I stepped from the train, the wind catching my short circle skirt, sending a swirl of red fabric up about my taught thighs. I ran a hand through my auburn hair and started down the platform, my rolling suitcase trailing behind me. The sun had just begun to set and here I was just entering town. I remembered the directions given to me by the woman with the thick Scottish accent. A left at the entrance to the station, across the tracks, second right and then I would head straight until I saw the sign swinging above the door of the welcoming hostel. I was relieved that I had thought to seek a place to stay when I was London, rather than waiting until I had reached Stirling, Scotland. The countryside appeared peaceful and I stopped a moment to gaze at the setting sun.
As I entered the station, I nodded at a man who sat quietly gazing at me as I rolled my bag through the station, the clicking of me bag over the cobblestones resounding against the bare white walls of the station. I felt suddenly isolated and alone. His lucid eyes lingered on the swell of my breasts, my waspy little waist, and I swallowed hard as a feeling welled up within my chest. I felt my cheeks flush as I shot another glance his way as I rolled past him.
The street lamps had begun to shine down and a slight fog had arisen, a mist covering the streets. As I turned left out of the station, I heard a new noise added to the cacophony of my bag and my shoes. It took me a minute to pinpoint its direction, this pounding that cut through the darkness. It sounded like another person's footsteps not too far behind. I crossed over the tracks, my pace quickening. I turned to see whom it was that was walking behind me but through the advancing fog, I could barely make out the lamppost that I had just walked past. I trudged through the darkness passing by the first street and gladly awaiting the second one, when suddenly I felt a hand grab me. I felt one clamp over my mouth as I let loose a cry and my arms were pinned to my sides by another strong sinewy arm. I felt a sharp pain in my neck and my eyelids fluttered to a close...
When I came to, I felt the chill of the air against my bare skin. My mouth seemed hot and dry as if I was in terrible need of something to drink. I struggled to move my sluggish limbs only to find that my arms and legs were bound to the four-posts of a bed covered in red satin. I noted that my sight had that fuzziness about it that only comes when I have had too much to drink. I surveyed the room; candles lit up gray stonewalls, and danced across my flesh stopping to play upon my pert nipples. There were other furnishings: a chaise, an armoire, a mirror, and two candle laden nightstands. The door appeared to be of a heavy oak, its iron handle rusted with age. My mind raced at what waited beyond that door, at what had brought me to this chilly room.
I didn't have to wait long for my answer. The handle turned and in came the man from the station, a tray in his hand. He did not speak to me, his eyes merely wandered over my bare breasts, the small swell of my stomach, the tiny patch of auburn hair between my legs. I noted his ivory skin and those silvery eyes surrounded by a ring of dark lashes. His hair was nearly as dark as the sky had become once the sun had set in Stirling. His appearance and the beauty of his eyes had caught me off guard; I began to struggle against my bonds.
"Let me go, you fucker," I studied him as I spoke. His lips remained sealed together. He set the tray on one of the nightstands beside the bed. I glimpsed a bottle of chilled wine and some grapes.
"God damn it, let me go." I felt my muscles straining against the fabric of the ropes; they dug into my skin and burned my flesh. I was trying to muster up the right timbre in my voice, I wanted to sound angry and threatening but his very presence was soothing to me. This man who had dragged from the streets of a Scottish town, stripped me naked, and tied me to an old-fashioned bed calmed me. He poured some wine into a crystal glass and placed it at my lips, I gulped the liquid down. It was sweet and crisp, clearing my head rather than adding to the confusion. He set the glass down. I gasped when I felt his hand touch my skin; he dragged those cool fingers over my skin drinking me in as I had drunk the wine. His fingers lightly slid over my stomach, wandering below my breasts.
"Simone," he said. "Simone, you are my angel."
I closed my eyes as his hand caressed my breasts, flicking each nipple with a tender yet playful intensity. I didn't wonder at how he knew me, how he knew the touch my body craved or the fact that he knew me, he knew my name. I reveled in his touch. My mouth opened as I cried out when he pinched one nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. He brought his lips to mine, his tongue searching, his icy breath mixing with the air from my lungs. His hand sliding down and down until he slipped his fingers within me. I bucked against him, in awe of how wet I had become. He stood up and released the sash that held a black robe about him. He revealed his body to me and I was dumbstruck by the youthful beauty of his form. His thick cock stood erect. He climbed onto the bed and began to stroke my skin with his cock as he had done with his hands.
I wanted so badly to touch him to guide him into me, to feel his thick cock within my glistening sex. Yet my hands and legs were bound to the bed, all I could do was whisper, "Please."
