Harriet the Hostage

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Harriet Zyczyk watched the water droplets slide down the thick glass of the train window. It was spring, and there would be no more snow. The ‘plain Jane’ twenty year-old felt safe inside the thumping metal monstrosity, protected from the rocks and bottles sometimes hurled at the Long Island commuter car as it passed through rough neighborhoods.

Introverted loner Harriet had led a quietly unremarkable life. She was excluded, usually by her own preference, from nearly all social interactions in school as she kept her head down and face hidden by thick ‘nerd’ glasses and her long, un-styled straight brown hair. Largely unnoticed, she was always last in any alphabetical arrangement, and sometimes omitted completely on rosters. Some thought her Hungarian-descended last name to be a typo. She didn’t make it into the yearbook. They didn’t even call her at graduation; no diploma had been printed. Her inebriated mother’s explosive overreaction at the conclusion of the ceremony was quite embarrassing, and the videos of it posted by other parents were a brief internet sensation.

Harriet’s berating, oppressive mother was gone now, joining her late father, eternally patronizing whatever smoky dive bar in hell they could find. Harriet enjoyed exactly six days of peace in the house alone before her asshole uncle showed up to contest the will, and began moving his belongings in. The young woman’s call to the police resulted in a magistrate’s ruling that they share the house until the probate court could decide the matter. The uncle was a lazy low-life with a gambling addiction, and made a meager income cutting lawns and plowing snowy parking lots with an old truck.

Harriet exited the train at a stop in Queens, a block from her job at the bank. She used the back entrance of the combined branch and operations center as always, and took the stairs down to her solitary basement haven. Her title was ‘Secure Document Clerk Level 2′. It was a position created by government data security regulations. Harriet’s guidance counselor, high GPA and squeaky clean school record, not even a detention, got her the job. Brown-haired Harriet essentially scanned confidential papers and logged them into the bank’s digital records, then affixed the appropriate bar code labels and filed the paper originals in an adjacent huge vault. Unless it was the last few days of the month, she was left alone to do her work, and read during slow intervals. At home there were bookshelves full of cheap paperbacks of her mother’s, and daydreaming Harriet had amassed quite a library in the bowels of her desk. She often fantasized, adding explicit anatomical details and putting herself in the place of the books’ female characters, being charmed by a mysterious industrial tycoon, swept off her feet by a lusty pirate, or pinned helpless beneath a shirtless, out-of-control farmhand. Once home in her room most nights, with the door locked securely, she would masturbate crazily, recalling the day’s reading or watching porn.


About a half hour into her shift, a coworker announced there were ‘Friday’ bagels upstairs in the lounge as she left a stack of mortgage documents in the metal tray that served as Harriet’s inbox.

Checking the time on her laptop, Harriet pressed the button under her desk for the guard to let her out of the secure exit door to the windowless room. The recently hired guard was young, and looked at Harriet overtly and longer than required to verify she was not carrying confidential documents out of the secure area. He had creepily joked about strip searching her, which she ignored.

Harriet wasn’t sure how she felt about his stares at her chest, as her mother had always derided her for being ‘fat and dumpy’. Short and luxuriously curvy, the young woman’s post-shower view of the pale but smooth-skinned, small-waist hourglass figure in the mirror didn’t seem to warrant such criticism. Sure, due to her modest budget, she wore a lot of hand-me-down, random clothes from the zenith of her mother’s business career, dry cleaner-freshened nineteen seventies and eighties outfits never discarded, but she didn’t feel completely unattractive.

The white lightweight turtleneck, a bit tight, yellow scarf in her hair, black geometric-patterned skirt, black hose and yellow platform heels could be labeled ‘vintage’, but a few of the women complimented her ‘new’ ensemble.

Hovering around the bagel table in the employee lounge, Harriet had to make a conscious effort to avoid slouching and crossing her arms across her chest to hide the ample feminine lines many women endured augmentation surgery to possess. Although she had been at the bank nearly two years, many didn’t recognize her, especially since she began wearing contacts and makeup. Some thought she was a new temp; others, that noticed the extra security badge hanging around her neck, assumed she may be a compliance auditor from headquarters. This tended to make coworkers avoid any conversation with her, beyond polite small talk.

Suddenly the room went nearly dark. The fire system emergency floods and the gray ankara grup escort daylight from distant outside windows lit the space enough for everyone to continue their breaks after initial joking comments about not paying the Con Ed bill. A few open laptops remained lit in the meeting room across the hall, but showed error screens that the network was unavailable.

Unsettling noises jolted everyone’s senses, then came a horrible realization. There was yelling, female screams of terror, and then gunfire, rapid and warlike. Her pulse raced.

In seconds, two men dressed entirely in black from their ski masks to their military-style boots were pointing short machine guns at them. They kicked the table of snacks over, sending the bagels and plastic tubs of cream cheese flying. With forced foreign accents, they yelled at the employees to walk toward the lobby. Once there, it was apparent there were at least eight gunmen, all identically in black tactical outfits, except for different colored cloth bands around their upper left arms. Not a drill. This was bad. This was very bad.

The scene was chaotic and surreal. Harriet walked head down in line with her coworkers, mostly women, and stood while they were searched violently. Any suit jackets were yanked off, leaving some women chilled with stiff nipples in thin camisole tops. One man was hit in the jaw with a gun butt for refusing to relinquish his Apple watch. He fell to the floor unconscious, blood leaking from his mouth.

The collected cell phones, car keys, fit bits and electronic watches were all tossed into a large metal bucket. An open, square gallon can of acid was upturned and placed inside. A small cloud and the sharp stink of melting plastic wafted across the room. The floor was littered with plaster chunks from bullet holes in the ceiling. Security badges, purses and wallets had been tossed into a black trash bag that was carried away.

Harriet’s wrists were duct taped behind her back, and her mouth was covered nearly from ear to ear. As she furtively scanned the dim room, Harriet saw that all the hostages were gagged except one. An Asian-descended woman in only a sheer lace bra and yoga shorts, a Vice President who made an ill-timed visit to the building’s fitness center locker room, sat taped by the ankles and waist to a chair, answering questions quietly and typing on her laptop as one of the masked men held a gun against her temple.

One of the gunmen, who had a teal-colored rag around his right upper arm, was walking down the row of captives, opening and placing a loose canvas grocery bag over each hostage’s head. He avoided eye contact with everyone but Harriet. She looked into his blue eyes for just a moment, until her vision was blocked. Another masked man behind him then pushed her backwards until she fell on her ass, then followed suit when those beside her scooted on the cold marble floor until their backs were against the half wall of the teller’s counter.

After about ten minutes, Harriet began to loudly hyperventilate, leaning on the teller next to her. One of the gunmen crouched down and began yelling in the hokey foreign accent, lifting the canvas bag off and ripping the duct tape halfway off her face.

“What’s your problem, Miss Piggy?”

“Asthma….” Harriet whispered, unable to speak any louder. “I…need my…inhaler…in my purse.”

“Fuck!” the gunman said, then pointed at one of the other masked men. “You! Go find her fuckin’ purse and let her suck on her inhaler for cripes sake!” He held up three black-gloved fingers. “Three minutes or I’ll kill you both!” He took the man’s machine gun away and waved it at Harriet briefly.

“C’mon Tubby!”

Wheezing loudly and un-hooded, Harriet was jerked up off the floor and led by the arm by the masked man. She passed a young woman with pink vomit gathered in her cleavage; another sat in a puddle of piss.

In moments they were in the stairwell, harshly lit by the emergency floodlights high on the walls. A dozen or so black gym bags packed with something sat along one wall. This was also where the trash bags of belongings had been ransacked. Purses, wallets and much of their prior contents were strewn all over the stairs.

“Which one is yours?” The gunman asked about the purses.

“Not here…basement…my desk…locked…need my…badge.” she whispered.

“Shit!” the gunman said, now in danger of not meeting the three minute deadline. He located her lanyard and badges quickly, as at least they had been tossed into in a pile.

Harriet fell onto a hip, wheezing, and to the assailant it looked like she lost consciousness.

“Girl! Don’t die on me!” the young man said, then scooped her up into his arms in a honeymoon carry, “Where do we go?”


Maybe it was too many trashy paperbacks , but she found being carried by a masked criminal strangely alluring. It was her first time being touched by anyone since the hugs from strangers at her mother’s funeral four months ago. It was her first time being carried by anyone since gümüşhane escort she was a child. The gym bag was heavy, she felt as it bumped against her randomly. Her breasts, jolting within her bra with each hurried, descending step, were prominently displayed to him, since her arms were still restrained at the small of her back. They had never been so close to a man’s face before, she realized. Maybe she would write her own romance novel about this very experience/


“Here,” she gasped when they reached the unmarked door beyond the guard station. He swiped her badge.

They squinted at the glare from the fully lit room, which had battery backups that would last a few hours.

Once inside, the masked man quickly dropped his gym bag and set his hostage onto her butt on a vacant desk and began yelling, panicking as he looked around for Harriet’s purse.

The vault’s door slammed with a thud and click. She then felt the plastic nozzle on her lips. She grasped it and pressed down. The assailant peeled the hanging duct tape off her cheek and out of her hair.

“Thank you,” she said softly after several breaths, and noticed the same blue eyes she had seen before.

“Um sure, can you walk now?”


“We have to get back or they’ll send one of those assholes to kill us.”

“We’re locked in…” Harriet said, then went on to explain about the documents and how she and her bosses were the only ones with access. There weren’t even any cameras inside. There were no levers on the blank door. The only other door led to a small break room and bathroom.

Suddenly his blue eyes, visible in the holes of the mask, widened. He started riffling through her purse. “Where’s your Goddamn phone?”

“Don’t have one. I only used it to call and check on my mom, and after she died, I didn’t reload it, or whatever.”

“Bullshit!” The masked man yelled, then dumped its contents on the floor to disprove her claim. He kicked around the items. Wallet, Metrocards, coins, mint gum, hairbrush, makeup, house key, tampons, pads, but no phone. He threw the empty purse at her.

“There’s no signal down here. I don’t have any friends to call anyway,” she shrugged.

The man sighed and slouched against another desk. “I’m sorry I called you ‘Tubby’, um, Harriet.”

“How did you know my…?” she asked before he held up her badges, now strung around his neck.

“I didn’t mean it at all, the Tubby thing. I was just trying to sound tough in front of the crew. Sorry I threw your bag at you. I’m not tough at all. I should never have let that guy talk me into this. I just wanted enough money to run away…”

“Typical man, making things all about them. I was called fat or dumpy or stupid every day of my life.”

“Who called you that?” he asked,

“My mom. She was an alcoholic.” Harriet explained.



“Max is my name. Shit! I shouldn’t have told you, please don’t tell.”

“Oh, I see how this goes! Take me hostage, duct tape and asphyxiate me, but now you need a favor, surrrrrre, no problem,” she said sarcastically, her Long Island attitude returning for a moment.

“Your mom was wrong to call you names. I think you’re really pretty.”

“It would be nice if you un-taped my wrists.”

“I had better not. They may understand we got locked in and not shoot us. But if I untie you, they’ll figure out I…”


“They will kill us if they know…I like you. There, I said it,” he revealed, and waited for her reaction.

Harriet rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yes, I noticed you right away. I well.. I love your legs and your feet in those black hose. I was really glad he picked me to help you.”

Harriet had noticed him staring at her lower limbs quite a bit. “So, let me get this straight. I’ve been carrying around these damn jugs since I was fourteen, just so I could meet a pantyhose foot fetish guy during a fucking bank robbery? You can’t make this stuff up,” she sighed. “It figures.”

“The rest of you is awesome too, I just…”

Suddenly feeling emboldened, Harriet extended her legs outward and held them together, level with the desk. “Okay, have at ’em!” She twirled her feet around in parallel at the ankle, displaying her mother’s vintage yellow platform heels. “Do your worst!” she said, quoting Dumas and expecting some playful fondling of her ankles and maybe a grope of her ‘thunder’ thighs, as her mother called them. Her pulse quickened at the mere notion of a man touching her so unwholesomely.


“Really? Max asked. She could see the joy in his eyes through the mask. He pulled off his black gloves to reveal his name tattooed across his right knuckles with a crude star on the end finger. His hands were muscular and hairy, crescents of dirt were embedded under his nails.

Slowly, tentatively, he slid his palms up and down Harriett’s shins and calves, his fingers dragging the hose over her pale skin. He moved up to her thighs, edging under her above-the-knee skirt, teasing both of them as the halkalı escort knitted black and white diamond pattern shifted upward slowly, but stopped just above where the panty hose changed to a denser, darker weave.

The stranger’s hands descended with a bit less patience, down toward her ankles, and unbuckled her platform heels. Max’s strong fingers caressed her ankles, high arches and stubby, plump toes, their nails a glossy pink, inside the straps of the loosened shoes. Next he dropped to his knees, bared his teeth and used them to pull each shoe free, flinging it off to the side with a twist of his neck. His breath quickened as his tongue emerged, licking her moist feet through the hose.

Harriet giggled as one of her big toes disappeared in his mouth, the stretched ski mask exposed a mass of short hair around his lips; he had a goatee at the least. He continued to caress her legs as he sucked and licked her toes and sole, looking up at her face. An unexpected chill traveled up her spine, awakening her nipples, gathering them enough to subtly bulge through her bra and sweater.

After all ten toes were damp from being sufficiently explored, Max arose, and resumed his caress of her lower calves. During her surrender of her limbs to the armed robber, Harriett had alternately sat up to watch while stretching her restrained arms, and laid back a bit, arching her back slightly to fight off stiffness as well. Her mother had taken great joy in forecasting the back problems the five foot, two inch-tall busty girl would encounter in later years.

Harriet naively had thought their bit of fun was ending. Upon arising to a standing Max, she gasped at the sight of his hard cock straining against the inseam of his black pants. She recoiled as he directed her instep onto his sheathed muscle. It was hard like a pepperoni stick.

“Hey whoa!” she exclaimed, curling her legs off the side, then realized it was her first time touching a man’s crotch. Maybe she overreacted, she thought.

“You said ‘do your worst’! I thought you wanted me to get off!” he said, gesturing in frustration.

Although she hadn’t planned on this, Harriet suddenly found it flattering and exciting, being used, as it was, to make a guy ‘get off’, especially this guy who risked the wrath of his partners to save her life with the inhaler. The first man ever under sixty to say she was pretty. She also wanted to finally touch a real cock.

“Okay,” she shrugged. “But we better go back there,” she said, looking toward the file room. “You don’t want anyone to walk in on you with your dick hanging out.” Harriet grinned at the mental image of her comment.

The reference to the other criminals brought Max back to reality. He was in the midst of committing an armed robbery. “Something’s wrong. They should have been down here pounding on the door by now.”

“Hey!” the brown-haired girl said. “I bet the TV still works.” There was a small flat screen mounted up on the wall in a corner, intended to monitor the local weather reports. “There’s a remote in my desk.”

Sure enough, Channel 7 had drone footage of the building, surrounded by the S.W.A.T. team and dozens of police cars, with the banner ‘HOSTAGE STANDOFF AT QUEENS BANK BUILDING – NEGOTIATIONS UNDERWAY’.

“Looks like we’ve got some time,” Harriet said, perched on the edge of the desk. Then with uncharacteristic assertion, she rubbed the top of a foot up against Max’s balls between his legs as he faced away. It startled him, and he turned around; his posture reflected his dejection.

“Negotiations,” he said, his voice trembling. “That means prison. Even if they get away, they’ll leave me stuck down here to get arrested. Shit! They said their plan was epic. They said we had an insider! We were supposed to be in and out in fifteen minutes.”

“Geez, is it that bad being stuck with me? I sense a footjob about to be cancelled.” She stretched her legs out once more and rubbed one along the other, flexing it teasingly. She brought that foot up and planted on the desk, causing her skirt to ride up, revealing the underside of her thigh, including the darker upper reaches of the panty hose.

“Wait, I didn’t mean it that way, I..”

“I know, I know, don’t worry. I’ll tell them how you saved my life with the inhaler, and how you didn’t mistreat me.” She looked into his eyes.

“No! Leave that on!” Harriet said as he began to take his ski mask off. “I’m sure you’re gorgeous, but it’ll be better if I really never see your face, and it makes things, um…dirtier for me.” She boldly dug her foot into his crotch. His dick had softened at the news that the police were involved.

“Well, do you want me to un-tape you?” he asked, referring to her wrists.

“No, that makes it dirtier, too. Let’s take a walk.” She slid off the desk.


Moments later, ski-masked Max was standing against the back wall of the file vault, his black paramilitary uniform in stark contrast to the neutral colors of the room and rows of high beige cabinets, unzipping his pants. Harriet, was still dressed and bound, but on her back beneath him, butt nearly against the wall, her legs extended upwards, knees bent and the soles of her enshrouded feet opposing. The knit black and white skirt was in a puddle beneath her lower back and bunched around her waist, covering nothing it was intended to.

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