Chapter Description: Images for this story can be found at the following web...... https://sites.google.com/view/comedy-ars-characters/home
“Aaaaggggghhh,” I sort of gargled. “My mouth is too dry. I’m gagging. I just need a sip of bottled water … aaaggghhh … cough … I’l do everything you want … aagghh … I’ll lick your pussy … aagghh … cough … but Sally, please get me a sip of bottled water.”
This was my last hope of escape. If it didn’t work, I was afraid that my kidnapping would have quite a brutal and unhappy ending.
“Don’t go away,” the girl advised me.
Sally didn’t ask why it had to be a ‘bottle’ of water, but she left the room quickly and walked nude past her mother … then went to her refrigerator in the kitchen. (It didn’t have to be chilled for my purposes.)
She returned with a half liter plastic bottle of pure water. That was perfect.
“Aagghh … cough … Thanks Sally. Could you open it and put the spout in my mouth please?”
The girl followed my request perfectly. When she put the open spout up to my lips, I reached out and grabbed the spiral grooves with my teeth and bit down as hard as I could. Then I violently shook the bottle back and forth, making sure to get a good amount of of water all over my face.
“Christ, Derrek!” the girl yelled, yanking the bottle away. “What the hell are you doing.”
(I was waiting for contractions.)
“Sorry, Sally,” I replied. “I didn’t know the water was going to be so cold.”
“I’m done wasting time with you, Derrek. It’s time to ride your pony.”
Sally got back up ‘in the saddle’, straddling my waist while aiming her pussy for a good contact point with the tip of my cock. In the astronaut business, they call this ‘rondezvous and docking’.
Now I began feeling the contractions. Every bone and every organ in my body started shrinking. I could feel the thousands of tiny internal little ‘pops’ like bubble wrap … and I yanked my hands toward me, hoping to slip through the cuffs … but no luck. I was eleven years old.
In frustration, Sally reached underneath and grabbed the shaft of my penis. She manually forced it past her labias and into her vagina. She lied. She wasn’t moist at all, so it was still a tight fit.
Sally wasted no time beginning my ‘rape’ … bouncing up and down in what she referred to as ‘riding the pony’. I couldn’t help being stimulated. I couldn’t prevent it. I began breathing harder.
It was such a bad time to be flooded with pleasurable sensations in my groin. “Stop it! Stop it!” I begged, knowing full well it was a feeble request. I yanked the cuffs again … I pulled on them harder till it hurt. But they were still stuck. I was probably ten years old now.
The girl picked up the pace and encouraged me with glee. “You’re about to erupt, Derrek! Cum boy! Cum!” (Isn’t that something you would say to a dog?)
Sally could look at my face and see what my body was experiencing … the inevitability of my approaching climax.
It was now too late. When a male reaches the point of no return, the final buildup … where semen has no place else to go, and ejaculation will occur … and nothing can stop it.
I couldn’t even stop my verbal ‘belch’. “NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!”
I involuntarily thrusted upward and felt my organ explode with about seven or eight eruptions. However, at the same time, both of my hands simultaneously slipped through the handcuffs, being too large to contain the hands of a nine-year-old.
Sally was smiling smugly, confident that she had achieved her goal. She had my seed … or so it seemed. The girl wasn’t aware at the moment …that a nine-year-old Derrek could produce no semen. She had lost the opportunity to become the mother of my children. Bad for her, but good for me. I didn’t want to have to pay child support. And I had no interest in ‘spreading my seed’, at least not with this skank.
So now that my hands were free, it was time to get back to some reasonable common sense negotiations …… Not.
I had to act fast before Sally could notice that my body had changed. Sammantha had taught me some moves using the close-quarters martial art of Wing Chun … a branch of self defense that stresses disabling your opponent (as opposed to sportsmanship).
There are three main targets in Wing Chun … the groin (if male), the eyes, and the throat. For Sally I chose her eyes, so she would be less able to get a view of the incredible shrinking boy.
Doing sit-up reps in football practice proved quite helpful here. I needed my stomach muscles to get me up close enough to poke Sally in both eyes with the first two fingers of my right hand. (I had observed Dr. Howard do this to Dr. Fine once at Buffalo Mercy Hospital. It looked like it hurt.)
Anyway, I really wasn’t sure whether or not I had injured her eyes. But as she screamed out in pain, I pushed both of our bodies down to the mattress sideways so that she was no longer sitting on me with all her weight.
My penis, noticeably smaller now, easily slipped out of her vagina. I think the astronauts call it ‘trans-lunar separation’ … or something like that. It enabled me to hop off the bed, wearing only a too-big shirt and lunge toward the bedroom door.
“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!!!” she screamed into the air, while swinging wildly with her fists. “You killed my eyes!! They hurt like hell!!”
I was sorry I had to do that, but my options were limited. In the next second, I grabbed her cellphone off the bookcase (for evidence) and raced to the living room … where my path of escape was blocked by Mrs. Sukkemsilli.
A nine-year-old boy is considerably smaller than a grown woman, but there was no way I was going to allow myself to be re-kidnapped by this luney-toons pair of females.
The woman grabbed my left arm and yelled, “What did you do to Sally?!!”
I’m sure it would have been very pleasant to stay and chat … but no, let’s not do that. I reared back with my right fist and punched her hard in her right boob. I felt bad about doing that too … because it reminded me of the time at Mercy Hospital when I was scolded by Dr. Howard. (You hit a dame in the bazongas?! Why, I ought to merdalize you!”)
I burst out of their front door and started running down Wood Avenue. There were ten blocks separating me from my destination, Fourth Street. My biggest worry was showing up at our apartment as a one-and-a-half-year-old baby in a tent shirt.
I wouldn’t even be able to reach the elevator buttons … or worse, someone would scoop me up and take me to the police. Or worse yet, Sally and her mother would catch up to me in her car.
I set my mind to becoming now, the greatest eight-year-old marathon runner in the history of the world. The soles of my feet hurt terribly every time I stepped on a pebble on the sidewalk.
Switch gears. I was now Abebe Bikila, the legendary Ethiopian marathon runner who won Olympic gold in Rome in 1960 and again in Tokyo in 1964 all while running bare foot. I was just a seven year old kid, but I grit my teeth … and I was determined to ignore the searing pain.
When I reached Sixth Street, I figured I was about six years old … and my expanding shirt was now down to my knees, but I still held on tightly to Sally’s phone, and never considered stopping to call Sammantha. Such a delay could cost me.
From past experience, I was better now at guessing my age, both from the feel of my body and the sounds of my voice. I started speaking out loud to test it. “Hello … Hello.”
Shit, all I could hear were squeaky high pitched tones. I was a kindergardener again … five years old passing by Fifth Street. I wished the contractions would stop already. I had no idea how much water I splashed on my face.
As I rounded the corner and headed home to our apartment on Fourth Street, a few adults started noticing the odd little tyke running barefoot in a giant shirt.
One lady in our parking lot asked, “Are you lost, little boy? Where’s your mommy?”
As confidently as I could, I replied in my toddler’s squeaky voice, “Oh, Mommy’s on the fifth floor. She knows I’m coming back in.”
The woman tilted her head and looked down at me. “Well, maybe I’ll help you get back. A little boy who’s what, maybe four years old … Are you four years old, little boy?”
I squeaked back an answer in my toy voice, “Yes, nice lady.” (It’s important to be polite when in a precarious situation.)
She stooped down and asked. “What’s your name, little boy?”
“I’m Derrek … What’s your name, nice lady?”
“Joanna … Derrek, do you know which building you live in?”
“Oh, yes. This one right here.”
I pointed at building one and started running toward the front door, seriously scared that I might turn into a baby before I reached Sammantha.
“Okay, little guy,” she called. “Wait for me.”
She escorted me to the elevator and asked, “Do you know which floor you live on?”
I held up a full hand and squeaked out, “Five! Five! Five!”
The woman pressed ‘5’ and followed up with, “So little Derrek, do you know your apartment number?”
I squeaked back, “I’ll show you, Joanna… You’ll see.”
“Is that your mommy’s cell phone you’re holding?”
“Yeah, it’s an extra one that she let’s me borrow sometimes.” (These days, it’s not so unusual for four-year-olds to use cell phones.)
When the doors parted, I sprinted down the hallway ahead of Joanna and I kicked and pounded on our door, yelling, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”
Joanna arrived at the same moment that Sammantha opened the door. I had to rely on Sammantha’s role-playing skills and quick thinking.
I jumped into her arms (next to a face with bulging eyes) and excitedly told her, “Mommy! Sally and I were playing in her baby pool with water and it was a lot of fun! Sally’s mom said we played nice.”
Then I pointed at my escort. “And this nice lady is Joanna. She helped me press the elevator button and walked me back.
Without batting an eye, my ‘mom’ extended a friendly shake of the hand and said, “Well thank you so much, Joanna. That was very kind of you.”
Joanna commented, “I wouldn’t try to criticize your parenting skills, but don’t you think it’s a little dangerous allowing a four-year-old to run barefoot and alone in a busy parking lot?
Sammantha smiled. “I totally agree, Joanna, and this little ‘Run-amok’ has occasionally tried to sneak out when my back was turned. I’m planning to ask the maintenance department to install a double-sided deadbolt lock to put an end to his nonsense. But I do appreciate your concern. I am not a bad mother.”
The other woman nodded. “He must be a smart little dude if he can use a cellphone. Well, I’m glad little Derrek is back safely.”
“Enjoy your day,” Sammantha added.
When the front door was shut, I wiggled out Sammantha’s grasp and ran to my bedroom where everything now looked huge. But I had to check the mirror on my door. I took a deep breath and exclaimed in my squeaky voice, “Thank god it stopped at age four.”
Sammantha lifted my chin. “Sweety, your neck is bleeding! What happened to you?”
I lowered my head and sighed. “Well, Mommy … I was kidnapped and raped by Sally … Other than that, I had a really great day.”