Susan's Christmas Eve Ordeal Corporate executive's gold-digging trophy wife surprised by Christmas Eve burglar. ------------------------------------ Susan opened her eyes in the growing afternoon gloom. Drowsily she turned her head toward the glowing digital numerals. 4:37 p.m. She closed her eyes and took a deep sigh. They had fought bitterly and he had left in anger. Christmas Eve, and they were both dressed and ready to go to his sisters' for the holiday, when he announced his promise that they would be spending the night at Claire's. This was completely unexpected to Susan, and she had made her opinions known. They had met 12 years ago at university, she a political sciences major studying for her undergraduate degree, he working on his masters in business administration. Over coffee in the Student Center, they coyly revealed a bit about themselves in between outrageous flirtation. Within an hour, Susan knew that Mike was the man she wanted to marry. Even then, he was hungry for business success and power. He was from an affluent family. Susan's family was comfortable by middle class standards, but she had known since high school that it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man. They had married within one week of her getting her degree. His analyst job in Cincinnati soon led to a junior management position in Pittsburgh, a middle management position in Dallas, another mid-management gig in Chicago, senior management in San Diego, another senior position back in Dallas, and a v.p. position in Indianapolis. Now he was a division president, stationed at a manufacturing plant in Wisconsin. She had supported each move, faithfully packing then unpacking, setting up attractive households in each town, making social contacts, lunching with other management wives, staying active in charities (literacy was her favorite) then tearing it all down for the next move. She exercised with a mania, keeping her tall frame trim. Her skin was flawless, hair always perfect. She read all his business magazines and kept up with global current events. She was the model trophy wife. The house creaked and she cautiously opened an eye. House settling, maybe? The home was only about 9 months old. One benefit of his upwardly mobile career was that each raise offered larger and better housing. This home was palatial by her parent's standards. Livingston Hills was the most elite community in their small town. Their three-story home stood over a large lake. Other Livingston Hills patrons included doctors, lawyers, and other business owners and executives in their small city. While the house was wonderful, when it came to this move, she hatred it. While Mike went off every day to his office at the manufacturing plant, he received the respect and admiration of his 250 workers. She, on the other hand, had few opportunities to shine. The social environment here was nothing short of sterile. Other executives' wives were backwater losers compared to her. They got excited about high school hockey. Basketball. The damn Green Bay Packers. She loathed their interests. Mike was more content than she was. Not only did he have is job, but his sister's family lived about one and-a-half hours away. He liked being near them. Susan raised her hands over her head and stretched leisurely. She was, of course, dressed to go out, in a cobalt blue strapless dress that ended three-or-four inches above her knees. She wore her hair up, pinned and clipped in place. Heavy diamond earrings tugged at her lobes. A heavy diamond necklace graced her throat. She wore shimmering glossy nude-colored pantyhose. Her high heels were kicked off somewhere in the room. After their screaming match and her refusal to pack an overnight bag, she had hastily summoned tears then fled to collapse on their bed sobbing. For once, he had not acquiesced to her demands. When she heard the garage door opener activate and his German-made automobile fire up, her tears turned real and she began to sob. Abandoned on Christmas Eve! She soon cried herself to sleep. Susan heard another creak or groan. Had Mike returned for her? She looked toward the doorway. A man stood there, dressed in dark jeans and a black ribbed sweatshirt. Susan screamed. He was on her almost instantly. With powerful hands and arms, he turned her over, pushing her face into the mascara-stained pillow. She continued screaming, now muffled by the heavy down pillow. She tried to fight but could only reach weakly back behind her, or push forward at the mattress. His full weight on her, sport shoe-clad feet holding her legs down limiting her vicious kicks. She fought like a tigress and screamed over and over, her heart rate escalating. She struggled for breath, her face pushed into the pillow by the strong hand at the back of her head. She pushed anew with arms and kicking legs, trying desperately to breathe. She felt lightheaded. As her struggles lessened, she heard his baritone voice for the first time. "Are you going to fight?" She shook her head slowly to the left and right. She felt the pillow next to her move away, the bed shake a little, then he released the pressure on the back of her neck. She rose up with a gasp and in an instant, he pulled the silken pillowslip over her head, cutting off her vision. She felt his heavy hand on her back pushing her into the mattress as he fumbled with his other hand. "What the fuck are you doing here? You're supposed to be gone!" he snapped. She panted inside the dark pillowcase. "We had a fight," Susan gasped. "No doubt your fault, you supercilious bitch," he fumed as he pulled her arms directly behind her and she felt him bind her wrists. Later her fingertips would identify a leather web braided belt, cinched to a tight grip right above her hands. "Oww, my circulation," she whined. His heavy hand shoved at the back of her head, and she worried that another angry move might break her nose. "Please, please don't hurt me. Just take what you want. We won't even report it to the police. Please don't hurt me," she pleaded, her pulse now pounding in her throat. "Ha." An ugly sarcastic laugh. "You bitch, you are not supposed to be here!" He hissed in her ear. She felt his weight rise off her thighs, and she rolled onto her side, away from him. "Please," she whispered impotently, panting in the dark, increasingly hot pillowcase. "Lay there and be quiet, cunt," he ordered. She nodded meekly under the pillowslip. A moment later she heard cabinets and drawer slamming in the kitchen. She wanted to work her head out from under the linen, to draw a fresh breath, but she was paralyzed by her situation. She raised her head slightly, feeling the trim of the pillowcase touching her bare shoulders. His hand gasping her ankle made her give an involuntary shriek, which she quickly stemmed. A ripping sound followed by his wrapping her ankles with tape. Packing tape for the recently shipped Christmas presents, she thought. "You want to scream? Scream your fool head off," she heard him say with an exasperated tone. "No one in the house to hear you, other houses a half-acre away, and all of them empty. You dumb bitch, its Christmas Eve." She was turned onto her back, lying on her hands as he tugged her knees upward and began wrapped them with tape. Her hemline slipped immodestly upward. He thoroughly wrapped her legs below the knees, as well as trapping her thighs together. He twisted her back onto her chest, wrapped one wrist with several winds of tape, then the other, leaving a small margin of tape between. He loosened his belt and pulled it away. She felt him get off the bed, heard him in the closet, and then sensed him towering over her again. "Close your eyes tightly, and don't move. Don't make this rougher than it is," he ordered her. She nodded meekly, squeezed her eyes shut and lay still. She felt him raise the pillowslip over her throat and then her mouth and nose, wrapping the material behind her head, effectively blindfolding her. Fabric was shoved at her lips and she involuntarily opened her mouth, accepting the cloth packing into her mouth. She probed at it with her tongue, trying to seat it in her mouth and not retch. He packed a second article in her mouth, then pressed sticky tape across her lips and cheeks. More ripped sounds and two more pieces of tape reinforced the gag. A different tearing sound now. "Alright, now keep your goddamn eyes shut," he demanded, turning her sideways away from him. She whimpered behind her gag. The pillowslip was pulled away, and her eyes quickly masked with some strip of silky fabric; she later found it to be the tattered remnant of an expensive Victoria's Secret nightgown. He knotted it behind her head. Then his hands were on her again, undoing the clasp of her necklace and pulling it from her throat. Then probing fingers at her lobes as he undid first one, then her second earring. She reddened as she finally came to realize that the man was a thief, and he was taking her personal things. She understood how violated victims of crime could feel, their personal treasures taken from them. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes into her silky blindfold. "Lay here. Lay still," he ordered as he got off the bed. She sensed he watched her to see if she complied. She wasn't sure when he left the room, but soon heard him in other parts of the house. The inch or two of tape between her wrists gave her very little play, but she worked at it. The worst part was the gag, the packing in her mouth. She probed it with her tongue, rewarded with an acrid, musky taste. Was it poison? The fabric didn't seem knit, it was more silky. There had been two pieces... She wailed aloud as she realized she had been gagged with soiled panties drawn from the laundry hamper. She felt tears well up again as she had another emotional spike, but forced herself to cool down. "If you cry, your nose will run and then you really won't be able to breathe," she reasoned. "Don't kill yourself." As she thought about her predicament, she reasoned, perhaps it wasn't so bad. After all, he repeatedly had berated her for even being home. Her presence had scared him as much as he had scared her. He had told her to keep her eyes shut, so she couldn't identify his face. Just let him take what he wants and he'll probably leave without harming you, she told herself. She tried to recall his voice, or even his appearance in the doorway, before he had accosted her. But she couldn't remember anything but that black ribbed pullover. Were his jeans black or dark blue? Was he dark haired? The room had been filled with shadows. Something about his voice haunted her, but she didn't know from where. And again, he had been so surprised and angry, that emotion certainly would have affected his voice. Was he there? She lifted her head, turned toward the doorway and listened intently. She tugged harder on the tape between her wrists. The phone rang. "Shit," his voice from somewhere in the bedroom, and she sensed him running out. She froze, listening intently as the phone rang a second, then a third time and the machine picked up. "Hi, you have reached Mike and Susan. Sorry we can't take your call. Please leave a message." Then the beep. And the same voice as the recorded one. "Susan if you're there, pick up." She squealed and mmpphhed as loudly as she could, pulling on her bounds, flopping on the bed like a landed fish. More speech from the machine, "Look, pick up the damn phone." A pause. "I just wanted to call to say I'm sorry for what I said." Longer pause. "Everybody here is asking after you, wanting to know if you're o.k. Look, I know you were pissed off, but it's Christmas Eve." More pause. "O.K., think about it, and call me on my cell phone. Think if you want me to come home and get you." There was noise at the other end, nieces and nephews running in the hall. "Look, just call me and we'll figure this out. I miss you. Bye." She collapsed, ceasing her struggles as the answering machine gave its final beep. "The old man misses you, and here you lay," came her captor's voice as he entered her bedroom...
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...
Part 3 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. "Pretty Christmas tree," he observed. She glanced over at it, a towering 8 footer with a few presents scattered at the foot of it. Lights alternately winked on and off. The tree was the only illumination in the living room. Looking toward the open windows she could see the reflection of the tree lights. Couldn't anyone out there see her? Save her? He stepped around her with another length of rope and went to the head of the big dining table. He shoved chairs out of the way, moving the big chair at the head of the table, near the window, well out of the way. He knelt under the table and tied a length of rope to the table's ball-and-claw foot. Then he walked around the table and repeated the process. Susan didn't like the way this was going. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?" She asked pointedly. The ski-masked head turned to look at her, then back to watch his hands finish the knot. He rose and walked past her, around to the kitchen. He found the roll of tape and slapped it down hard on the counter in front of her. "Speak when spoken to." She pressed her cracked lips together and nodded. He opened cabinet doors one after another. Over the microwave, he hesitated, then brought down her candles. She loved candles, long ones, short ones, in jars or long tapers. She loved the look of the flame, the aroma of the various scents. He carried the candles around her again, to the huge dining room table, where he set them all in a kind of pattern. He lit them from a book of matches he had palmed in the kitchen, dropping the dead matches to the high-gloss table top. He didn't care if he ruined the finish, Susan told herself angrily. "Since I finished my Christmas rounds earlier than I thought, I figured I'd come back a wrap a special present for you and your husband," he said in his baritone voice. "Maybe even a gift for the whole town, you fucking rich bitch." He untied the leash binding her to the stool. He pulled at her leash, and she got to her feet, head downcast, following her new master to the head of the table, a few feet from the dark glass. Outside, she could see the frozen lake, and brightly lit houses across the shore road. He grabbed a handful of her long hair and pulled-pushed her face against the glass, pushed with his free hand so her bare breasts were smashed flat against the cold glass. The shock awoke her from her dull sense of desertion. "Let's give the town an eyeful, huh? After all, it's a Christmas celebration for everyone!" She was dragged backwards, her hands and ass bumping into the table. "Get on your knees, bitch." She hesitated. "I- I- I can't, I shouldn't. My knees --" He kicked out, sweeping her leg from under her. She collapsed. His hand in her hair again, pulling her to a kneeling position. Hands and rope at her ankle, lashing her to the table. She felt tears well up anew. Both ankles were tied to separate table legs. He had retreated to the kitchen, but was returning with ever more accursed rope. A half-dozen passes through her tied hands, then more knots. The rope thrown across the table top to the far end of the table. Her bound arms were drawn high behind her, across the face of the table as he maliciously made his knots at the foot end of the table. She was immobilized, kneeling, her back stretched backwards almost to the breaking point, her breasts thrust upward. The dark glass before her offered two views. In one, she could see the picturesque winter scene below her, with all those houses. Please, couldn't someone just look up here and see the horror she was trapped in? she thought. But of course, the house was dark behind her. The other view was of the pinpoints of light behind her: the Christmas tree and the candles flickering. There was enough light to see her shadowy face, loose hair on her face and throat, her heavy breasts pointing up. She saw his shadow straighten from the table, and retire down the hall to the bed and bathrooms. He returned almost immediately, stepping around her. He had one of her silken Hermes scarves, and carefully folded it into a smooth band. He approached her and things went dark as he blindfolded her yet again. What was he going to do to her now? Her heartbeat rose. She heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper. "No, please no, don't..." "We can do this one of two ways," his voice came. "You can be a good girl, and finish what you started. You've played the cock-teaser. Let's see if you're the kind of cocksucker I think you are. Or plan B, I can really hurt you." Silence. "Your call." "I can't..." His open-handed slap staggered her. She felt the long leash wrap around her throat, and his body moving in close to her. "Say it," he said. She stayed silent. His fingers were in her hair, pulling her head up. "Say it." "Yes, o.k., I will..." "Suck your cock," he said. "Say it." "Yes, I will suck your cock. But then you'll let me go, please..." He tightened the leash around her neck. "Are you good?" She sighed, all hope destroyed. "Yes, yes I'm a great cocksucker. Put your meat in my mouth and let me show you what a good cocksucker I can be." She felt the bulbous head at her lips, and began to kiss it tentatively. With one motion, he shoved his manhood past her lips, to the back of her throat. She couldn't move freely to give him the pleasure she had promised, but it didn't seem to matter. He fucked her mouth with abandon, and she caught herself from gagging or retching as the thick head pounded at the back of her throat. Susan willed herself to be anywhere but where she was, naked from the waist up, clad only in sheer pantyhose, bound on her knees in front of a picture window facing the whole sleepy town. Her arms pulled impossibly high behind her back. She had never known such abuse, such a sense of desertion. She felt his cock swell in her mouth, and tried to twist away, but he held her head and blasted his cum down her throat, filling her mouth. She squealed around his thick member, and as he pulled out, coughed and gagged, the thick liquid escaping her lips, dripping on her chin, breast and tummy. "You bitch. That was nothing. I've had better." He sneered above her. She felt tears well, and gave a half-sob. She had never been physically abused and so cruelly mistreated. Susan heard him arranging his clothes and zipping up. Quickly the blindfold was pulled away. Her knees, tender from too much tennis in her youth and a frequent concern, were in agony. She had no feeling in her hands, outstretched behind her. She prayed for release. Where was her husband, her protector? "Now to finish this Christmas present," the man in the ski mask said. In the reflection, she saw him pick up a candle. "On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me - He tilted the red candle over her, and searing hot wax spilled down her left breast. She didn't feel it at first, but then the burning, the pain as the wax trailed over her nipple and began to harden. She screamed, sobbed, pleaded for release. He put the candle aside, picked up the discarded scarf, tied a large knot in the center of it. He fitted the thick silk knot between her teeth, wrapped the scarf around her head and knotted it impossibly tightly behind her head. "On the second day of Christmas..." The second pour was higher, and caught loose tendrils of her hair at her shoulder. She screamed around the thick gag. A rivulet of wax trailed down her chest, another path to her tortured nipple. "Maybe a little green wax now. On the third day of Christmas..." He poured, she screamed. Twelve days. Nine candles. Wax on her shoulders, in her hair, all over both breasts and nipples, down her flat stomach, even hardened at the waistband of her pantyhose. At some point, he left. She wished she knew when, but couldn't turn to see a clock. Her gag had been loosened, more underpants shoved in her mouth and cheeks, the scarf gag replaced and reinforced with strips of tape. She raised her head from its sunken position. The phone was ringing. Mike! Please, please let it be Mike! The answering machine. And Mike's voice. In an instant, she lost hope. "Well, I don't know where you are, but I hope you're happy." Mike's hurt pouting voice. "You missed Christmas. I know you're there, because you're not answering your cell. And it's Christmas Eve, I know you're not at some bar. Fine. Just think about what I want, and what you want. I'm spending the night here at Claire's -" She wailed anew, her eyes wet with tears, one escaping and rolling down her bound cheek. -- and I'll be home sometime tomorrow. Good night." The final click. Beneath her, on the little shore road, she saw a car riding the edge, heading toward town. Her attacker. The thief. Her only hope. Driving away. # # #
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