Chapter 1 : A Jump into the Abyss

Jade was twenty-three, a brilliant law student with striking blond hair and an icy beauty that turned heads in every corridor of the faculty. Her presence was magnetic -- sharp-minded, assertive, and quietly intimidating. Among her peers, she held sway effortlessly. But behind that composed façade lived a story not even her closest friends knew.

Her sexuality had awakened at fourteen, in the shadow of a man three times her age. She had met him on a train between Lausanne and Geneva -- a stranger with steel-gray eyes, a tailored coat, and the calm elegance of someone who had nothing to prove. He had spoken with measured confidence, with the subtle authority of someone who had already seen through her. Not just her surface, but the secret beneath: the girl who longed to submit, to be undone.

She hadn't known what she was looking for back then. But he did.

He introduced her to a world where control and surrender danced in silence. Her first taste of it had been intoxicating. A collar laid gently around her throat. Instructions whispered into her ear like sacred rites. The sting of pain, not as punishment, but as awakening.

That man didn't love her -- not in any conventional way -- but he understood her. Understood what she craved before she had words for it. He taught her to kneel with pride, to obey with dignity, and to ask -- not for love, but for use.

Their relationship had ended when she reached her twenties, not in anger or tragedy, but in cold logic. He liked girls, not women. And Jade, now grown, no longer held his interest. His tastes had never changed, and she had always known it. He didn't hide who he was. The last time they met, he kissed her forehead, unclipped the collar from her neck, and told her simply, "You're too much of a woman now."

There were no tears. She didn't need his affection. What hurt was something deeper -- the end of being useful to him.

Since then, Jade had carried that secret like a glowing ember inside her.

Now, in her carefully curated life, she was the one in control. She seduced men and women alike, demanded what she wanted, and played the dominant with cool elegance. Her lovers adored her confidence, her initiative, her bite -- but none ever reached what lay beneath.

Over the past years, she had taken several partners. Some charming, some skilled. But sex had become a hollow ritual -- rehearsed, predictable, safe. They wanted to please her, to love her, to treat her as someone precious. And this precisely, was the problem.

She didn't want to be adored. She wanted to be used. Not seduced, not kissed, not loved -- but handled, possessed, objectified. Taken without pretense or affection. A toy. A function.

Even when she tried to find what she needed, it slipped through her fingers. She had met a few men on a BDSM site -- so-called Dominant with the right words and the right profiles. They talked about control, ritual, and ownership. And for a moment, she believed they might understand.

But when they met, it became clear: they, too, wanted to connect. To be gentle. To care. They called her beautiful. They checked in after every touch. They gave her aftercare. They held her like she was precious. She hated it.

She didn't want to be protected. She wanted to be broken. Not in body -- in meaning. Stripped of identity. No longer Jade, the brilliant student or elegant seductress -- just something useful. Something to play with, use, forget, and then use again.

Love bored her. Kindness sickened her. What she craved was annihilation -- the kind that felt like truth.

The more time passed, the more her hunger grew. Her fantasies darkened, stripped of story, of faces, of names. They weren't seduction anymore. They weren't even about dominance. They were about to be taken -- brutally, without consent, without context. She didn't want to be seen. She wanted to be used.

Sometimes, late at night after hours at the library, walking home through the empty streets of the city, she would pass groups of men--loud, rough, dangerous. Her heart would beat faster, not with fear, but with hope. A desperate, shameful part of her wished they would drag her into an alley. That they would take her without asking, without even speaking. She wanted to be a thing they passed around. To be ruined. Not because she hated herself -- but because it would make her feel real.

It wasn't just about control anymore. It was about erasure. About becoming nothing.

So, she began to chase it -- that dark edge between craving and danger. She started dressing more provocatively at night: short skirts, heels that clicked like a countdown, no bra under her blouse. She wandered deliberately through bad neighborhoods, walking the long way home past shuttered, placing herself where the shadows pressed in and eyes lingered.

She wasn't reckless. She was intentional. She wanted to be noticed, wanted to be followed, wanted it to happen. But nothing ever did. Men looked, some said things, but no one stepped forward to cross that line. And the more she tried, the more the silence mocked her.

She craved it -- to be used violently, repeatedly, stripped of meaning, of personhood. Not a woman. Not a student. Just a thing with holes. A toy for whatever dark hunger might find her worthy. The world, maddeningly, refused to give her what she needed.

And then, an idea began to take root.

What if she stopped waiting for fate to deliver it?

What if she asked for it directly -- anonymously, explicitly, without shame?

The thought began as a whisper in the back of her mind, then grew louder, more insistent. She started drafting the words in her head as she sat through lectures, her thighs clenched under the table.

She would post an ad. Somewhere deep in the kink underworld, on a site where things were darker, less filtered. She would make it clear: she wanted to be abducted. Taken for an entire weekend. Ideally by a group of men -- strangers -- who would use her however they pleased, for as long as they wanted. No introductions. No names. No aftercare.

She wouldn't know who they were. That was the point. They could do anything and if panic overtook her, if she begged for mercy or tried to resist -- they wouldn't stop. That was part of the agreement she fantasized.

Finally, one night, she posted the ad.

She read it over a dozen times before clicking 'submit' -- her fingers trembling not from fear, but anticipation. She didn't soften it, didn't code her desire in metaphor. It was raw, direct, disturbing. And it was true.

The responses came quickly. Her inbox filled with messages. Men claiming to be Dominants. Some respectful. Some crude. Some poetic. Some grotesque. But none serious.

They loved the fantasy. They wanted to talk about it, imagine it, maybe roleplay pieces of it. But when it came to organizing it -- the weekend -- the silence returned. They hesitated. Backed off. Ghosted her. Most of them, it turned out, were cowards with keyboards.

She didn't want cyber-whispers. She wanted ropes, gags, bruises. Real hands. Real risk. She was offering herself -- completely -- and no one had the courage to take her.

And then, maybe a few months after she posted the ad, she received a message -- one that was unlike all the others. It was curt, cold, and precise. There was something in its tone -- restrained, dangerous -- that made it feel terrifyingly real. It was both thrilling and unsettling, like the crack of thunder before a storm you've prayed for and feared at once. No name. No introduction. Just a short block of text:

"I could be interested to take you for that weekend you want. But we have to organize it carefully as you understand that this kind of "game" is not really in the legal side of our society.

If you are truly interested, contact me at this email: ravisher@djaskldjalskjdslkad. onion"

The address was hidden behind a dark web domain -- the kind used by people who didn't want to be found. There was no flirting. No attempt to impress her. Just facts, cold and precise.

And it felt real.

Her heart raced as she copied the email. She sat there for a moment, staring at the blank message window, then typed only one line:

Yes, I am interested.

Jade

The next day, the reply came.

Give me your full name and physical address. Instructions will follow.

That was all. No greeting. No signature. Just the demand.

Her breath caught as she read it. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't careful. It was cold. Real. Exactly what she had asked for.

She stared at the screen, the cursor blinking like a pulse. This was the threshold. The moment fantasy met flesh.

It made her wet instantly -- not just aroused, but overexcited, her whole body lighting up with electric anticipation. But fear curled around the desire like smoke. This was no longer a fantasy buried in the safety of her mind. Giving her name and address? That wasn't just submission -- it was risk. Dangerous, irreversible, real.

It took her days to summon the courage. Every night she hovered over the reply, every morning she told herself she was insane. But in the end, her hunger won.

She sent just two lines:

Jade Maren.

9 rue des Pavillons, Geneve.

An hour later, the answer arrived:

Further instructions will be put in your mailbox in the coming days.

The following day, Jade couldn't think of anything but her mailbox. Every hour she found herself glancing out the window, imagining an envelope sliding through the slot, a signal that the unknown had found her. But nothing came. Not that day. Not the next.

It took five long days.

On the fifth evening, just as she was beginning to doubt it had been real, she found a plain envelope waiting inside her mailbox. No name. No mark. Just heavy paper and a tight seal.

Inside was a short letter and a smartphone.

The letter was typed. Simple.

"The phone is preloaded with one contact on Signal. The PIN is 123456. You are to record yourself reading the following text and send the video to that contact."

Then the text itself:

"I am Jade Maren. I want to be abducted and used as a sexual object. I give my full consent to my abductor or abductors to do whatever they want with me, as long as I am not left with permanent injuries."

There were no instructions beyond that.

And the phone waiting in her hand, pulsing with implication -- the lens a silent witness, the weight of it a promise she had no control over.

She contemplated it all evening. Held it. Turned it over in her fingers. Lit the screen. Went to the camera. Closed it. Opened it again. Her pulse never slowed.

But she couldn't do it. Not yet.

She went to bed, but sleep wouldn't come. Her thoughts churned in the dark -- the words of the script, the face she would make, the reality of it. She lay there in silence, arousal and fear fighting beneath her skin.

Around 3 a. m., trembling, naked in the half-light of her apartment, she stood in front of the mirror, opened the camera, and hit record, sent the video.

The next morning, the phone buzzed.

There was one new message.

Good. We have now to set up the last few things.

You will be abducted from your flat. To do so, I need a copy of your keys. You will make a copy and leave the key under your doormat, and text me when it is done.

Once I have your keys, we will fix the date of your abduction and the last details.

She was close to fainting. My god -- it was becoming so real and a copy of her keys? That meant this unknown man could enter her flat whenever he wanted. No knock, no warning. She would never truly feel safe at home again. A wave of fear rushed over her, cold and sharp. But beneath it, unmistakably -- excitement. Her body was already responding, throbbing with the same twisted longing that had driven every step so far.

She was scared. But it was the fear she craved.

She reminded herself: this was what she wanted. Not safety. Not comfort. Surrender.

That morning, she skipped her first lecture. Walked across town in the cool morning light, legs trembling, to have the key duplicated. She placed it under the doormat just as instructed, texted him the confirmation, and went to university.

She was wet. No -- she was dripping. Her panties soaked through before the first seminar even started. Every time she shifted in her seat, she felt it -- her body responding not to touch, but to the knowledge of what she'd just done.

When she returned home that evening, her heart pounded. As she arrived at her door, the first thing she did was check under the doormat. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the edge of the coarse fabric. The key was gone.

The first thing she did after closing the door behind her was check the phone.

There was another message waiting.

You will be abducted on a Thursday evening and released on Sunday. Send me three dates that would fit you.

Also, that evening I do not want resistance from you. You will take sleeping pills to ensure I can enter your flat and take you while you are fully asleep. For this, I need your exact weight. I will provide the pills in your mailbox along with the final instructions.

She read the message again. And again. Each word locked her deeper into the spiral -- a mix of disbelief and arousal curling hot in her chest. Three dates. That's all he needed. And her weight.

She sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, mind racing. Did she really want this? Was she insane?

Yes, that was exactly what she wanted -- and it was far too late to turn back now.

So she typed two simple lines -- the next three Thursdays: the 12th, the 19th, and the 26th of May. Then, underneath, she added one more line: 57 kg. No comment. No hesitation.

She hit send. That was it. It would really happen.

Then she went to bed.

And for the first time in weeks, she fell asleep easily -- as if something heavy inside her had finally been lifted. No more hesitation. No more torment. It was decided. This was going to happen. And it was exactly what she wanted.

At last, she would have the kind of sex life she had always needed -- brutal, anonymous, absolute.

When she woke up the next morning, her first instinct was to reach for the phone.

There was a new message:

Great. I see you really can't wait to be turned into a fuck doll. Final instructions and the pills are waiting for you in your mailbox. It will be the 12th.

Her throat tightened. That was it. The date was set. The plan was in motion. And now the pills -- the final act of surrender -- were within reach.

She quickly went to her mailbox.

Once again, a sealed envelope. Her fingers shook as she grabbed it and hurried back up to her flat.

Inside, a small letter:

Final Instructions:

Thursday, the 12th of May, at 9 p. m., you will take the four pills enclosed. They will induce deep sleep for approximately 8 hours, taking effect within 20 minutes. You will film yourself swallowing them and send the video to me. After that, you will place the phone and the empty pill box on your kitchen table and go to bed.

Six days.

Six long days.

Time warped. Her routine dissolved into shadows of itself -- lectures she didn't listen to, books she didn't absorb, people she couldn't hear. Her body was in the world, but her mind lived elsewhere: fixed on the little pills, the letter, the certainty of what was coming.

She'd never felt anticipation like this -- not for an exam, not for a lover, not for anything. It filled her until she was bursting. Every night she lay in bed, heart pounding, soaked and trembling beneath her sheets. The thought of him -- or them -- entering silently in the night to take her. It haunted her like a dream she didn't want to wake from.

But with the excitement came fear. Real fear. Not the fantasy of being overpowered, but the bone-deep anxiety that this was real now. That someone -- or, multiple strangers -- would cross the threshold of her home and treat her as an object, nothing more. And she had invited them.

There were moments she almost panicked. Almost deleted the messages. Almost ran.

But each time she stopped herself. Because this wasn't a mistake. It was her truth. She wanted to be taken. Not play-acted. Not roleplayed. Taken.

And the countdown had begun. She wanted it to be the 12th. She wanted it now. The plan was in motion. And now the pills -- the final act of surrender -- were within reach.

The morning of the 12th, she was unable to do anything but look at the pills. Hours passed with her just staring at them on the table -- she couldn't go out, couldn't eat. She only drank a bit of water, her mouth too dry to swallow anything else.

She was overexcited, nearly in a trance. Her whole body vibrated with tension, her mind fogged with the weight of what was about to happen. This was the day -- the one she felt she'd waited her entire life for.

This weekend, she would be treated as she deserved. No fantasies, no safeties. Just reality. Just used. A fuck toy. No limit. No safeword. No name.

At last, 9 p. m. arrived. Her hands were shaking as she opened the envelope one final time, took out the blister pack, and popped the four pills into her palm. She set up the phone, hit record, and stared into the lens.

She swallowed them one by one, holding the empty pack up to the camera before stopping the video and sending it without a single word.

Then, as instructed, she placed the phone and the box on the kitchen table.

Her legs were unsteady as she walked to the bedroom. She lay down on her bed in silence, heart racing, eyes wide. She was so aroused, so charged with adrenaline, she was sure she wouldn't sleep. Not tonight. Not with what was coming.

But after ten minutes, the world began to blur. Her limbs felt heavy. Her thoughts scattered like petals on water.

She didn't even feel herself drift off. Sleep took her without warning -- a surrender deeper than anything she had ever known.

Around 10:30 p. m., Fred entered the flat.

He moved quietly, methodically, like a man fulfilling a promise. With him, he had a crate trolley and a not-so-large wooden box strapped securely to it. Next to it were two folding cartons, flattened and tucked under the straps. The box itself was plain but solid -- maybe fifty centimeters wide, seventy long, and a meter high.

He walked straight to the kitchen, retrieved the phone and the empty pill box from the table, then moved through the apartment. He found her cellphone and laptop, packed them neatly into a black backpack.

Then he began to search more thoroughly. The flat was small -- a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen -- but he was methodical. Room by room, drawer by drawer, he moved with quiet precision, as if checking items off an invisible list.

He wasn't just looking for valuables. He was collecting her -- or rather, the life she had lived until this moment. He found her wallet, passport, and ID card. He pulled out folders with bank statements, utility bills, her rental agreement, university registration forms, insurance papers, even old envelopes with government stamps. Tax documents. Health records. Anything that bore her name, her address, her history.

It looked almost like he was packing her files for a flat move -- like a careful assistant managing her life's admin. But what he was really doing was erasing her.

He gathered it all into the folding cartons he had brought, neatly stacking the contents so nothing would be left behind. Then he slid the most sensitive items -- the IDs and tech -- into the backpack with her laptop and phone.

Not a trace would remain. No clue. No record. Not a single thread to pull. It wasn't just her body he was taking. It was her life. Not a trace would be left behind. Not a single thread to pull.

Then he wheeled the box to her bedroom. He paused in the doorway. Jade lay naked on the bed, limbs relaxed, breathing slow. Her blond hair spilled across the pillow like silk. She looked unreal. He stared for a moment -- just a moment -- letting the image settle in his mind.

"A beautiful thing," he thought.

He opened the box. Despite its small size, it was designed for one purpose: to contain her. Just enough room to fold her legs to her chest, nothing more.

Carefully, he lifted her from the bed -- her body warm, limp, unaware -- and placed her into the box. Her arms were folded and secured with firm bracers inside, locking her in place. She wouldn't be able to move -- even if the lid stayed open. The way her arms were restrained left her entirely helpless inside the box.

Lastly, he took a shock collar -- sturdy and black, with a metal buckle -- and fastened it around her neck. He secured it with a small padlock, the click sharp in the quiet room.

She didn't stir. She was fully asleep, inert like a doll -- soft, silent, breathtakingly still. Everything was ready.

Fred walked through the flat one last time, methodical and precise. He checked every corner, every surface, to make sure he hadn't left anything behind. Satisfied, he returned to the bedroom, placed the two filled folding cartons carefully on top of the wooden box, securing them in place, and gripped the trolley handle.

Jade, curled in the wooden box atop the trolley, was still deeply asleep, unaware she was being taken. Unaware she had already crossed the line she had dreamed of her entire life -- and that it wasn't just for a weekend. In that box, she was leaving her life behind.