It was an age before the van stopped.
When it did, it was another age before Stefan heard voices and the doors opened.
The straps came away. He was dragged up by the arms again. The floor under his feet was a garage, by the damp feel. Then concrete steps, and tiles. Then carpet. He was taken through the house blind and disoriented, and finally thrown down onto a wooden floor. He was twisted, his hands freed and then re-tied to the front with the same rough rope. Then he was dropped. The bag was wrenched off. And suddenly gagging on the stale, c*m-stained cotton in his mouth, Stefan pushed himself up on shaking arms, and pulled it free.
“Ah-ah.”
His hair was pulled, and he was dragged to his knees. He whimpered at the pain that lanced through his scalp, and tried to twist his face away
