By the fifth day, Roxas had begun to wilt, strained muscles crumpling, limbs sagging in their bonds. He'd been dragged in kicking and screaming, mouth gagged and eyes covered, but now he hung limp, wrists tied and suspended above him, ankles bound in such a way that he couldn't move at all save for wriggling his body against the ground like a blind worm. He thought the worst would be the nakedness, clothes cut away from his body after he was strung up, trying his best to resist as he was restrained and he felt the fabric of his shirt give. The nakedness was nothing compared to the humiliating assisted pissing and shitting, a receptacle or something held under him, a finger tapping the head of his dick until he figured out he was supposed to let go of his screaming bladder. Shitting in a bucket and being wiped clean, given enemas that left his stomach churning.
He wasn't given food or water the first day, gag stuck securely in his mouth. The second day, as soon as the gag was removed, he started screaming for help, for someone, for anyone. One soft touch dropping down his left cheek, then the gag was replaced. He was so thirsty on the third day that he whispered one word, "please," before sobbing. The water left him, if possible, even more parched, a hand petting the back of his head while he sucked through a straw at the cool liquid. He figured something was wrong then, on the third day, when he felt lips at his neck, curving down across his shoulder blades. He was fed chicken nuggets, dollops of ketchup on one end. He was sponged down with soapy water, left to drip dry. He never heard anything, not street sounds or television or crickets at nights. Nothing.
On the seventh day, a week after Roxas was shoved to the ground while walking home from soccer practice, he woke up and he could see, the blindfold removed from his eyes. He was in a painfully ordinary bedroom, an abstract, modern edge to the furniture. A full length, spotless mirror hung on the wall in front of him reflecting the large bed with flowing, white sheets behind him. He looked scared, but remarkably... luminescent, almost. His skin was glowing, hair swept up in soft spikes, a close approximation of how he would do it if he were at home. A door opened somewhere behind him, out of the scope of the mirror's reflection, and Roxas froze, not daring to turn his head. It had been a week. He'd been counting. Was this the part where he got dismembered? The part where his chest was cut open?
The first thing he noticed was the hair. Then the tattoos, then the crying. His kidnapper, an older boy who couldn't have been more than twenty-four or twenty-five, knelt down in front of Roxas and raised a shaking hand to Roxas' face. "Sorry."
"Please," Roxas whispered, staring into strange, bright eyes. "Let me go, please. I won't tell anyone."
"Sorry," the redhead said again, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss against Roxas' mouth. Stunned, Roxas let the kiss sink into him, a flicker of tongue at his mouth. Just what the fuck was going on, exactly?
That night Roxas watched as the redhead lubed up a vibrator, turned it on, then bent Roxas forward, inching it in his ass. It was left there the entire night, still thrumming weakly in the morning, its batteries drained to almost nothing. He'd come a handful of times, horrified at first at his body's reaction, but ultimately giving up. The redhead, asleep on the bed behind him after watching for hours and hours as Roxas came on the floor, wouldn't turn the vibrator off. What was the point in struggling, in fighting down his erections? There wasn't a point.
Roxas lost count of the days, the batteries in the vibrator replaced every night, every night the same lubricated slide as he came and came and came until dawn. He'd sleep all day, curled up on a pillow the redhead left for him on the floor next to vitamins, water, and uncomplicated food he could eat without his hands. After what must have been a month or two, he started to get hard as soon as the redhead walked into the room at the end of the day. The first time this happened, Roxas' dick twitching between his legs as the redhead slicked the vibrator with lube, he smiled at Roxas, pressed a kiss to his mouth. "Good boy," he said, winking. "My name's Axel."
Axel, Roxas learned, was probably obsessed with him. Axel would watch him for long hours, sometimes a full day of just staring at Roxas with his hand pressed to his mouth as if deciding what to do. When Axel stayed "home" for two days in a row, Roxas figured that was the weekend, and if he listened hard enough during the weekdays, though the room was obviously soundproofed, he could hear the slamming of a car door before Axel came in, eyes hungry as if he'd been starving for just a glimpse of the bound blond he kept stashed in his bedroom.
He was nice, though. Kind, almost, if you didn't count the part where he was kept tied up nearly all the time. Axel would undo his restraints for a little, let him walk around the room, lay on the bed. Axel insisted on continuing to bathe Roxas, though he was allowed to move to the bathtub for it instead of dripping all over the hardwood floor. Axel was gentle, would kiss him on the mouth when he was good, would wake up in the morning and sponge Roxas' come off his stomach and the floor. After awhile, Roxas stopped questioning why Axel was doing this at all. Roxas stopped questioning period.
"Mm, hi," Roxas smiled as Axel came in. The days all blurred together. He'd had two or three haircuts, had gotten a cold. Axel had stopped with the vibrator, but started in on a series of buttplugs increasing in thickness. Roxas thought they all felt good, even better when he positioned the flat end on the floor and fucked himself with it in the middle of the night, eyes on the reflection of Axel while he slept.
"Hi," Axel smiled, stripping off his shirt and coming over to smooth his hands over Roxas' body. Tapping the end of the buttplug inside Roxas - Axel left them in when he went away (to work?) sometimes - Axel licked the shell of Roxas' ear, dropping kisses all over his naked skin. "Let's try something new today."
Axel's fingers inside him were better than he could have imagined, and coming in Axel's mouth was even better. Axel unbound his feet and let him sleep in the bed after that. With time, his hands were unbound. Then he was allowed clothes. Then he was allowed free roam of the house, two-storied and sharply modern at the end of a cul-de-sac. He'd been in the middle of suburbia this entire time, and he hadn't even realized.
Roxas learned to cook, cleaned a little, ran on the treadmill, played in the backyard. He had sex with Axel every night. There were no books in the house. No television, no radio. Once Axel forgot to lock the door after he left for work. Roxas merely slid the deadbolt home and went to try on all of Axel's clothes.
