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Description
It is dark.

You've always found something comforting about the wee hours of the morning - the stillness, the quiet, the brisk chill in the air. The usual bustle of traffic is reduced to a muted trickle, and with all but the most vital of business establishments closed and darkened, you can make out the faint glitter of stars scattered across the night sky.

You wait patiently in your stolen vehicle, a moderately-damaged 1998 Nissan Maxima, parked on the curb just outside a family-run laundromat. The car is turned off, to save gas. You've been waiting patiently for a while now. As you scan the streets for movement, you lament not bringing a snack or something.

At around 4:45, you notice a car approaching from behind. It's a small white sedan, but you can make out little else past the glare of the headlights. The vehicle passes you and parks on the curb a few car lengths in front of you, idling for a moment before cutting the lights.

The door opens.

You hold your breath.

Dex looks exactly like you remember him - petite in build, long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, round face set with giant, terrified eyes. His clothes are a casual but appropriate jeans and a t-shirt. He looks scared. Fragile. Breakable.

All traces of hunger and weariness leave your body as you watch him step out of the car. You lose yourself a little bit, imagining his horrified reaction when he finally sees you. But you must be patient. This game of cat and mouse cannot be rushed, and you know it.

After glancing nervously around, Dex finally walks into the alleyway next to the laundromat, per the instructions you sent him. You were also very clear in your instructions that Dex arrive alone, but it never hurts to check. Just in case.

You step out of your car and into the chilly morning air. Dex is out of sight by now, but you are not worried about losing him. He's not the type to run off without finding what he's looking for. And he still thinks his friend is being held captive somewhere around here, bless his heart.

Retrieving a small LED flashlight from your belt, you stroll up alongside Dex's parked car and shine a light into the interior. No cops, no worried family members, and no muscular sidekicks to be found, just some scattered receipts and Taco Bell burrito wrappers.

Satisfied that you will not be followed, you turn off your flashlight and approach the alleyway. Two stone steps lead down into the ravine between the laundromat and the neighboring building, built low to allow access to the crawlspaces and plumbing beneath them. The walls are closer than you are comfortable with, only a few inches wider than the breadth of your shoulders, and you are careful not to scrape the sleeves of your jacket against the brickwork as you walk.

About two meters in, you see him. He is standing at the entrance to the laundromat's basement, a concrete staircase with a rusted iron railing leading downward into the darkness. The entrance is set into the side of the building, the stairs leading away from the street, so that Dex's back is exposed to you as he peers down them.

Is he thinking of hiding? Perhaps he believes his friend might be trapped down there? Either way, it is too late for him. Your approach quickens.

You close the remaining distance in a few steps. Your target flinches at the sound of your footsteps, but he is not able to turn around in time before your arm wraps around his neck in a chokehold. A brief gasp escapes his throat just before you cut off his windpipe.

Chokeholds can be dangerous if done incorrectly, but you've done this so many times that it comes as naturally as tying your shoes. You hold Dex in place as he thrashes desperately for air, one arm firm against his throat, the other pinning his arms to his sides. Soon, his silent struggles are reduced to weak, jerky movements, until he finally falls limp in your arms.

You waste no time dragging him out of the alley and towards your vehicle, opening the hatch and carrying your charge inside. Thick blackout curtains are stapled over the windows in the trunk and rear passenger cab, and while they are great at keeping out prying eyes, they also make the interior of your vehicle much darker than you would like. You feel around the roof until your fingers find the small LED lamp set into it, and you switch it on.

Now, in the dim, sickly yellow glow of the lamp, you can finally get a good look at him.

His face is strangely peaceful, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, as if he were sleeping soundly in his own bed. A few stray locks of hair came loose from his ponytail, and you gently brush them away from his face. His eyebrows furrow at your touch, head turning away slightly.

Adorable.

You reach over the partition between the trunk and the passenger seat, feeling around for your box of supplies - rope, duct tape, handcuffs, et cetera. Dex won't be out for long, and you need to make sure he stays put during the long road trip ahead.

Removing a length of rope, you roll Dex over onto his stomach and cross his wrists behind his back, binding them securely together. Then, you sit him upright and wrap the remaining tail of the rope around his waist a few times, cinching it down so his wrists remain fixed to the small of his back.

With quick, practiced movements, you continue looping coils of rope around his arms and chest, fashioning a sort of restrictive harness. Dex's loose-fitting shirt hugs closer to his body with every cord pulled taut, his lean frame shifting tantalizingly with each knot you tighten. It drives you wild. You are struck with a sudden urge to flip him over and fuck his brains out, right then and there, but the rational part of you knows that is completely out of the question. For now.

You finish up by binding his ankles together and threading the remaining rope through the bonds on his wrists, loosely connecting them. The hogtie is very forgiving, only short enough to prevent Dex from straightening out his legs. You lay him back down on his side, cradling his face once more. He stirs, ever so slightly, squeezing his eyes shut and mumbling something unintelligible.

He could wake up any minute now.

You press a strip of tape over his lips, then another, and another, until his entire face from nose to chin is a smooth silver sheet. Then you hop into the driver's seat and start the engine.

Description
It is dark.

You've always found something comforting about the wee hours of the morning - the stillness, the quiet, the brisk chill in the air. The usual bustle of traffic is reduced to a muted trickle, and with all but the most vital of business establishments closed and darkened, you can make out the faint glitter of stars scattered across the night sky.

You wait patiently in your stolen vehicle, a moderately-damaged 1998 Nissan Maxima, parked on the curb just outside a family-run laundromat. The car is turned off, to save gas. You've been waiting patiently for a while now. As you scan the streets for movement, you lament not bringing a snack or something.

At around 4:45, you notice a car approaching from behind. It's a small white sedan, but you can make out little else past the glare of the headlights. The vehicle passes you and parks on the curb a few car lengths in front of you, idling for a moment before cutting the lights.

The door opens.

You hold your breath.

Dex looks exactly like you remember him - petite in build, long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, round face set with giant, terrified eyes. His clothes are a casual but appropriate jeans and a t-shirt. He looks scared. Fragile. Breakable.

All traces of hunger and weariness leave your body as you watch him step out of the car. You lose yourself a little bit, imagining his horrified reaction when he finally sees you. But you must be patient. This game of cat and mouse cannot be rushed, and you know it.

After glancing nervously around, Dex finally walks into the alleyway next to the laundromat, per the instructions you sent him. You were also very clear in your instructions that Dex arrive alone, but it never hurts to check. Just in case.

You step out of your car and into the chilly morning air. Dex is out of sight by now, but you are not worried about losing him. He's not the type to run off without finding what he's looking for. And he still thinks his friend is being held captive somewhere around here, bless his heart.

Retrieving a small LED flashlight from your belt, you stroll up alongside Dex's parked car and shine a light into the interior. No cops, no worried family members, and no muscular sidekicks to be found, just some scattered receipts and Taco Bell burrito wrappers.

Satisfied that you will not be followed, you turn off your flashlight and approach the alleyway. Two stone steps lead down into the ravine between the laundromat and the neighboring building, built low to allow access to the crawlspaces and plumbing beneath them. The walls are closer than you are comfortable with, only a few inches wider than the breadth of your shoulders, and you are careful not to scrape the sleeves of your jacket against the brickwork as you walk.

About two meters in, you see him. He is standing at the entrance to the laundromat's basement, a concrete staircase with a rusted iron railing leading downward into the darkness. The entrance is set into the side of the building, the stairs leading away from the street, so that Dex's back is exposed to you as he peers down them.

Is he thinking of hiding? Perhaps he believes his friend might be trapped down there? Either way, it is too late for him. Your approach quickens.

You close the remaining distance in a few steps. Your target flinches at the sound of your footsteps, but he is not able to turn around in time before your arm wraps around his neck in a chokehold. A brief gasp escapes his throat just before you cut off his windpipe.

Chokeholds can be dangerous if done incorrectly, but you've done this so many times that it comes as naturally as tying your shoes. You hold Dex in place as he thrashes desperately for air, one arm firm against his throat, the other pinning his arms to his sides. Soon, his silent struggles are reduced to weak, jerky movements, until he finally falls limp in your arms.

You waste no time dragging him out of the alley and towards your vehicle, opening the hatch and carrying your charge inside. Thick blackout curtains are stapled over the windows in the trunk and rear passenger cab, and while they are great at keeping out prying eyes, they also make the interior of your vehicle much darker than you would like. You feel around the roof until your fingers find the small LED lamp set into it, and you switch it on.

Now, in the dim, sickly yellow glow of the lamp, you can finally get a good look at him.

His face is strangely peaceful, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, as if he were sleeping soundly in his own bed. A few stray locks of hair came loose from his ponytail, and you gently brush them away from his face. His eyebrows furrow at your touch, head turning away slightly.

Adorable.

You reach over the partition between the trunk and the passenger seat, feeling around for your box of supplies - rope, duct tape, handcuffs, et cetera. Dex won't be out for long, and you need to make sure he stays put during the long road trip ahead.

Removing a length of rope, you roll Dex over onto his stomach and cross his wrists behind his back, binding them securely together. Then, you sit him upright and wrap the remaining tail of the rope around his waist a few times, cinching it down so his wrists remain fixed to the small of his back.

With quick, practiced movements, you continue looping coils of rope around his arms and chest, fashioning a sort of restrictive harness. Dex's loose-fitting shirt hugs closer to his body with every cord pulled taut, his lean frame shifting tantalizingly with each knot you tighten. It drives you wild. You are struck with a sudden urge to flip him over and fuck his brains out, right then and there, but the rational part of you knows that is completely out of the question. For now.

You finish up by binding his ankles together and threading the remaining rope through the bonds on his wrists, loosely connecting them. The hogtie is very forgiving, only short enough to prevent Dex from straightening out his legs. You lay him back down on his side, cradling his face once more. He stirs, ever so slightly, squeezing his eyes shut and mumbling something unintelligible.

He could wake up any minute now.

You press a strip of tape over his lips, then another, and another, until his entire face from nose to chin is a smooth silver sheet. Then you hop into the driver's seat and start the engine.