The Borrowing Part Two

THE BORROWER

Why do I do what I do? Because I can, that's the simple answer. Some people only dream of what they want to do. Me? I just do it.

Oh, it requires careful planning to be sure. I mean, if you want to abduct an attractive young woman, drug her, take her to a deserted warehouse, truss her up and cut her clothes off and then fuck her in your own, special way, you need to know what you're doing. You need to have plans, contingency plans, and you've got to take it seriously, otherwise the game won't work. It doesn't matter that she knows you and it's a game for consenting adults. You have to be convincing.

But above all, you have to have style.

Anyway, I'm not bragging, just explaining. Letting you in on a few little game secrets, if you like. I'm not overly worried about telling you; it might not work for you and your partner. Everyone has their own particular likes and dislikes.

So there she is, all flustered, hurrying across the car park after I've called her. Very attractive as she always is, dressed in a well-tailored, figure-hugging jacket and skirt, smart patent leather shoes, sheer stockings (I'm sure they were stockings rather than tights, and later investigations prove my instincts right… I have a feel for these things). Of course she's flustered; I've just told her that her pride and joy – her lovely new BMW– has been vandalised. So never mind the natural gloom in the office car park, she doesn't clock my features and realise that it's me because she's in a hurry to see if her precious car's all right. Why should she study me anyway? I'm just a security guard.

Anyway; how did she know I wasn't a real security guard? You can pick those uniforms up very cheaply from special work wear stockists. Maybe even buy one from an ex-security guard, no questions asked. And if, like me, you can modify your voice a bit, although she's suspecting something for our game at some point, this takes her completely by surprise. She really didn't know it was me!

So after she's pushed past me, it's so easy to get the aerosol out and spray her with it, right across the nose, before she even gets a chance to look round. Out like a light. Then, I deftly catch her before she falls, find her car keys (easy this time, because she was already holding them), then put her into her car, collect her bags and files and put them on the back seat, get into the driving set myself and off we go. I lose the hat, nobody notices as we drive out, and even if they did, all they see is their colleague, sitting upright in the passenger seat next to me, safely strapped in. Of course they don't notice she's unconscious, she's wearing the dark glasses I provided her with. All part of the game.

So, there she is, duly trussed up, the ropes holding her arms in front of her suspended from a cross beam in the warehouse. Nice, empty, well-lit industrial unit. I've rented it for years now. Little industrial estate on the edge of town. Most of the units in this part are empty. But it's fine for games like this. Just drive the car in, close the doors, and there we go. I sometimes even brew a cup of tea of coffee before I get started, and we won't be disturbed. Some people just don't understand. They think being sexually adventurous means keeping the light on.

It was – is – quite wonderful to watch her wake up. Of course, she's blindfolded now, with a rather useful adhesive fabric (a bit expensive, but eminently suitable for the job), so she can't see me and I –alas – can't see her eyes open. I figure it takes her about 30 or 40 seconds of disorientation as the drug wears off for her to realise that something's not right. Then she realises it's me. Or does she have a nagging pang of uncertainty? What if it's not me? What if she's really been abducted by some maniac?

She tests the ropes, straining her arms up, making her breasts push against the material of her jacket and silky blouse, cranes her swan-like neck up to get some idea of perspective, the pearl necklace she's wearing moving seductively as she moves. Have to do something about that later. Jewellery can be so distracting. It gets in the way. Some women even hide behind it.

She's a clever one, I realised that a long time ago. That's what attracted me to her as much as her beauty. She stamps one of her feet to gauge noise reaction, to determine where she is. She's playing the game well. She cocks her head slightly to listen. I feel aroused as she does so. She looks so sweet, almost innocent. Just like the first time we played. Was that really fifteen years ago now since she first let me 'borrow' her? Must be – it says so in the diary and the diary can't lie.

Now she calls out. I could answer, but I'm too fascinated to watch what she does yet. I could creep up close and whisper "Hello" back, but it won't work as well as what I've got planned. Keep the edge. Crank up the tension. Makes the orgasm so much better. Now she shouts louder. Soon time to make my presence known… but let's wait, just a bit longer. I check the cameras. Yes, they're rolling. Good shots from two angles. Should edit nicely together later, mix of long shot and close-up. She'll love it as much as I will. It adds an extra dimension to see yourself the way your partner has seen you.

Now to let her know I'm here. No words, nothing drastic. Just a gentle caress of my fingertip on her cheek…

She screams. She literally leaps away from me in the opposite direction, but the ropes snap her back. Good reaction. Maybe I really did make her jump! And then I hear a trickling sound and notice a few splashes of yellow liquid on the concrete floor by her legs. This doesn't happen often, because women generally have excellent self-control in matters lavatorial, but yes, she's pissed her panties and now she's moaning, probably from embarrassment. But that's pure class on her part, you see? For all she knows, I might be some crazed lunatic who wants to cut her throat or really hurt her, and yet she's embarrassed about wetting herself in front of me. That takes a special kind of woman – and that's the sort I go for. Hell – that's part of the reason why I fell for her in the first place! Style. Class. That's why she appreciates me because that's what I've got and that's the way I treat her. That's why we get on so well.

Now she's regained a bit of her poise, but on the downside, some of her big businesswoman arrogance. She's standing there, looking across to where she thinks I'm standing, chin up, back straight. She'd have her arms folded if I hadn't have tied them up. Probably thinks she can either negotiate with me or browbeat me. All part of the game. That's the trouble with some executive-type women. They try to be men. It doesn't work – it just makes them unattractive. And that's part of the challenge – taking them down several pegs, stripping away all the unreal façade until we get to the essential female beneath. It's both teaching them a lesson and helping them. And at no cost whatsoever. All part of the service, Ma'am. She loves that game. If ever she forgets her femininity, this is how we find it for her.

Of course, disorientated or not, she's also aroused… I can see that her nipples, quite clearly erect and straining against her blouse. So that's probably confusing her for a start and breaking down the barriers. I estimate it will be under an hour before she loses the façade. In my book that doesn't make her weak – it makes her strong, because she's not afraid to admit to herself what she likes and what turns her on. I'm sure she does like her job, the money, and the power she has over other workers – especially some of the men. I've been on the receiving end of that sort of female boss attitude, many years past. Big shots in the office, but their boyfriends don't always play ball in real life. Bad night with lover boy? Take it out on the male staff! Another good reason to make some of these power-suited bitches realise exactly who they are and what their natural place is.

All the same, I don't think that she's a bitch. I've known her for some years now. She's competent, intelligent, nobody's fool and certainly no doormat – I can see that much from the way she's reacting now. But for all her poise and strength, her body language – her real body language – is betraying her. The hardening nipples, the slight flush to the cheeks and the ear lobes – never forget the ear lobes. They redden and swell with blood when a woman is aroused – just like nipples, in fact, but more obvious. I wonder if she realises that herself right now?

Time to make another move. Don't overplay your hand too soon. Suspense counts for a lot, patience counts for even more. Too much too soon and she'll think I'm some would-be rapist with no style. I'd hate her to think that. That I've got no style.

I trace my finger gently down her left cheek, soft, delicate skin, the finger leaving a temporary white trail in its wake before the flushing redness swallows it up again. Now across her bottom lip – and that's swollen slightly too. Despite herself she's even opened her mouth a little, letting me catch a glimpse of her white, even teeth and her moist tongue. Now my finger travels down her graceful neck. She swallows as it moves down, but she says nothing, she doesn't move an inch. I feel tension growing in my groin as my own blood supply increases, and I resist the temptation to run my finger further down to her cleavage. That's not the finger's job anyway.

Instead I gently run my hand through her dark, lustrous hair. It's largely been scraped back into a loose bun, but with a neat fringe and some nice dangling strands at the side of her face. A few more strands have come adrift since I 'borrowed' her and this enhances her sexuality – a nice counterpoint between the sleek, well-groomed executive and the sexual wanton that lurks beneath.

I swiftly pull her hair slide away and her hair is released, falling almost gratefully across her slender shoulders. I sense she likes that feeling as it swishes across her face, and this, I decide, is the time to speak, to make her aware of the fact that I mean business and should be respected.

"Shake your head!" I command, my voice raised a little above its normal conversation level. Nice and authoritative. The echo in the warehouse helps enhance it. In her disorientation, she doesn't question it; she obeys and does as she is told. Her hair swishes to and fro and I see her cheekbones and neck exposed then slightly covered by the hair. I catch a whiff of her shampoo, too – some kind of citrus smell, if I'm not mistaken, but I'm not lingering that close to her – not yet. I can sense she's angry – angry with me for making her do that with her hair and angry with herself for obeying. She knows her barriers are breaking down, so she attempts to rebuild them. Again – she's resisting – and that is part of the game. It won't work unless she plays her part to win. But losing – in her case – can be so sweet!

So she tries to bargain with me. To start with her voice is a pitch higher than she'd like it, so I give her a chance to calm herself and moderate it. She's obviously used to speaking and conveying information. Probably gives presentations and makes all sorts of business deals. So she tries to be calm, firm and direct. She dismisses it all as a game and tries to make me pay attention. Offers me money and jewellery – her car even. None of that interests me. I've got all of that (well, my wife has the jewellery, but you take my point). I don't get offended that she's treating me like some cheap thief – it's an understandable reaction. The best way to deal with this is to say nothing, but to make her realise what she means to me, dismiss her attempts at bargaining. I simply run my fingers through her hair, lifting it and letting the strands slip through my fingers and fall around her shoulders again. It says more than words can in this situation.

She gets the message alright and snaps at me to stop it, so I put my hand under her hair and stroke the sensitive back of her neck. I know what's coming next. That's why I'm a good arm's length away and slightly behind her as I stroke her neck. She screams in anger and thrashes around, her long legs kicking out to the side, where she thinks I am standing, screaming at me, threatening me that I'll pay for this. She even resorts to swearing which, although slightly disappointing in one sense, as it diminishes her natural grace and charm, is quite sexy. Foxy lady, yes, but this vixen can bite. Except she's not going to bite me.

Now is the time to play my hand – literally.

I reach for the knife, where it lies on the soft cloth it is usually wrapped in, on the small trestle table next to me, next to my mug of coffee. There's still a drop left in the mug so I swiftly gulp it down before I put and end to her cursing and thrashing. She'd have got tired eventually, but it's far more effective to stop her mid-flow when she's like this.

I grab her hair – hard – and yank her head back with some force, eliciting a gasp of pain from her. In almost the same movement I lay the knife's blade across her exposed throat. The feel of the cold, sharp steel, the force in my grip and the actual pressure on the knife blade convey the message very clearly indeed. I'm not to be trifled with. I'm not some chancer, some passer-by who fancies a grope. I'm serious. I've got style – a hard style.

I asks her, quite calmly – chattily almost – if she can feel the knife on her throat.

She babbles an affirmative, straining to move away from the blade, but with me gripping her hair, and the fist of my hand wedging her head into that position, she can't move. Next I ask her if she can feel how sharp it is. For a few seconds she doesn't answer – fear maybe or just feistiness, I'm not sure which, but when I ask a question, I expect an answer. I don't like being ignored - except when I want to be. I tilt the blade slightly, to give her some impression of how long it is. If I increase the pressure too much right now, there'll be a nasty accident, and we don't want that. But as she still won't answer, I increase the pressure slightly, feeling a thrill of excitement as her skin whitens beneath the blade. Just a fraction more and she'd never be able to say anything ever again. I hope by this very act that the message has been conveyed clearly to her.

Now she answers, all in a rush, her words tumbling out as her bravado evaporates. Yes, she feels it and please, please don't hurt her. More barriers have broken down. The process is well under way now. Good. Now I need to make sure she knows just how calm, calculating and charming I really am. Shouting will only reduce to her a total wreck and she'll be unresponsive to what follows. Snarling and whispering produce a false sense of menace – hell, it makes me sound like some cheap actor only trying to be menacing. So I speak to her in my normal tone of voice, calmly, evenly and simply tell her that I could hurt her – if that was what I wanted, and that with my trusty knife, it wouldn't require too much effort on my part.

Again, it's the game, you see? We're playing it well tonight.

She can't nod, but she's got the message… I can see that by the involuntary tightening of her jaw muscles. I also note that she needs to swallow, so I release my grip on her hair and move the knife away from her throat, smiling as I notice a little red pressure line across her elegant white neck, like some sleek choker. It begins to fade, but the impression it has made goes deeper – far deeper – than just a transient mark on her skin. Anyway, now's the time to get down the main business, to show her – but not by sight, by feel (a far more powerful emotion) – how her barriers will crumble completely before me.

I grip one of her lapels and tug her jacket forward, still noticing her nipples hard and prominent through the fabric of her blouse and the bra beneath it. With a deft flick upwards, the top button of her jacket is snipped off and plinks lightly to the floor. I see her brow furrow beneath the blindfold tape – she's not sure what has happened yet – although she feels and hears the second button being snipped off. Very easy with this knife! I smile as I hear her gasp as the third button goes and her jacket loosens and begins to gape open – now she realises I'm cutting her buttons off, stripping away her power-suited frontage. Her jacket falls open completely as the last button flies off and I let go of the lapel. Expensive jacket, I realise, as I catch a glimpse of the label. Pity almost, but she'll thank me for it later. Well, I bought it for her, anyway.

Her jaw clenches and her lips tighten to thin lines as she feels me trace the knife's tip up from her jacket's lapels to her collarbone. She winces as the cold steel touches her bare flesh through her open blouse collar and then she feels me tug the knife forwards, cutting through the sheer fabric of her blouse and then to each, small, pearly button, making them fly off, one after the other, so easily separated from her blouse. The ease with which they are removed off makes me wonder – not for the first time – whether such flimsy garments are actually designed with this in mind – to look sensual and inflame passions, then to ripped open so easily when the occasion demands.

I step back for a few seconds to appraise her fine, firm cleavage, gloriously presented in a lacy, scarlet bra. It's again interesting that this powerful young executive strives so hard to hide her femininity behind a severe suit and an attitude to match, when she wears such provocative, sensual underwear. Why not a plain white cotton, functional brassiere? Why? I'll tell you why: Because she yearns to be a woman, to be feminine and to have that femininity, that sexuality, revealed, laid bare and taken advantage of. She secretly longs for someone to take her roughly, to tear her clothes away, to fuck her so hard across a desk – maybe even mid-meeting – dismissing as irrelevant whatever marketing or PR gobbledygook she's been parroting out, ignoring her excellent university qualifications and any sort of PC non-sexist attitude. But the men she works with, or meets during the course of her work won't do that. I might, but no one would expect it of me. (Well, as an aside here, that's how the wife and I got properly acquainted, years ago, during an after-hours business meeting in her office, and she loved it too. That's when I asked her to marry me. Not only did I get the girl, I got the work contract too. But I digress.)

No. The men are too frightened, too cowed down by the PC Thought Police, of fear of sexual harassment lawsuits. They're even afraid to think about her as anything other than an androgynous, emotionless executive, like them. They can't be male, she can't be female, they can't behave as nature intended. It makes life difficult for them, and it makes life intolerable for her. So this is her liberation, her dreams come true. She just needs to realise it, that's all. Like I said, give it an hour….

I've already noticed her breathing changing; can almost hear her heartbeat speeding up. Those ear lobes are giving the game away again. Bright red, like flashing "Fuck Me" beacons. She is excited. No other word for it, Afraid, yes, apprehensive, certainly. But she is excited, no denying it! She's still hanging there, her jacket and blouse now open, her breasts slightly pushed together and up by the way her arms are pulled up. Nipples rock hard under that bra. They need some air. I place the knife blade under the front of her bra and make a quick upward movement. No real exertion required on my part, because this knife can cut. The bra snips in half and her breasts spill free from the cups, the cool air tightening he generous nipples even more. Oh yes, she liked that, no constriction, no restriction. Freedom.