She tugged on the rope that stretched from her hands up to the wood dowel that extended across the width of the closet.
Nothing.
A mournful groan tried its best to escape the foul rubber ball jammed deep in her mouth.
It isn't going anywhere, either.
A metaphor for life, she thought despondently. Especially mine right now.
God, is he going to leave me like this all night?
She bounced on her toes, trying to relieve the stress of the rope buried alive in her netherworlds.
Nothing.
She stared straight ahead at the door, vaguely aware of the dim light that seeped through the crack at the bottom. She tried to look down, but he had hitched the top of the trainer to the rack contraption bolted to the back wall of the closet.
Nothing.
Is this the trick? Or the treat?
It had been his idea, of course, to dress her up as a French maid. He had taken an unusual interest in helping her make her costume "perfect," although it was a little racier than she usually preferred for public display.
What the heck, she remembered thinking. 'Tis the season, etc.
The shoes should have tipped her off. Lace-up Victorian ankle boots with monumental heels, now bound tightly together with what seemed like a yard of nylon cord.
And let's not forget his Grim Reaper getup. Hell, oh...
They had left the party early, but she had caught enough of a buzz to feel frisky. So she didn't complain when he put the blindfold over her eyes.
In fact, she had been looking forward to it all evening.
Once ensconced in darkness, she felt his fingers pulling down the delicate lace that pretended to veil her breasts.
Fiery breath.
Tongue.
Suckling.
Drawing her nipples deep inside his mouth.
His hands snaking between her legs.
Pushing them apart.
Caressing the damp patch of satin.
Fingers.
Digging.
Deeper.
Using his thumb to press her most eager button.
As her hips began to grind in rhythmic counterpoint, his touch had vanished.
Nothing.
Only to return in the form of cuffs around her ankles, soon extended wide with a spreader bar.
Good, she remembered thinking.
Right on schedule.
He kissed his way quickly up one of her stockinged legs until his head was under her silly petticoat.
Then his mouth found her crotch.
Hungry.
Pulling aside the G-string with his teeth.
Greedy.
Grazing.
Gnawing.
Gluttonous.
By the time he told her to open her mouth, she was practically hyperventilating.
She was ready for a kiss.
Instead, she got...a Tootsie Pop?
"Suck," he rasped as he returned his attentions to her triangle while moving his fingers like spiders up her belly until they found her breasts, then her nipples.
As the childhood cherry flavor overwhelmed all sense of taste, she put her hands against the back of his head and pushed his face hard into her groin.
I need to scream. Soon.
Instead, she slurped the hard candy ball with all her might, in hopes he would return the courtesy.
Close.
Red-alert sirens wailing.
Closer.
Nerves on fire like ruptured power lines sputtering on the street in a downpour.
Too close to endure another second.
Mind and muscles rigid in suspended eruption.
Don't you dare fucking stop.
Suddenly, he stood up, grabbed her wrists and pulled them behind her back.
No, she implored with all her heart.
"Yes," he replied out loud.
She swore at him through teeth clenched tight around the lollipop stick as he lashed her arms together.
Desperately willing herself to climax.
