torture.

The kidnappers have taken care of every detail to keep Franco in total submission. The handcuffs are stuck in his skin, the gag prevents him from making any sound, and his bare feet feel the cold of the metal of the truck. Blindfolded immerse him in an even deeper darkness, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his terror.

Meanwhile, the cars pass by them, their drivers completely oblivious to the tragedy that is unfolding a few meters from them. The highway, a vital artery of the city, becomes the scene of a double reality: the daily life of citizens and the dark and clandestine underworld of those who operate outside the law.

The white truck mixes with traffic, camouflaged by the normality of its appearance. Nobody suspects anything, no one realizes the truth hidden behind their closed doors. Turbidity and evil coexist silently with the rest of society, which moves forward, ignorant of the atrocities that occur in its proximity.

It is a disturbing image of the coexistence between innocence and evil, an illustration of how shadows can be hidden in full view, protected by the indifference and blindness of the world that surrounds them. Franco Blaquier is a victim of this duality, trapped in a moment that could change his life forever, while the world continues to turn, oblivious to his suffering.

The kidnappers finally arrive at the safe house, a building secluded and surrounded by the darkness of the night. The white van deviates from the main road and enters a dirt road, until it stops in front of the entrance of a uneven garage. The tires crackle on the gravel and the sound of the engine turns off slowly.

Franco, still handcuffed and gagged in the back, perceives the braking of the vehicle. His breathing is agitated and panic begins to take hold of him. He feels that his heart is about to explode and tears begin to flow from his eyes, moistening the adhesive tape that covers his face. Little by little, the adhesive begins to peel off from the side on which he is lying, allowing him to see a flash of red light that weakly illuminates the interior of the truck.

The truck shuts down and silence hangs over them, broken only by the sound of their choppy breathing and the drowned sobs that he can't contain. Suddenly, one of the men approaches him. Franco feels a weight on his body as he is lifted abruptly and placed face down against the metal floor of the truck.

The kidnapper places a large hand on his mouth, extinguishing any attempt to scream, and with the other hand he grabs him firmly by the hairs of the back of his neck. Franco feels the stabbing pain and pressure, and his fear intensifies even more.

The man leans towards him, bringing his lips closer to his ear, and whispers in a threatening way:

"We have arrived. Don't cry, because this is just beginning. Get ready to be very afraid.

The words, loaded with evil and contempt, penetrate Franco's mind, leaving him paralyzed by terror. He knows that his situation can only get worse, and hopelessness hangs over him like a dark shadow, while he is dragged out of the truck to an uncertain destination.

The guy who whispered in Franco's ear leans over him, loosening the third wife who joins his hands and feet. While he works, he notices how Franco desperately tries to cover the soles of his feet with his hands to avoid the cold that runs to the bones. Without mercy, the man abruptly pulls the boy's hands away from his feet and hits him with his open hand on the plants, producing a dry and painful sound.

"Are you cold, boy?" It seems that someone is going to be barefoot these days," the kidnapper growls, with a sinister smile.

Franco wriths in pain, and tears of despair flow from his eyes. The other man, who had remained silent, laughs in a dry and derogatory way, enjoying the young man's agony. Finally, the kidnapper who had threatened Franco removes the wife who joins his hands and feet. Without wasting time, they grab it firmly by the arms and feet, lifting it from the metal floor of the truck.

They move it from the garage to the interior of the house. Franco, still disoriented and frightened, perceives the change in temperature when crossing the threshold of the door that connects the garage with the house. The corridor is illuminated by a faint yellowish light, creating disturbing shadows on the worn walls. Around you, the air smells of moisture and confinement, adding an additional level of oppression to your situation.

They advance through the corridor, passing through three doors. The second door is open, and the guy who had been the driver of the truck is there, waiting for them. Its presence adds a layer of discomfort and threatens the already tense environment. Franco feels that every step they take brings him closer to a destination from which he does not know if he will be able to escape. The laughter and murmurs of his captors rumble in his head, while hopelessness continues to grow inside him.

The men who carried Franco take him to the room. The cold air hits his exposed skin and filters through his clothes, intensifying his tremor. The radio in a corner plays violent and loud music that rumbles on the walls, increasing the feeling of chaos and terror. Franco trembles uncontrollably, and his teeth collide with the fabric of the gag, causing him to gag and a feeling of suffocation.

They throw it hard on a metal bed with a yellow foam rubber mattress. The light in the room allows Franco to see how the tape over his eyes is peeling off. Without warning, one of the men rips the tape out of his eyes with a brusqueness that pulls out a scream of suffocated pain.

Stunned by the stimuli, Franco can barely process what he sees: a guy with a black balaclas stares at him, his cold and calculating look; and a green wall, almost unpainted, that gives the room an even more gloomy air. Before he can react, another piece of tape is placed over his eyes, leaving him back in the dark.

He feels a hand squeezing his mouth and a whispering but threatening voice tells him:

"Get used to it, because this is going to be your new house for a long time.

Those words resonate in Franco's head, filling him with deep despair. The kidnappers leave the room, closing the door behind them. Franco is left alone, lying on the bed, with the cold to the bone and a paralyzing fear taking over his being. The sound of his own drowned sobs is the only thing that breaks the sepulchral silence of the room, while his mind tries to assimilate the terrible reality he is living.

Luis Blaquier and Alicia Bernardeschi were Franco's grandparents, pillars of the family and known for their warmth and hospitality. Luis, a man with gray hair and an imposing figure, always dressed in a classic elegance, while Alicia, a petite woman with bright eyes and carefully combed hair, had a permanent smile that illuminated any room.

They were sitting in the pleasant living room of their home, a house that exuded history and tradition with antique furniture and family photographs adorning the walls. The afternoon sunlight entered through the large windows, creating a warm and cozy atmosphere while enjoying a light meal. The table was arranged with fine porcelain plates and a selection of appetizers that Alicia had carefully prepared.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Luis got up with a smile to open the door, meeting his son Jorge and his daughter-in-law Micaela. The greetings were effusive, with hugs and kisses. Jorge, a man with a strong but always friendly presence, and Micaela, elegant and sophisticated, always brought with them a positive energy.

"What a joy to see you!" exclaimed Alicia, as she guided the couple inside.

"We too, mom," Jorge replied, smiling.

They settled on the sofa, and Luis brought a bottle of wine that he had saved for special occasions. While serving the drinks and chatting animatedly, the conversation inevitably turned towards Franco.

"And Franco?" Micaela asked, looking at her in-laws.

Luis and Alicia looked at each other confused.

"We thought he was coming with you," Luis replied, frowning.

"Isn't he here?" Jorge asked, surprised.

Alicia shook her head, visibly worried.

"We found it strange that I didn't come with you. We didn't know he was coming after school.

The warm and welcoming atmosphere of the living room immediately cooled with the concern that began to arise between them. Jorge and Micaela exchanged glances of bewilderment and concern. Franco's absence, which initially seemed like a simple misunderstanding, now took on a more disturbing nature.

"We must find out where he is," Jorge said with determination, while Micaela took out her phone to try to communicate with her son.

Luis and Alicia watched with increasing anxiety, feeling that something was not right. The beautiful family evening they had planned began to be tinged with uncertainty and fear, while the concern for Franco increased with each passing minute.

Jorge and Micaela, feeling the growing concern, decided to remain calm so as not to alarm Luis and Alicia too much, aware of their health problems. After saying goodbye to Jorge's parents with forced hugs and smiles, they quickly went to the car.

On the way back home, the tension in the air was palpable. Micaela, with the phone in her hand, began calling all of Franco's friends and contacts, hoping to find some clue about his whereabouts.

"Hello, I'm Micaela, Franco's mother... have you seen it today?" he asked in a trembling voice as Jorge drove with a tight jaw, trying to maintain his composure.

The answers were always the same: "No, I haven't seen it," "No, I don't know where it is." Each unsuccessful call increased his anxiety. Jorge, trying to stay focused on the road, exchanged worried glances with Micaela every time she hung up a call.

"Nobody knows anything, Jorge..." said Micaela, with a broken voice.

"Calm down, Mica. "We're going to find him," Jorge replied, although his own voice betrayed the growing despair.

The scene changed abruptly. In a secluded and dark house, the kidnappers moved precisely and unhurriedly. One of them, with a serious and determined face, grabbed an old digital camera from a table, a wide-bladed knife and a weapon that rested on a shelf.

The man went towards the hallway with firm steps, each resonating in the silent house. He arrived at the door of the room where Franco was held captive. The scene was disturbingly calm, a gloomy contrast with the frantic concern of Jorge and Micaela.

He opened the door slowly, revealing Franco, handcuffed and gagged, lying on the bed. The white light in the room threw a cold glow on the young man, enhancing his fear and despair. Franco barely raised his head, his eyes, covered by the tape, could not see, but he felt the threatening presence.

The kidnapper, with a calculated coldness, watched Franco for a moment, without the need for words to convey the seriousness of the situation. He held the knife and the gun in his hands, a silent threat that hung over the boy.

In parallel, Jorge and Micaela arrived home, their concern turning into an almost palpable anguish when they realized that no one knew anything about their son. Despair began to settle in their hearts, while, far from them, Franco faced the horror of his captivity, alone and terrified.

The duality of the scenes - the parents desperately looking for their son and the kidnappers preparing their next sinister action - created an atmosphere of increasing tension and fear, foreshadowing the painful path they still had ahead of them.

The kidnapper stared at Franco for a moment before acting. With a force that seemed almost indifferent, he lifted the young man as if he were a doll and forced him to turn around, pressing his face against the mattress. The cold of the weapon was immediately felt in the back of his head, a silent and deadly reminder of the seriousness of the situation.

"Don't move, did you understand?" the kidnapper snarled, his voice firm and threatening.

Franco, with his heart beating at a thousand per hour, could barely nod. He felt the fear going through every fiber of his being, his tense and trembling muscles.

The kidnapper removed the handcuffs from his hands, which gave Franco a brief and fleeting moment of relief. However, before he could process what was happening, another man entered the room. Franco had not been able to perceive his presence before, and his arrival caused his terror to intensify even more.

Together, the two men turned Franco over again, this time handcuffing their hands to the bars of the bed. The position in which he was left him semi-lying, with both hands handcuffed together above his head. It was an uncomfortable and humiliating posture, designed to keep him completely immobile and vulnerable.

One of the kidnappers again put the gun on Franco's head, making sure he understood the seriousness of his situation. The sensation of the cold metal against his skin was unbearable, increasing his fear to almost unbearable levels.

The other kidnapper, without saying a word, took out a digital camera and began to take pictures of Franco. Every click of the camera resonated in the room, a dry and ominous sound that accompanied the scene.

"Look at the camera," ordered one of the kidnappers, although Franco could barely move his head due to the position he was in.

The white light of the room shone brightly, highlighting every detail of Franco's face, his eyes swollen and full of terror, his mouth gagged, and the handcuffs that kept him captive. Each flash of the camera was a reminder of his impotence and humiliation.

Franco felt completely defeated. His body trembled involuntarily, his bare feet were cold and numb, and his wrists hurt from the pressure of the handcuffs. The situation was so surreal and desperate that I could barely think clearly. He felt that he had lost all control over his life and that his destiny was now in the hands of these ruthless men.

The photos continued, each capturing a piece of their dignity that was falling apart. Franco, inside, prayed for a miracle, something that will get him out of this nightmare. But at that moment, all I could do was put up with it and wait, in the hope that, somehow, all this would come to an end.

The kidnapper, with the digital camera in hand, approached Franco, who was lying handcuffed and humiliated on the metal bed. The white light of the room illuminated every detail of his face, his hands and his bare feet. The feeling of terror and humiliation enveloped him while the shutter of the camera began to capture his misery.

The first flash illuminated Franco's face. The kidnapper had focused the camera to capture the expression of his face, with his eyes covered he didn't look like him but it was him. Through the gag, Franco could barely breathe, and his tears, reflecting the light, accentuated his despair. The image showed his cheeks bulging by the pressure of the gag, his skin reddened by friction and discomfort.

The next click of the camera pointed at his hands. The metal handcuffs shone under the intense light, surrounding their irritated and red wrists. The tension in his trembling hands was evident, his fingers clenched in a useless attempt to find relief. The image captured the essence of his restriction and the physical pain he endured.

The kidnapper changed his angle to take a full-length photo. Franco, half lying on the bed, his bare feet and cold, was an image of total vulnerability. His blue sweatpants and the school jacket contrasted with the rawness of the room, highlighting his youth and the tragedy of his situation. The metal bed seemed even more inhospitable in contrast to his everyday clothing.

The kidnapper, noticing Franco's discomfort with his bare feet, decided to focus on them. Another flash, and an image of his feet appeared on the camera screen. The skin bristling by the cold, the fingers tense and tight, the feeling of additional humiliation were reflected in the photograph. Franco felt that this image, in particular, revealed a part of his most intimate shame.

A side view was the next capture. From the side, the camera showed his shrunken profile, his tense muscles and his uncomfortable position. The white light highlighted each contour, underlining his impotence and the psychological pressure that overwhelmed him.

Finally, a view from above. The kidnapper bent over to capture Franco from a high angle. The perspective showed how small and helpless he looked in the large and metal bed. This image encapsulated his complete subordination, the harsh reality of his situation and the cruelty of his captors.

The kidnapper, with a sadistic smile, looked at the photos once again before saving the camera. He leaned towards Franco, whose sight was obscured by the tape, and whispered to him in a threatening voice: "These photos are just the beginning. You are going to stay here for a long time. You get used to it."

With those words resonating in his mind, Franco was left alone again, lying in bed, with his mind full of terror and despair, feeling more and more the weight of his captivity and the uncertainty of his future.

The kidnapper, after saving the camera, leaned towards Franco once again. With a voice full of resentment and contempt, he began to talk to him.

"You know, boy? Your family put you in this place. They, with all their money and their luxuries, thought they could live above everyone else. But today it's up to you, one of them, to live the rawness of the real world."

Franco, stunned and frightened, listened to every word while his heart beat hard. He felt the pressure of the handcuffs on his wrists and the cold that slipped through the gag.

"Accustomed to the cold," the kidnapper continued, "to be gagged and without seeing. This is your new home. And it's going to hurt."

The kidnapper got up, taking a couple of steps towards the door. But before leaving, he stopped, as if he had remembered something important. He turned around, returned to Franco's side and, with a sadistic grimace, took the boy's feet with one hand.

"Oh, and one more thing," he said in an icy voice.

He took Franco's feet to his face and, with a contemptious gesture, sniffed them. Franco felt a wave of shame and repulsion.

"You get used to being on your legs," said the kidnapper with a cruel smile.

With those last words resonating in the air, the kidnapper let go of Franco's feet and walked away, leaving the room. The door closed with a thunderous blow, leaving Franco alone, immersed in the darkness, cold and despair.

Franco was left alone, and the metal door closed with a thunderous echo that resonated in the room. On the radio they had left on, a violent song by Pig Destroyer was heard, whose strident chords and aggressive lyrics only increased the young man's terror.

Shittering with fear, Franco instinctively turned his head from one side to the other, hoping to see something, anything, in the darkness that surrounded him. But there was nothing. The blindfold in his eyes plunged him into a deep humiliation. He sought to settle in the bed, his hands handcuffed to an iron a little higher than his head, leaving them ten centimeters away, which made the position extremely uncomfortable.

The cold bit his bare feet, which he constantly rubbed in a useless attempt to warm them up. The gag caused him a dull pain, and the rag inside his mouth was soaked with his saliva, leaving his mouth dry and a constant sensation of gagging.

Increasingly desperate, Franco began to cry. The tears flowed uncontrollably, mixing with the saliva and further moistening the rag in his mouth. The music kept rumbling in the room, a cruel soundtrack for his torment.

Sobbing, Franco felt that the weight of the situation crushed him. Terror, shame and discomfort were combined in a whirlwind of emotions that left him exhausted. Finally, broken by fear and despair, he let out a cry drowned by the gag, knowing that no one would come to rescue him from this nightmare.

In the dark solitude of the room, with the shrill sounds of Pig Destroyer filling the air, Franco tried to process everything that had happened that day. His mind, a tangle of thoughts and emotions, could barely maintain coherence.

*How is it possible that this is happening to me? *, he wondered, trying to understand the brutality of his situation. He remembered the morning, his usual routine, and the security of his home. I had never imagined that that day, such a common morning, would become his worst nightmare.

I felt a deep humiliation. *How did I allow myself to be caught? *. The guilt consumed him. He thought about his parents, his grandfather Luis and his grandmother Alicia, and how they should be worried about him. He imagined the anguish on their faces, the despair of not knowing where he was. He felt responsible for his suffering.

But more than anything, his feet were a constant focus of his torment. Franco had always been aware of them, he had never liked to show them in public. There was something in his barefoot vulnerability that made him feel exposed. Now, his feet were a source of pain and shame. The cold bit with ferocity, and each touch with the icy surface of the ground reminded him of his impotence.

*Why did they take my eyes off? *, I thought with frustration. It was such a small act, but full of symbolism. They stripped him of his dignity, they reduced him to something less than human. The kidnappers had turned their feet into an instrument of torture, both physically and emotionally. He remembered the slap on the soles of his feet, the sharp pain and the cruel laughter that had followed him. *How cruel can these people be? *.

The discomfort of the handcuffs and the gag was constant. He felt every pulse of his heart on his wrists, every gag caused by the rag in his mouth. The cold of the room seemed to concentrate on his feet, radiating a frost that lays down to his bones. He tried to rub his feet together to generate some heat, but it was a useless effort.

*Am I going to die here? *, he wondered with growing desperation. The threat of the kidnappers resounded in his mind: *"This is going to be your new home for a long time"*. The prospect of spending more days, weeks, maybe months in that condition was unbearable.

Finally, emotional and physical exhaustion overcame him. The tears kept falling, his breathing was a choppy and desperate gasp. I felt a tightness in my chest, a mixture of fear, sadness and an overwhelming sense of loss. He closed his eyes behind the blindfold, trying to block reality, even if it was for a moment.

*I just want to go home*, he thought, his mind returning again and again to that simple and desperate desire. But deep down, I knew that the way home would not be easy, if any. Franco was trapped in a nightmare from which he didn't know how to wake up, and the uncertainty of his future weighed like a slab.

With those dark and desperate thoughts, Franco let himself be carried away by an involuntary exhaustion, hoping that the dream would give him, even if it was a brief respite of his daily torture.

A great start. Can't wait to see what's next for Franco.

derred6 wrote: 10 months ago A great start. Can't wait to see what's next for Franco.

Thanks, maybe this week we have some new chapter

Man, Franco is in some big trouble... those restraints are tight and strong I hope! Can't wait for the next chapter...

I am writing the third part, meanwhile playing with the AI ​​I wanted to leave you a small reimagination of the situation of young Blaquier

It definitely looks like the Movie Ransom.

sami200456boyfriend wrote: 9 months ago It definitely looks like the Movie Ransom.

Great inspiration

Chapter III - Captivity

The Blaquier's house was in a disturbing silence. Jorge and Micaela moved like shadows through the wide and luxurious corridors, their faces marked by worry and anguish. The walls, which usually vibrated with the echo of laughter and conversations, now seemed to absorb the little sound that remained, creating an oppressive atmosphere. The elegant decoration and classic-style furniture seemed to lose their shine under the heavy burden of uncertainty.

Micaela, frowning, walked from one side of the room to the other, her dark thoughts reflected in her lost gaze. Every time he passed near a window, he looked outside hoping to see Franco walking through the garden, although he knew it was a vain illusion. Jorge, sitting on the sofa, held the mobile phone with a trembling hand, dialling and emphasising numbers, listening to ringtones that were never answered.

The clock on the wall marked every second with relentless precision, increasing the feeling of despair. The late hour of the night made the atmosphere even more gloomy, with the elongated shadows and the dim lights projecting a game of disturbing chiaroscuro.

Suddenly, the sound of the landline telephone broke into silence, cutting the air with its shrill ring. Jorge and Micaela looked at each other, their hearts racing by the mixture of fear and hope. Jorge jumped up, his movements clumsy and nervous, and quickly headed towards the device. His hand hesitated for a moment before lifting the earphone, aware that that call could change everything.

The sound of the doorbell still resounded in the air when Jorge brought the phone to his ear, his breath held and his gaze fixed on Micaela, who had stopped short, with her eyes full of a mute plea.

The scene was cut off in an instant of unbearable tension, leaving the house wrapped in an aura of mystery and despair, while the Blaquiers waited for the revelation of what that call could mean to their family.

Jorge raised the earphone, his heart beating hard. The silence on the other side of the line lasted just a second, but it felt eternal.

"How much is your son's life worth to you?" The voice was cold, mechanical, full of a calculated malice.

Jorge felt as if the world was falling apart around him. Micaela, standing a few steps away, saw how the colour drained from her husband's face.

"Who's speaking?" What have they done to my son? -Jorge tried to keep his voice firm, but he couldn't hide the tremor in his words.

"We have Franco," the voice continued, impassive. And I suggest you don't try anything stupid. We know everything about you. His house is guarded. If we see any suspicious movement, some attempt to involve the police, we kill the boy.

Jorge leaned against the wall, feeling that his legs barely supported him. Micaela approached, her face reflecting the same mixture of horror and despair. Jorge looked at her, looking for strength in her eyes.

"Please, don't hurt him." We'll do whatever you ask, but don't hurt my son," Jorge begged, with a broken voice.

"That's up to you, Blaquier." Keep calm, go on with your life as if nothing had happened and wait for instructions. Soon they will know what to do. -The tone left no room for doubt; the kidnappers controlled the situation.

Before Jorge could answer, the line was abruptly cut. The phone fell out of his hand, hanging inert from the cable. Micaela hugged him, her tears beginning to flow as the weight of the words they had just heard settled on them. At that moment, terror completely took over the Blaquier's house, turning every corner into a reminder of the anguish they were living.

Jorge was shocked, the phone was still shaking in his hand. Micaela, next to him, had heard enough to understand the seriousness of the situation. Her husband's face, pale and out of place, said it all.

"What did they say, Jorge? What did they say?" Micaela insisted, her voice breaking.

Jorge couldn't answer right away. He felt an immense pressure in his chest, as if an unbearable weight crushed him. The kidnapper's words echoed in his mind: "how much is your son's life worth to you?"

Micaela began to sob, her crying becoming an unstoppable torrent. "We have to call the police, Jorge. We have to do something!"

But Jorge didn't react. He let himself fall on the sofa, his hands trembling and tears began to run down his cheeks. "We can't, Micaela. They said that if they see police moves, they will kill him. We can't risk it. We can't lose our son."

Micaela, desperate, knelt in front of him, holding his hands tightly. "Jorge, please, we have to do something. We can't sit idly by. He's our son!"

Finally, Jorge burst into tears, his body convulsing with each sob. Micaela hugged him, her tears mixing as they clung to each other in the midst of their despair. The world around them seemed to fall apart, and at that moment, they only had their shared pain and the hope that, somehow, they could save their son.

In the secluded house, the kidnappers allowed themselves a brief moment of relaxation after the call. The tension that had preceded the first contact slowly dissipated, and a feeling of satisfaction settled in the environment.

The man who had made the call leaned back in a chair, lighting a cigarette with a self-sufficient smile. "Did you see that guy's face? I was totally broke," he commented, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

The other two men shared complicit glances. One of them opened a bottle of cheap whiskey, serving generously in three glasses. "This has to be celebrated. It was the first step and it came out perfect," he said, raising his glass as a sign of toast.

The third man, who had been watching in silence, joined the toast with a crooked smile. "And the boy... well, he's just a means to an end. Let he get used to his new reality. This is just beginning."

The three men collided the glasses, the jingling echoing in the cold and poorly lit room. They drank in silence, each sip filling them with a mixture of relief and anticipation. The adrenaline of the moment kept them alert, but confidence in their plan gave them a false sense of invulnerability.

As they relaxed, the radio continued to emit its violent music in the room where Franco was captive. The kidnappers knew that they had given a certain blow to the heart of the Blaquiers, and that gave them a strange and disturbing satisfaction.

Franco failed to sleep more than a few minutes in a row during his first night in captivity. Every time he closed his eyes, exhaustion overcame him momentarily, leading him to dream of the warmth and security of his home. In his dreams, he was in his bed, with his favourite quilt and the soft murmur of his parents' conversations from the living room. But, without fail, those dreams dissolved abruptly, dragging him back to the cold and oppressive reality.

The cold on his feet was relentless. He had rubbed them against the foam rubber mattress incessantly, but that only provided a momentary relief. The tight gag caused him to gag, and the fabric in his mouth became increasingly wet and unpleasant with his saliva. The violent music emanating from the radio was a constant reminder of his situation, amplifying his fear and despair.

Franco tried to move his handcuffed hands, but the pain in his wrists stopped him. The shackles not only prevented him from moving freely, but also continually reminded him of his helplessness. The tape on his eyes became more and more annoying, but he couldn't do anything to take it off.

Every time he woke up, confusion and fear overwhelmed him. How long had I been there? Were they minutes or hours? Time seemed to have stopped in that icy and gloomy room. His heart beat hard in his chest, and every sound, no matter how small, made him jump.

The feeling of being completely alone and vulnerable enveloped him, drowning him in a mixture of terror and sadness. Tears ran down his face, moistening even more the tape that covered his eyes. He tried to remember the last time he saw his parents, their last conversation, but every thought only increased his despair.

The words of the kidnappers echoed in his mind: "This is going to be your new home for a long time." The prospect of spending nights, perhaps weeks or months, in those conditions was unbearable. He felt humiliated, reduced to a mere shadow of himself, unable to control his destiny.

Franco snuggled up as best he could, trying to find a minimum of comfort in the position that the handcuffs allowed him. The cold on his feet, the gag in his mouth, the deafening music, and the constant feeling of fear and hopelessness mixed in a storm of anguish. With each shortness of breath, he realised more deeply the seriousness of his situation, wondering if he would ever see his family again and recover his life.

Franco finally found a brief moment of peace in the dream, but was abruptly interrupted by a female voice that resounded threateningly through the darkness. The radio suddenly turned off, plunging the room into an even more oppressive silence.

"Way up, let's go," said the voice, full of coldness.

Franco felt a rough hand shaking him, forcing him out of his dream. The woman informed him, with a sharp tone, that she would remove the handcuffs from his hands that were tied to the bed, but only to handcuff him again in another way. He also told him that he would give him something for breakfast.

They turned him abruptly, making him gasp in pain when his wrists were handcuffed behind his back. Another of the kidnappers approached, grabbing him tightly by the chest of the sweatshirt and sitting him down suddenly. Franco shuddered when the woman began to remove the gag, freeing his mouth, although the soaked fabric continued to cause him to gag.

"Drink this," the woman ordered, bringing him a cup of hot tea.

Franco, exhausted and hungry, took a weak sip, feeling the heat of the liquid descend down his throat. His first words in hours came out like a broken whisper:

"Thank you."

The woman looked at him with disdain and got angry at his expression of gratitude.

"Don't talk," he said, in an icy voice. I'm going to change your gag.

Without giving him time to answer, he placed a huge red ball gag in his mouth. The ball was big and extremely uncomfortable, filling his mouth and pulling the corners of his lips in a painful way. The woman mocked him as he adjusted the strap behind his head, making sure it was tight.

"Look how you look now, a spoiled child in his new reality." "I'll get used to it, because this is just the beginning," he said, his voice impregnated with cruel satisfaction.

Franco tried to swallow, but the ball prevented any easy movement of his tongue and jaw. The discomfort was suffocating, and the woman's words echoed in his mind, increasing the feeling of hopelessness. Humiliated and terrified, Franco realised that he was completely at the mercy of his captors, with no idea how long his torment would last.

Before leaving, the male kidnapper leaned over Franco, looking at him with a malicious smile that the young man could not see.

"Oh, and if you need to go to the bathroom, listen carefully," he said, with a voice imbued with mockery. When you hear the sound of the door opening, move your toes.

Franco, still numb and disoriented, felt a wave of humiliation. The idea seemed strange and degrading to him, but he had no other choice. He looked in the direction of the voices, the fear in his eyes hidden by the adhesive tape.

"Do it now," the man ordered, his most threatening tone.

Fearful, Franco obeyed and slowly moved his toes. Both kidnappers burst into laughter, their laughter full of contempt.

"Look how obedient the rich boy is," the man sneered, while the woman laughed next to him.

The humiliation ran through Franco like an icy current. He felt more and more the weight of his situation, trapped in a nightmare from which he could not wake up. With each mockery and laugh, his hope vanished, leaving him immersed in a mixture of fear and shame.

The clock marked 10 in the morning at the Blaquier house. Jorge was in his office, sitting at his desk, looking at the phone anxiously. The silence in the house was heavy, only broken by Micaela's occasional sobs in the background. Suddenly, the phone rang, breaking the tension of the moment. Jorge grabbed him immediately.

"Hello?" he said, trying to keep his voice firm.

"Do you want to see your son and know how he is?" The kidnapper's voice was cold and sharp.

Jorge felt his heart stop for a second before starting to beat frantically.

"Yes, please, what do you want?" he asked, despair beginning to seep into his tone.

"Don't play detective. Don't involve the police, or we'll kill him - the voice was unshakeable. At 11 in the square of San Martín. You will find a can with information on the bench next to the large tree.

Jorge swallowed saliva, feeling the weight of the situation.

"How do I know it's okay?" I want to hear his voice.

"This is not a negotiation, Blaquier. Do what we tell you, or your son will pay the price - the line was abruptly cut.

Jorge stared at the phone, his hand trembling. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Micaela, her eyes red from crying so much.

"What did they say?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

—We must go to St. Martin's Square at 11. We will find a can with information," Jorge replied, feeling how despair overwhelmed him. We must not involve the police.

Micaela nodded, although her tears began to flow again. They embraced, seeking comfort in the middle of the storm that was destroying their world.

Jorge took the car keys with trembling hands. Micaela approached, wanting to accompany him, but he shook his head.

"No, Micaela, I'd better go alone." Stay here in case they call again," he said, his voice broken.

She nodded, although her eyes implored. Jorge gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and left the house, closing the door behind him. As he headed for the car, he felt a wave of excitement that he had been suppressing. He got into the car, started the engine and started driving towards the square of San Martín.

Halfway through, his emotions overwhelmed him and he began to cry. His tears clouded his vision as he unlocked his phone and saw the wallpaper photo: an image of him and Franco on a trip to Rome, both smiling carelessly in front of the Colosseum. The contrast with the current situation was devastating.

Upon arriving at the square, Jorge felt disoriented and anxious. He looked around, trying to find the bench next to the big tree, but everything seemed blurred through his tears. Suddenly, his phone rang again. He answered quickly.

"Where are you?" the kidnapper's voice was unmistakeable. Go to the bench next to the big tree. The can is under the seat.

Jorge hurriedly headed to the indicated place, his eyes frantically scanning. Finally, he saw the can, a small and metallic object, almost lost in the shadows. He picked her up with trembling hands and quickly returned to the car. Once inside, he took a moment to calm down, breathing deeply.

With the can in his hand, Jorge felt a mixture of relief and fear. He opened it carefully, hoping to find some clue that would bring him closer to his son.

Jorge, sitting in the car, opened the can with trembling hands. Inside, he found a series of photos. At first, he didn't understand what he was seeing, but as he examined each image, the reality became painfully clear. The photos showed his son Franco, terrified, handcuffed, gagged, with his eyes covered, and being threatened with a weapon.

Each photo was worse than the previous one. In one, Franco was lying on a bed, his hands tied to the headboard, his face showing a mixture of fear and despair. In another, a kidnapper pointed a gun at his head, while he, immobilised, could do nothing but accept his luck. In the next, Franco was on the ground, his feet bare and visible, something he knew made him very uncomfortable, and that now seemed to be an additional torture.

Jorge's heart was beating hard, beating against his chest as if he wanted to escape. His hands began to tremble even more, making it difficult to hold the photos. The last image, the most heartbreaking, showed Franco with tears running down his face, his expression a mixture of terror and humiliation.

With a choked sob, Jorge dropped the photos and his head collapsed on the steering wheel of the car. Hot tears fell on his hands as he cried, feeling helpless and devastated. The sobs echoed inside the car, an echo of despair and fear he felt for his son.

"Franco..." he whispered through tears. My God, my boy...

The images were still in his mind, each one more vivid than the last. He knew he couldn't stay there for long, but at that moment, pain and despair overwhelmed him, leaving him unable to move, to think, to do anything but cry for his kidnapped son.

The dim light that filtered from the corridor barely managed to illuminate the corners of the room where the kidnappers were. The radio, which had been broadcasting soft but disturbing music, was now just a whisper in the background, letting the low and whispering voices of the kidnappers fill the space.

The man, sitting in an old metal chair, played with a cigarette between his fingers, without lighting it. His gaze slid to the ground, where the mark of Franco's eyelets had been left, now abandoned. "Did you see how he trembled when we took out his eyelets? Those feet so cold, so exposed... I can almost feel the fear that filtered through them," he murmured, his voice loaded with a dark and satisfied tone.

The woman, lying against the wall with her arms crossed, let out a soft laugh, one that had a perverse tint. "Oh, of course I saw it. Those feet... so delicate, so nervous. They didn't stop moving, looking for some warmth that they weren't going to find. I wonder how long it will be before he understands that this cold is going to be his new reality." He licked his lips, as if enjoying every word.

The man sketched a crooked smile and looked up to meet hers. "Those feet are like a window to his soul, don't you think? So exposed, so easy to read. I love how he twists, how he tries to protect them, as if with that he could escape from what awaits him."

"And the best of all," the woman continued, her voice lowering a little more, "is that every time she looks at them, every time she tries to cover them with her hands, she will know that there is no escape. Those bare feet will be a constant reminder of what it is now... a simple prey, completely at our mercy."

The man let out a low, almost guttural laugh, and leaned forward, as if sharing a dark secret. "Did you realise how he reacted when I mentioned that he would be like this, on his feet, for days? I could see the panic on his face, the fear of understanding that this is just the first of many cold and long nights."

The woman nodded, a spark of cruelty in her eyes. "Yes, and what I like the most is that he hasn't even begun to understand what it really means. Those bare feet... will be the last thing you think about before sleeping and the first thing you think about when you wake up. And we... we are going to enjoy every moment of his despair."

Both were silent for a moment, delighting in the idea of what they had created, a situation where Franco's vulnerability and suffering would be prolonged, fuelled by the simplest details, such as his bare and icy feet. Finally, the woman separated from the wall and walked towards the door. "It's just the beginning... but it seems to me that we are going to have a lot to enjoy."

The man nodded, putting out the cigarette without lighting, satisfied with the conversation and what was to come.

The male kidnapper, still with a crooked smile on his face, looked sideways at the woman who was heading towards the door. He got up from the chair and approached her, stopping her with one hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, have you ever wondered how far we could go with those feet?" He asked, his voice low but full of intention. "I mean, do you have any idea to make every second I spend with them hell?"

The woman turned slowly, with an arched eyebrow and a thoughtful expression on her face. "Mmm... there are so many things we could do. You know, the skin of the feet is so sensitive, so exposed..." he began, almost savouring the possibilities. "We could start with something simple, like making him walk barefoot on something cold... or maybe on something that causes him more discomfort."

The man nodded, his smile widening as his thoughts aligned with hers. "We could look for something more... creative. How about forcing him to walk on pebbles or crushed glass? Not enough to cut it, but to make every step feel like an agony."

The woman smiled, her eyes shining with a calculated cruelty. "Or maybe we could tie his feet and leave them hanging over icy water. How long do you think he could endure before begging us to get him out of there?"

The man let out a dry laugh. “It could be interesting. We could also use hot wax, slowly dripping it on your plants. That burning sensation and then the cooling... I would keep him screaming for hours."

The woman got a little closer, her tone acquiring a morbid excitement. "What if we simply leave them immobilised and... apply small electric shocks to them? Not enough to cause him serious damage, but so that every jolt leaves him breathless."

The man rubbed his chin, clearly enjoying the conversation. "Or we could play with his mind. Threaten with something as simple as trampling them... or playing with them as if they were a toy. Force him to kiss dirty floors or maybe, make us do it to ourselves, as a kind of... total humiliation."

The woman let out a soft laugh, but full of malice. "Yes... that would be perfect. We could make his feet his worst enemy, that every time he looks at them, every time he feels them, he remembers that he is here for us. That what was once part of his freedom, is now the centre of his torture.”

The man nodded slowly, satisfied with the direction they were taking. "I like it. Let's let him rest... for now. But tomorrow, we could start playing a little. You know, just so you know that this is just the beginning."

The woman nodded in agreement, and they both went to the door, leaving behind the echo of her words and the promise of more suffering for Franco.

The female kidnapper, with a last look at the room where Franco was captive, turned to the man. "I'll leave it to you," he said, his tone making it clear that he expected him to keep the boy under control in his absence. His eyes narrowed, evaluating him, before turning to the door.

The man sketched a crooked smile, clearly enjoying the power he had just been granted. "Don't worry, he'll be well taken care of," he replied, his words loaded with a double intention.

Before the woman left the room, the man seemed to remember something. "Hey," he called her, stopping her in his tracks. "What do you think if we change the boy's clothes? We don't want him to go around in school uniform, do we? Besides, it would be better to get rid of those clothes."

The woman nodded slowly, considering the idea. 'Yes, you're right. It's better that there's no trace of where it comes from. In addition, being in those clothes reminds him of who he was before we brought him here. We must break any link he has with his previous life."

The man let out a short laugh, as if enjoying the idea of humiliating the young man even more. "So why don't you buy him something... appropriate? Something that makes him understand that his previous life is over."

The female kidnapper looked at him for a moment, before sketching a cold smile. 'I'll take care of that. Something simple, maybe something that reminds you that you are now at our mercy."

"Perfect," said the man, nodding with satisfaction. "We get rid of his old clothes and give him something that marks the beginning of his new reality."

The woman said no more, she simply left the room, leaving the man alone with Franco, who remained motionless in his state of vulnerability. When the door closed behind her, the man let out a satisfied sigh. I had a job to do, and I planned to enjoy every second.

When the door closed behind the woman, the man was left alone in the corridor for a moment, savouring the silence before lighting another cigarette. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the mixture of nicotine and power that enveloped him. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, she cast a last look at the door through which the woman had left, and then, with a sly smile, she went to the room where Franco was being held.

The atmosphere inside the room was gloomy, the only lighting came from the white light that hung from the ceiling, casting hard shadows on the worn walls. The deafening noise of the radio, a cacophony of metallic and distorted sounds, filled the space, enveloping Franco in an oppressive atmosphere.

Franco, lying on his back on the bed, could not see anything, his eyes were still covered. He felt the stabbing pain of the gag in his mouth and the handcuffs holding his wrists, forced into an uncomfortable position. His breathing was erratic, the cold he felt in his bare feet only increased his despair. Suddenly, when he heard the door open, his body instinctively tensed. The sound of footsteps approaching made him shudder, his muscles gripped by fear.

The man approached the radio first, lowering the volume with a sharp turn of the knob. The room fell into an almost absolute silence, except for Franco's agitated breathing and the occasional electric buzz that still emanated from the device. The man approached the bed, his dark gaze fixed on Franco's trembling figure. He leaned over him, exhaling a puff of smoke directly on the boy's face.

"Are you comfortable?" Said the man with a mocking tone, clearly enjoying the young man's despair. Franco didn't answer; even if he could, he didn't know what to say, every word seemed useless to him at that moment.

The man let out a dry laugh, with no trace of humour in it. "Of course you're not," he continued, his voice taking a more threatening tone. Without warning, he grabbed him by the collar of the sweatshirt and shook him violently, as if trying to get a reaction from the boy.

"Come on, what's up? Do you like being like this, so defenceless?" He pushed his head to the side, making Franco turn his face against the mattress. Then, with a sudden movement, he lifted the mattress from the bed, causing Franco's body to tilt painfully to the side.

The young man tried to contain the sob that he was struggling to get out, but he couldn't stop a tear from sliding down his cheek. The man realised and, laughing under his breath, took a lock of Franco's hair, pulling it hard. "You're pathetic, you know? You should be grateful that you are still alive."

As the pain and humiliation accumulated, Franco felt as if his soul was being torn apart. The man enjoyed every second, feeding on the palpable terror of the boy. He gave him a final push, causing Franco to collapse completely on the bed, his body shaking uncontrollably.

With a contemptuous gesture, the man crushed the lit cigarette on the bedside table, leaving a blackened mark. "This is just the beginning, boy," he whispered in his ear before leaving the room, leaving the radio at a barely audible volume, enough to keep Franco in a constant state of anxiety.

Before retreating, the man stopped and looked at Franco's bare feet. A perverse smile was drawn on his face as he leaned towards them. Franco felt the change in the air, and his body tensed even more, although he no longer thought it was possible to be more scared.

The man approached the boy's feet and, with an intentional slowness, began to lick them. Franco shuddered, trying to retreat, but the wives kept him trapped. His breathing became erratic, and a choked moan escaped his throat.

The man, noticing the panic in Franco, stopped and laughed softly, with a latent cruelty. "Did you get scared, little one?" He murmured, bringing his face closer to the boy's feet. "You're going to wish you hadn't been born when I'm done with you. A lot of suffering awaits you on these feet. But don't worry, surely your daddy paid a lot for you to have these feet so... perfect."

The man let out a cold and derogatory laugh, savouring Franco's terror. He gave one last lick to the sole of the boy's foot, as if savouring the power he had over him, and then straightened up.

"Get ready," he whispered, his icy tone piercing Franco's mind like a sharp blade. “This is just the beginning.”

The man got up and left the room, leaving Franco trembling, immersed in a terror and humiliation that seemed to have no end.

The man finally walked away, closing the door behind him with a sharp bang that resounded in the cold room. Franco was left alone, with the muffled sound of the radio as the only witness of his anguish. A silent sob began to form in his chest, and soon, tears began to run down his face. He felt completely broken, invaded by a shame so deep that he couldn't stand it.

The horror of what had just happened consumed him. He felt disgust, repulsion, and a humiliation that crushed him. How could he have fallen into the hands of someone so disturbed? The man had done something so grotesque, something that Franco could never have imagined, and that terrified him more than anything he had experienced so far.

Why did he have that sick fixation on his feet? I couldn't understand it, I couldn't make sense of it. Physical discomfort mixed with emotional terror, intensifying their vulnerability. Franco twisted on the bed, feeling the oppression of the handcuffs on his wrists, the cold on his bare feet, and the humidity of his tears that kept falling uncontrollably.

Fear invaded him completely. What else would they do to him? What was that weird guy planning to do to him? The idea that someone could have such power over him, over his body, overwhelmed him. And worst of all, he was alone in that place, with no one who could save him, not knowing if he would ever get out of that nightmare.

Franco closed his eyes tightly, trying to block reality, but the sobs kept coming out of his throat, drowning any attempt to stand firm. I didn't know how much longer I could resist.

The kidnapper left the room, closing the door behind him with a wooden whisper that seemed to drown his breath between the cold walls. He walked calmly towards a corner of the corridor, where the light barely reached, and stopped. There, on the ground, was Franco's eyelet, the one that had been mercilessly thrown in the first moments of the kidnapping.

He bent down slowly, almost with reverence, and lifted her up. He looked at the shoe for a few seconds, as if it were an invaluable object. The worn edges, the marked footprint of Franco's foot on the sole, all that seemed fascinating to him, as if he were holding something more than a simple object.

He brought the eyelet closer to her face, closed his eyes, and sniffed it deeply. A chill ran down his spine as he did it. It was as if he was inhaling Franco's fear, vulnerability, and youth. A dark satisfaction took hold of him. For the kidnapper, this was not just an act of perversion, but an affirmation of absolute power over the life of another human being.

His thoughts were a whirlwind of contradictory emotions. Part of him delighted in the control he had over Franco, in how each action, no matter how small it was, could break the boy a little more. But there was another part, darker and repressed, that found in these acts a macabre pleasure, a twisted sense of domination that fed it.

"This boy... doesn't know what awaits him," he thought as a sly smile was drawn on his lips. The aroma reminded him of Franco's innocence, that purity that he delighted in corrupting. The kidnapper felt intoxicated by the mixture of power and evil that invaded him. He knew that every second he spent in that house, every gesture, every word, belonged to him. Franco was no longer a human being in his mind, but a toy for his most twisted fantasies.

He put the eyelet away again, not without first giving it one last deep inhalation, a last reminder of his domain. In doing so, he felt a sense of anticipation. There were many ways to break someone, and he was just starting out.

Hello everyone ! The story is updated, I leave you another small reimagination of Franco with AI. Regarding the story, if anyone has suggestions or criticisms, I am very willing to listen! I hope you enjoy it.

Another great Chapter. You've got the movie pat down.

sami200456boyfriend wrote: 9 months ago Another great Chapter. You've got the movie pat down.

Thanks bud !

squirrel wrote: 10 months ago Man, Franco is in some big trouble... those restraints are tight and strong I hope! Can't wait for the next chapter...

Next chapter is here now , In the next he surely will have some big troubles in his bare soles !

We definitely need a nother part! This story is fantastic.

Barfußboy wrote: 3 months ago We definitely need a nother part! This story is fantastic.

Thanks bud !, im starting to work in the next part but i need some ideas

This was intense! I do hope Franco gets rescued though.

Redman wrote: 3 months ago This was intense! I do hope Franco gets rescued though.

Thanks bud !, im looking inspiration for the next chapter