Roger Taylor snapped awake in an instant. It was one of those rare moments when the body, aware of an unseen danger, seems to rise to the height of alertness in a fraction of a second.

In that fraction of a second, Roger knew there was someone else in the room before he had even opened his eyes and found himself blinded by the beam of a torch. Time seemed to become slower, and he caught a harsh intake of breath and the smell of cigarettes on clothing. But however slowly time seemed to pass, Roger found himself unable to react against this unknown enemy until a rough hand pressing down a strip of tape over his mouth had stung him into a response. By that time, this unknown intruder – for Roger knew at once that his assailant was a male – was on top of him, pinning his helpless body under the bedclothes.

Roger reacted without thinking at this point, feeling the pressure of the intruder’s knees on the blankets and his arms. He tried to buck him off with his lower body and legs, but the bedclothes held him back, making his efforts feeble and ineffective. 

As the blonde drummer did this, he began to feel the effect of a duct tape over his mouth, for he could neither scream nor gasp for air. Struggling to move his arms, legs or torso, Roger could only put up little resistance other than to make wild ‘hmmming’ noises through his nose, all the while shaking his head and struggling as best he could under the bedclothes.

Roger was terrified, to say the least. He was not able to rationalise who this assailant was and why it was happening to him. Burglary, rape and murder were words that flashed through his brain, and each spurred Roger to a greater frenzy of thrashing about and trying to heave the weight off his body, but to no avail.  Breathing only through his nose had starved him of the air he needed to fight off this intruder. The stranger said nothing, but Roger could hear his own heavy breathing as the masked man fought to subdue him. The torch kept flashing in his eyes – this man was obviously wearing it on a headband – until a hand gripped Roger’s hair and another piece of tape was slapped over his eyes.

This blindness panicked the now wide awake drummer even further, and he must have paused to try to gather his wits at that point. The momentary respite was all the attacker needed, for a second later Roger’s head was on the receiving end of more duct tape, this time wound around and around, over eyes, over mouth, then vertically around his chin and head. It was no clinical job, encompassing hair, ears and all, but it was tight and very scary and at once Roger knew he was in real trouble, for he was not going to get the tape off in a hurry. 

In a sudden jerk movement, his head was released. Roger was making pitiful moans now, realising the sudden deterioration in his circumstances and the fact that he was not going to fight off this man, blindfolded and gagged as securely as he was. Roger was now pleading, he realised – if the pitiful whimpering escaping through his nose could be classed as such.

There was a further pause at that point.  Roger could hear the man above him panting and that his own blood was pounding in his ears. They both halted their struggles, trying to regroup and gain some form of composure. Roger’s attacker had still not said anything, which scared him as much as anything.  He could smell his attacker’s breath  - stale cigarettes, which made Roger recoil in disgust.

Then he eased himself off of Roger, and once again the now little defenseless man went wild, bucking and flailing under the blanket, trying to get his hands free so that he could go on the attack, but again his assailant was too quick for him. In a mess of sheet and nightshirt Roger was rolled over and he was again on top. This time his taped head was buried in the pillow, making him forget all else in an effort to continue breathing.

The next steps, Roger now realise, were entirely predictable; and looking back he knew now that the battle had already been lost. He had no hope from this point, and the dragging down of the bedclothes and the handcuffing of his wrists behind him were but a formality. Roger knew there was nothing he could do, and that there was no choice but to submit to whatever this person had in store for him. Further fighting was only going to get himself hurt. Unconsciously he knew he had no choice but to bide his time and look for an opportunity, a moment in which to escape or flee.

The blankets were then pulled off fully, and Roger felt the cool night air on the backs of his legs. The man rolled Roger over again, onto his manacled wrists, ignoring the whine of pain he made, then swung his bare legs over the edge of the bed such that he was sitting up, his head wrapped in tape in what was now Roger’s own private world. 

He stood the drummer up, smoothing down the nightshirt he wore. His hands ran roughly over Roger’s body, fondling his balls through the soft material of his pyjama pants and toying with his nipples. 

Roger was aghast when his cock hardened up, feeling his body betrayed him in a way he did not expect. Roger had experienced bondage before, of course, and he made no bones about it being a turn on, but those circumstances had been different – a controlled environment where rules existed and a ‘safeword’ could bring things to an end.  That had all been many months ago in London, before Roger had cut his ties and moved to Manchester. Nobody here knew Roger’s ‘safeword’. A desperate, hopeful humming of  ‘happy birthday’ through his nose only got him a slap on the face.  It did not really hurt, through all the tape, but it shocked Roger into silence. 

He stood there, feeling the panic reaction starting to set in. Roger was shaking like a leaf, his wrists making little rattling noises in the handcuffs. Suddenly the room appeared to have become very cold. The roving hands had stopped and he did not know where he was or what was happening. Roger turned his head, trying to locate the sound of movement, but all was silent save the continued pounding of blood in his ears and his own ragged breathing. Roger could still smell the stale cigarettes. 

‘He is near me, I know it,’ thought Roger through his impending panic attack.

“Urghh?” he ventured. A slap on the face.  Roger’s ears rang. The attacker was standing in front of him.

“Shut up, you little slut!” A deep voice with an distinct English accent hissed in his ear. Roger jumped, so sudden and unexpected were the words. The voice was like someone he knew, but couldn’t put his fingers upon, destroying the remote possibility that someone from a distant relationship had somehow tracked Roger here to play some sort of cruel joke. Roger would never mistake this voice again, he knew at that point, so much was it now etched into his brain with those few words.

Pressure came with fingers grasping Roger’s nipples through his shirt, pulling him downwards. Blindly he obeyed, sinking to his knees with trepidation. Strong hands grasped Roger’s shoulders and laid his face down on the carpet. The same hands quickly pulled his pants down and bound his thin ankles tightly with some sort of cord and rolled him onto his back. Roger felt the cold touch of the steel-bed leg against his thigh before his ankles were abruptly hoisted into the air and the ankle rope was tied to the top of the bed frame at one corner.  The bed frame itself is wrought iron, with waist-high frames at the head and foot. Roger now found himself bent at the waist, with the lower part of his body ***** as his t-shirt slipped back to his waist.

Roger’s sexual vulnerability really came home to him at that point. His face burned under the tape, in part no doubt with the blood rushing to his head, but in part also due to his awareness of being exposed in front of his assailant, who now slid his hand down Roger’s thighs to the triangle of soft hair. Roger squirmed and whimpered. Was he going to rape him there and then? Did he have a knife? 

Then came the soft tread of footsteps on the carpet and the bedroom door opening and closing, and Roger knew he was alone.

He laid there for perhaps about ten minutes, unable to stop trembling. Roger had never been so terrified in his life, not even the moment when he got into a car accident back in the 60s with his friends. The thought of what might lie ahead gave him no comfort, the unknown nature of it playing havoc with Roger’s imagination. His feet were starting to go numb under the painful tension induced by the weight of his legs hanging from the rope tied to the bed frame. Roger tried to ease himself into a less stressed position, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. He wondered how long the assilant was going to leave him like this. He screamed in his mind, ‘How could I attract someone? Where is the phone?  How will I ever reach it. And for Christ’s sake, I am going to the States tomorrow!’

It was odd how something as totally illogical as missing a flight popped into his head. Here he was in a potentially life-threatening situation and he was worried about upsetting his travel plans. Roger squirmed onto his stomach, his cock crushed against the floor, then tried to arch his back sufficiently to get his hands up towards the ankle ropes, but they came nowhere near it. Turning on to his back again, panic adding a desperate impetus to Roger’s contortions as he tried to pull his body weight upwards, resting on his shoulders and bending his knees in an effort to get his hands close to the knots. The room was now hot, what with Roger’s exertions, and he could feel the sweat trickling through the maze of tape around his head with his inverted position.

Then he was back. Roger was pushed down roughly and his ankles caught with a jerk. He cried loudly into the tape, but it came out as a muted nasal whine. Then his ankles were undone and he was hauled to his feet. Standing in his dark world, Roger felt more duct tape go around the material of his chest above his right elbow, before it was drawn hard against the left one, after which more turns of tape locked the elbows hard against each other. Right after that, the handcuffs came off and Roger’s poor wrists were taped palm to palm – tape which then enveloped his hands and fingers right to their tips. God he had never had his arms bound so immovably before.

This man was obviously the duct tape king, for he slapped more tape around Roger’s body and fully around his chest, welding his arms immovable to his torso, followed by further bands tethering his wrists against his buttocks.

Without a word, Roger was pushed onto his knees again, and then laid face-down.  His legs were bent at the knee and more of that dreadful tape was wound around the length of each thigh, wrapping his lower leg, ankle and foot hard against it.  After five minutes, the-usually-mouthy Roger was virtually unable to move, save to open and close his bent, bound legs, which he decided was not a good idea.

There was a faint squeaking sound, like that of a rusty trolley wheel. Roger was lifted bodily and placed face down on to some sort of board. One end of it came to just under his chin, while the other end appeared to end just beyond his bent knees. It was barely as wide as his body, and predictably enough more tape came out, enveloping his body and crushing it to the board. Roger finally lost it at this point as his immobility hit home to him, and he began to scream again. 

Of course it wasn’t exactly going to wake up the neighbourhood. His jaw was bound tightly closed and his mouth was sealed very effectively. All Roger could do was make as much noise through his nose as he could, kind of like a loud discordant humming. 

“Urrrnnh! Urrrnhh! Urrngh!”

It was really not a bright idea, and that was what he told Roger, right after he had smoothed a piece of tape over his nostrils.

Roger went berserk at that point, shaking his head and trying to throw his body about, but the former was the only part he could get to move. Roger strained his nostrils to breathe in, or to blow the tape off, but it was futile, and he knew he was suffocating. He was barely aware that he was making faint peeping noises that even the tape couldn’t cover, but that was the least of his problems. Roger’s lungs were on fire and he was sure he was going to die. So this was what it was like, he thought desperately. God, what a way to go, to die trussed up in a bedroom at the hands of a madman…

Then came a glimmer of hope, the merest whisper of air dragged greedily into his lungs as the sharp point of a knife pierced the tape over each nostril.

“You can do it the hard way,” the voice hissed, “or the easy way. It’s your choice, Rog. What’s it going to be?” The knife gave a small twist and Roger felt the coldness of steel against his nose, as more glorious air rushed into his lungs.  He was snorting and gasping so much the implication of the fact that the man knew who Roger was almost passed him. 

“Are we going to behave?” said the voice again. Desperate and exhausted, Roger nodded. “I’m quite prepared to seal one or both, again.  You really don’t want that, do you, Roger?” Miserably, he shook his head.

Whether it was that movement that brought on the next act, or whether it was all part of the master plan, Roger didn’t know, but he then felt some sort of frame, like one of those handles on a small pull-along suitcase, positioned at either side of his head, with a bar alongside each temple. The inevitable tape secured his last movable body part and he realised moments later that the comparison with a pull-along suitcase was indeed apt, for he discovered that there were wheels at the bottom of the board as he was tilted at an angle and towed behind his captor. Oh no, he thought, realising that the stairs outside his bedroom lay ahead.

Roger was petrified as he became nearly horizontal and descended the stairs with a series of thumps that shook him to the core. He could do nothing but endure it, of course, and he became conscious of the fact that they were now at the closed-in area under the house where his car was parked. There came the familiar grating of the latticework door and then a faint breeze rippled across the few bits of him not covered in tape. Roger suspected another vehicle would be parked in the drive, and he was not wrong. For a car enthusiast, he instantly noticed what sounded like a van door opening, and he was hauled up a ramp into the interior. Several ropes were fastened across his body until Roger and the trolley were immovably secured inside the van. The captor placed another piece of tape over one nostril and he momentarily panicked again. But then the door closed and they were on our way…where?

The trip seemed to take forever, like back when Roger had taken a trip to London. There obviously wasn’t much traffic at this time, which he presumed to be in the wee hours of the morning. Roger tried to focus his mind on opportunities to escape, like the possibility of being pulled over for a random road inspection, but even had that happened, he could not make enough movement or sound to attract any attention, of that Roger was sure. Breathing only through one nostril forced him to relax and take measured breaths as calmly as he could. He did not feel calm at all. He was shit scared as to what was going to happen to him. The physical limits of his situation were also starting to make themselves felt, with cramps starting to manifest in his shoulders, arms and legs. Each bump transmitted itself through the floor of the van into his body. He was sure he felt the successive thumps of the expansion joints of a bridge – or was it a usual expressway? Where was this man taking him?

At last they were there. The engine stopped and in his dark, rigid prison Roger felt his stomach begin to churn again. The doors of the van opened, his trolley was untethered and he was wheeled down the ramp like a piece of luggage. There were several bumps up steps, then the sound of a door opening, then closing after they had entered the room it served. He was pulled some distance into the room then lowered to the floor, where the tape binding him to the trolley was cut and the one over his nostril removed. Roger heaved a sigh of relief, but his position was no less strained. He was picked up at this point and deposited on his side on a hard bed.  He involuntarily bent into a foetal position, just to ease his aching limbs, but this really made little difference, so tautly was he bound. Roger once again whined through the tape.

“Get used to it, Rog,” came the voice, speaking softly next to his ear. “This is your new home. You are going to be here a long time, during which you will learn to cooperate with me and provide me with everything I ask for. If you do this, maybe you will survive. If not, well...” He paused, his deep voice full of implied menace. “I’ll leave you now. Plenty of time to get to know each other. Relax and enjoy your bonds for a few hours. I need some sleep.”

Which was how Roger came to be in his new home.

.

.

To be continued.