The captivity narrative has a long tradition in the romance genre dating as far back to the 1912 publication of The Sheik by E.M. Hull In the 70s and 80s, the captivity narrative often took the form of the Noble Savage and the White Woman. The racist undertones were perhaps unintentional. In Taken, I found a modern look at the captivity narrative, a riff off the 80s bodice rippers.
And yet, when he moved again and brought himself down next to her, almost touching her leg with his own thigh, he seemed very much a man. A tall, muscled, almost graceful man, smelling of peat and smoke and sweat, and the peppery combination shocked her nose, which did not, strangely, object to the combination. It had been so very long since she had been interested in the smell of a man, so long since her body acknowledged its own desire for those sensations. Fear must have heightened her senses; that was the only explanation. That, and the witchcraft, of course. Still, when he was sliding down next to her, she wanted so badly to reach up to his solemn face, to find out if his lips were as soft as her bewitched body knew they would be.
Which is when she remembered her bound hands. A hysterical bubble of sound pushed past the terror clogging her throat as she raised her bloody, chafed wrists, first up to her face, so she could witness her own self-treachery, and then over her head like a club, awareness of what was about to happen pushing her desires in an entirely different direction.
The final entry “Transformed” by Anne Calhoun.