Part 2
"The old man misses you, and here you lay," came her captor's voice as he
entered her bedroom. She just groaned helplessly, rolling away from him, tugging
at the tape between her wrists.
"You look a little warm," he said and he was dangerously close to her now. His
hands rolled her onto her back. She froze as his hands roamed over her full
breasts. He rubbed and squeezed them sensuously. She could hear his heavy
breathing.
She felt the hot flush creep up her throat, her burning ears against the fabric
of the blindfold. She lay very still and quiet, not wanting to give any
encouragement.
He was kneeling up on the bed now, groping her breasts freely. She felt his
hands on her sides, and then he pulled down her off-the-shoulder dress, down
past her boobs. He tugged the strapless bra down as well, and her breasts almost
sprang out. She was blushing uncontrollably as she knew her nipples were erect
and turgid.
"I'm leaving now, Mrs. Moneybags," he said getting off the bed. "Stay cool and
you'll be fine."
His fingers squeezed her breast roughly and she squealed. He slapped it. And
then he left the room. She heard him in the entranceway, the door open,
shuffling noises. Dragging things out? It sounded like at least two trips. Then
the door shutting firmly. Slamming the door on her hopes.
When she heard the door close and the house grow quiet, she continued her
struggles anew, thrashing on the bed, pushing her knees apart, trying to break
the tape. No luck. She snapped the annoying play between her wrists, again with
no luck. She rolled vigorously on the bed, trying different angles of leverage,
all to no avail.
Susan stopped for breath again. Her bare chest heaved with the exertion as her
nostrils flared with each heavy breath. She wasn't going anywhere.
As time passed, she grew colder. Strapped as tight as she was, topless on her
bed in the dark room, it was cooler and cooler. Tied, gagged, blindfolded and
robbed on Christmas Eve! What a story this would be. But if she couldn't get
loose, then what? Would Mike return on his own to free her?
She rubbed her face into the bedclothes and in time, worked the blindfold down
her face, around her neck. She glanced toward the clock. 6:18. When had she
awoke from her nap? Around 4:30, she thought. Mike had called from his sister's
house within the last half-hour, and it would take him at least 1-1/2 hours to
drive home to free her. If he took the initiative to come. Shit, he won't be
home until 9:30 at the earliest, she realized.
Susan rolled onto her front, her tits pressing into the warmth of the quilted
bed cover. She dragged her face across the bedding, hoping to snag the end of
the tape gag or at least loosen it. It felt as smooth as the ice on the lake
below their house. She resolved not to cry again.
Over and over, she pulled her cheek across the bedding. Soon it was slick with
her makeup. She shifted on the bed to a lower spot, hoping to get more friction.
Her neck grew tired and she rested, her mind racing. What had the thief taken?
He had been in the bedroom, but not alone enough to take her jewelry. Money?
Papers? Components? She thought Mike's big screen television was probably safe
as it had taken two large men to bring into the house.
She turned her head the opposite way and tried to snag an end of the tape. If
anything, it was tighter than the first side. She turned again and resumed her
rubbing.
Finally, after an eternity, she felt a corner begin to peel from her cheek. She
redoubled her efforts, and soon had one of the tape strips about halfway off,
curled in front of her face as she lay panting, exhausted. Damn that burglar
anyway.
She rubbed her face into the bedding and in time finally got the next piece
started. It too worked its way across her face until she was able to work out
one of the sodden panties. She spat out the other over the side of the bed, and
rolled onto her back, curled tape on her cheek, the third errant piece on her
chin, gaping over her lower lip. She lay gasping for quite a while, her heavy
breasts heaving with the exertion. "Fucking son of a bitch," she huffed.
Her arms were on something prickly. She rolled and swayed, reaching for it with
her tied hands, the blindfold around her neck shifting up to her chin. Her
fingers grazed it, she felt for it. A metal hairpin!
She gripped it like a lifeline, feeling each end, identifying the point ("Oww")
and she began to stab at the connecting piece of tape holding her wrists apart.
When he had taped her, he did one wrist, then stretched the roll across and
wrapped her other wrist, leaving about two inches of slack. She began to
meticulously puncture the tape, working carefully, imagining she was stabbing a
straight perforating line through the material. Of course it was impossible to
see what she was doing. She stopped every few seconds, testing the strength of
the connecting piece, then returning to puncture it again.
She froze. Was that a noise?
"Oh god." She stabbed at the plastic tape with greater fury, pulling at her
arms.
The tape snapped free.
She rolled to a seated position, paused to tear the tape remnants from her face
with her free hand as she used her new tool to stab at the tape pressing her
thighs together so tightly.
A creak on the stairs. She reached for the telephone at the nightstand and
withdrew her hand as if burned. The cordless was gone! Where the hell was it?
The cradle lay empty. The bathroom. She rolled off the bed with a thud,
belly-crawling her way across the carpet, swinging her bound legs helpless
behind her...
"Well, there's my little mermaid," the baritone voice said bemused.
Her eyes wild, she pulled herself toward the open bathroom door. But he grabbed
her ankles and drew her backwards, her bare breasts dragging with painful
friction against the carpeting.
"Oh god no no no..." she whimpered, whipping her head to look over her shoulder
at him.
Now he was wearing a ski mask.
He straddled her hips from behind and planted his knee in the center of her
back, forcing her down and again compromising her breathing. "You almost got
away," he chuckled as he worked at the fabric knot behind her throat. For a
heartbeat, she thought he might strangle her but then the shredded nightgown
came free. He captured one of her flailing hands, then drew the second behind
her and savagely knotted them with her torn nightie.
"no no no no no..." she whined.
"There's 10 homes up here on Moneybags Manor, ya know that? And I sat out across
the entrance and watched everybody drive away. Even watched your husband tear
out of here like his ass was on fire, the backseat just piled with pretty
packages. And naturally, I guessed you were in the car with him."
Susan lay quietly, all hope draining from her mind.
"But you weren't, were you? You're the only one who had to be home on Christmas
Eve." He got up off the floor and stood. "Maybe you're wondering why I came
back. I'm done ransacking all your neighbors, and I thought to myself, well,
it's Christmas Eve, I should go back and wrap up a nice present for Mr.
Bigshot." He nudged her form with his toe. "Stay quiet, bitch. I'll be back in a
moment."
She felt defeated, lying on the cream-colored carpet, arms tied behind her,
topless with her $300 dress pulled around her waist, her legs and thighs
securely bound. This is it, she thought. He's going to hurt me, or rape me, or
even kill me.
He returned to the room, knelt at her side and placed something around her
throat. It was rough, but somehow smooth. And it buckled. He stepped away and
she saw their dogs' leash puddled on the floor by her face. Oh god, I'm wearing
the dog's collar, she realized.
He rolled her on her front and pulled at the back of her now rumpled dress. She
heard and felt the zipper glide down. He rose, then tugged the hem of the dress,
dragging it down and over her tightly wrapped legs. He threw it aside. He knelt
over her again. "Now, don't panic. I'm not going to hurt you with this." She
didn't move, and felt a jerk around her middle. She turned her face toward him
to see his hand dangling her one piece bra, which he had cleanly cut in half
with a wicked-looking serrated knife.
"Please..." She hoarsely whispered the one-word plea, the only thing that would
form in her overworked brain.
"I said relax. I don't want to hurt you. Not with this," he brandished the
knife. "Lay still." He worked the blade easily through the plastic tape trapping
her thighs and knees. Then he reached further and cut loose her ankles.
Involuntarily, her legs sagged to either side.
Immediately she felt the pull on her neck as he jerked the dog lead. "Up," he
commanded. Her legs felt like jelly, and with her hands tied, she had trouble
getting any purchase at all. He grabbed one upper arm and all but pulled her to
a seated position on the edge of the bed.
"I'm sorry," she gasped. "Please. My legs. Give me a minute." It had been hours
with little circulation in her extremities. Her fingers brushed the sodden
underwear on the bed and she realized her mouth felt like the Sahara. "Please,
could I have some water?"
He hesitated, then slowly backed away from her toward the bathroom, watching
her. She felt a pang of fury. Here she was exhausted, naked save for pantyhose
and panties, hands bound behind her, a leash dangling between her thighs. She
wasn't going anywhere.
Water ran and he was back with a large cup from the bathroom. He held it to her
lips and she drank greedily. The liquid overran the sides of her mouth,
cascading down her cheeks, breasts, onto her nylon thighs and legs. He took the
cup away.
"Up," he repeated, pulling the leather leash. Her rest break was over. She
struggled upright and followed, flatfooted in stocking feet.
As she passed the dresser mirror she caught a heartbreaking glimpse of herself.
Was it only a few hours ago that she was supermodel gorgeous, dressed to the
nine's for her family Christmas party? Now her hair-do was shot, tendrils
dangling here and there on her bare shoulders. Makeup and lipstick rubbed away.
Bits of tape adhesive on her left cheek. Her arms and legs ached. She was
topless, of course, and could see her dark panties through the water-splashed
nylon pantyhose. Her full breasts bounced as he pulled her forward.
He led her down the familiar hall to her kitchen, where she was told to get onto
a counter stool. He dropped his end of her leash on the pass-through counter.
She noticed her jewelry box from the bedroom was now on the counter, open, her
things scattered all over the granite finish. She knew her favorite diamonds,
jade, rubies were all gone now. She bit her lower lip to stop herself from
saying anything to the thief.
On the kitchen table was a musty, dusty old-style satchel. He dipped a hand into
it and came out with a coil of white rope. He stepped behind her, undid the
silky bonds, ordered her to keep her wrists crossed, then slowly, carefully,
wrapped them in strand after strand of rope. When he had finished, she tested
her bonds. She was trapped for good. He pulled the end of the leash down behind
her, tying it off on a high rung of the stool...
