Bound and Out in Westport

By Patricia Payne

I knew there was something wrong from the moment I woke up. The clock read 4:29 AM and yet, I was awake. On the pad of hand-made paper I always keep by the bed, I made a note to call Greenwich and have them adjust their clocks.

I took a quick shower and put on a simple white silk shantung skirt and a white linen work shirt, sliding my favorite pair of strappy Charles David sandals, noting that despite my 51st birthday last month, my figure remains leggy and girlish. I ran my fingers through my shortish blonde hair and put on just a touch of moisturizing sun screen and lip balm.

A fresh pot of my favorite 6 bean blend coffee was waiting for me in the kitchen and I delighted in using a wonderful Limoge coffee cup I got at a yard sale last week. I grabbed one of the baskets from the lovely hickory and birch basket tree that stands proudly near my back door, and headed out to the hen house to collect the morning's egg harvest.

The eggs were as beautiful as always. Tippy in particular, had laid a lovely speckled one, with rich brown and ecru overlays. "I will use this one in my luncheon soufflZ," I smiled and thought to myself, when all of a sudden, I heard the hen house door shut behind me. As I turned to face my assailant at the doorway, I heard footsteps behind me, and all of a sudden, the smell of cheap, imported chloroform filled my nose and I slipped into unconsciousness, sadly dropping both Tippy's egg and the Limoge cup.

When I came to, I was seated in on a Shaker-style chair, in a darkened, modern room. My ankles were securely tied to the feet of the chair with plain cotton clothes line that snaked three times around each them and in turn was secured to one of the support rungs. My arms were crossed behind my back and tied together horizontally above the elbows, while my wrists were also thrice wrapped, although they had a vertical tie. A seemingly shorter piece of rope connected the two elements together, and despite its severity, made me only slightly uncomfortable, although it did cause my chest to jut out more than I usually prefer.

My two abductor's stood in front of me. Both in their late thirties, they made an oddly striking couple. The first was a tall woman, about 5'10, with dark hair that was pulled back off her face in a severe bun. She wore a form-fitting lycra cat suit that had a wide silver zipper that ran the length of her body from her pelvis to her collarbone and she completed her ensemble with a smart pair of thigh high boots of very nice Italian leather with a spiked 5" heel.

Her companion also wore form fitting basic black. Tight Armani X jeans and a long sleeved Egyptian cotton shirt. The silver toes of his cowboy boots shined in the dim light of the room.

"Martha, I am so glad to have you with us. I took the liberty of taking some of your coffee beans so I could brew you a cup of your favorite blend. Sorry about the cup, by the way," the woman said.

"Who are you? What do you want?," I demanded. "I have appointments all day. People are expecting me. Why my TV producer has probably called my house a dozen times already. My absence will be noticed in no time."

"We have already contacted your producer for you, Martha. In fact, you should be the lead story on the 7:00 news," and with a flick of her wrist, the remote turned the TV on where the familiar opening strands of the theme song began.

My dear friend Mika Brzezinski, looking pale and distracted, sat behind the anchor chair and solemnly looked into the camera.

"We have just learned that Martha Stewart has been kidnapped from her Connecticut home and is being held captive at an unknown location. Her captors, who are also unknown at this time, have not released any demands, but have notified both the media and authorities they will be issuing a statement at 8:00 AM EST. We will bring you a live update in an hour. In other news, OJ Simpson..." and the TV snapped off.

I was speechless for a moment. There was clearly an amethyst missing from the antique broach I had given her last summer on Arbor Day that she wore during the broadcast.

"So what is it that you want," I asked them again. "I am sure that the networks or my publisher or Kmart will be willing to meet any demands that you have."

"We are not interested in your money, Martha," the woman said, walking toward me as her heels clicked on the polished hardwood floor. She forced her left foot between my legs and toe of her boot was just an inch away from my labia. I tried to pull away, but as I moved, I felt the knots on my wrists and hands tighten and made me arch my back more.

Her companion walked over toward me as well and dropped to his knees at my feet, giving them a noticeably lingering sniff before he forced my knees apart and tied them that way with more clothesline.

I was wearing just a pair of white silk thong panties and I felt very exposed, very scared, yet inexplicably aroused.

"We are to be married this evening. More than anything else, we wanted you to cater our wedding, but when we tried to book your services two years ago, your assistant said that you were completely booked for the next 25 months. So we hired Paula Dean, whose hospitalization earlier this week for heart problems associated with elevated cholesterol has ruined all of our plans. All you need to do is cook for 250 of our guests and we will release you totally unharmed, plus we will pay your usual catering fee. You will make history as the first hostage who gets, instead of pays, money. And you will undoubtedly make the covers of both 'Time' and 'Newsweek' again."

The toe of one of her boots pushed insistently between my thighs and I felt its coldness rub against my labia, making me shiver in a way that was not entirely from the cold. I looked up at her and saw her nipples pressing against her thin, lycra skin and found the view disconcertingly distracting.

"What you're asking for is impossible," I said, shaking my head. "My schedule is completely booked for today. I'm afraid it is out of the question."

The toe of her boot pressed against me more harshly and I let out a little moan of pain, before she slowly took it away and stepped lightly away from me, giving a slight nod to her companion.

He moved toward me with feline stealth, and in one fluid motion, ripped my blouse apart, the soft ping of the mother of pearl buttons falling to the floor reaching my ears. I pulled back against the chair, but my struggles only served to make the knots around my wrists and arms tighter and I could feel them begin to ache.

"You have always told us that with a good imagination, a limitless budget and the right glue gun, nothing is impossible, Martha. This will be your opportunity to prove it."

"I am telling you, it can't be done. I have no idea what you planned for the menu and I would have to make major modifications to it for it to meet my standards anyway. There is no time to marinade anything, and certainly not enough time to make my traditional wedding cochenbouche."

He reached into his pockets and put a common clothespin on one of my nipples.

"Martha, this is not the 'can do' attitude I expect from you. I plan on making my bride the happiest woman in the world this evening, and I am prepared to do anything," he fingered my other nipple before putting the other clothespin on it, "anything, to make her happy."

I closed my eyes against the pleasure/pain that spread across my breasts and tried to relax against my bonds.

"Then there is the question of the staff, and of the setting, the place settings, color scheme, the wines and liquors," I said, somewhat surprised to hear how soft and breathy my voice sounded.

I glanced over to the Seth Thomas clock on the mantle that was poised to ring the hour. She noticed my gaze and turned the TV back on. Talking to her fiancee she said, "It looks like our guest has an interest in the morning news," she said, laughing softly and turning the TV on again.

Mika looked a little less peaked than she had in the earlier portion of the broadcast and I noted that the makeup artist seemed to have been taking my suggestions to play up her coloring with the use of more orches and corals in her lipstick and rogue.

"ABC's professional domestic dominatrix Martha Stewart was kidnapped a few hours ago from her Westport, CT home. ABC has received a ransom note from her abductors, whose whereabouts and identities remain unknown. In an unusual twist, they are not asking for money, but simply that Martha cater their wedding, slated for this evening. Connecticut and Federal authorities are joining forces to locate the corporate mogul. We will, of course, update you as the situation warrants."

The TV snapped off and she turned to me again.

"Another 15 minutes of fame, my dear Martha. Most people don't get this much attention from their obituaries."

"We will be having roast duck with raspberry sauce, baby asparagus with Hollandaise, and baby new potatoes with a light herb crusting," she continued. "All the ingredients have been purchased and there is a staff of 20 waiting on the property for you to direct them in the preparations."

I began to laugh. "To have the proper crispy skin on the duck, we would have had to have started working on it last night. Raspberries and asparagus are both out of season and everyone knows that Hollandaise is far too rich for most people's diets."

"Martha, you should know that it is impolite to argue with a bride on her wedding day," her fiancee said, placing a gloved hand over my mouth. "You will listen carefully to everything that she tells you, and you will do your best to make sure that her every wish is fulfilled. Understand?"

"I am now going to help you focus on the task at hand by freeing you to concentrate solely on my beloved," and he drew another long length of rope out from his duffel bag. He looped and attached in it the middle along one of the back rungs of the chair and than ran it over my shoulders, crossing it just below my collarbone and then running it between my breasts, circling my ribcage twice, before finishing the tie back on the rung where it began.

He strode over to his finance, and dipped her back, in one practiced, fluid motion, while his left hand deftly pulled down her zipper, exposed her already firm nipple which he gently licked with his tongue before standing her up and kissing her full on the lips.

"Martha is just rapt with attention now, darling. Please go on," he said.

"OK, Martha, now please pay attention. I know you won't need to take notes, what with your patented "Martha's Mnemonics System.' The guests arrive at 6:00PM sharp. The staff will be circulating with glasses of Chalk Hill Sauvignon Blanc and Pellegrino. All glassware will be cleared away before the ceremony starts at 6:30...."

By the way her lips were moving I could tell she was still talking, but I could not get my eyes off her beautiful breasts and the surprisingly delightful pressure of the rope on my upper 12 chi points of pleasure.

"Guests arrive at 6:00 PM, and they will be served Rutherford Hill Chardonnay and Perrier. The wedding starts at 6:30 sharp. Got it," I said.

Her fiancee reached over and pulled off one of the clothespins on my nipples. As the blood flooded back into my nipple, I experienced an almost dizzying sensation of pain/pleasure.

A few of her words were reaching me. "Orchids...capers...herbs de provence...phyllo dough."

I shook my head.

"I would advise simple rosemary instead of herbs de provence and it is too humid, the phyllo dough will never separate. We will have to use puff pastry instead."

"Martha, that is not what my love wants," he said. "She wants something more like this," he said and pulled zucchini out of his bag, sliding it easily between my legs. I moaned softly. "And like this," he said and he places a Macintosh apple between my lips, instructing me to bite down around it."

"Isn't that true, my dear," he said as he began to fondle her again, his hand dipping down between the zipper and the soft creases of her legs. As I watched them, I could not help but begin to rock my pelvis against the zucchini.

I stopped as I saw the two of them staring at me. How long had they been watching?

He pulled her close to him and whispered in her ear. She shook her head in disagreement as be began, but visibly calmed down as he continued in soft, gentle tones. I tried to keep my hips from rocking, but I couldn't stop.

Their conversation ended and she stepped behind me, and I once again, smelled that cheap, imported chloroform before I nodded off.

I was found at the doorway of my magazine at 3 PM, that afternoon, still tied in my chair, the zucchini still between my legs. Pinned to my blouse was a neatly handwritten note in blue-black ink:

"We find more value in an extra value meal than in this woman who could not even distinguish between a zucchini and a cucumber."

Needless to say, it made all the papers and broadcasts.