It was 9pm on a Tuesday. She was in the kitchen, washing up. Stir fry with a poached egg on top, a dish she'd consider her specialty. She had this incredible knack for getting the egg just right, so that when it was dished up onto the hot stir fry it would cook the rest of the way to perfection, such that the yolk oozed out when you cut into it and the white of the egg hadn't gotten too chewy yet. It was her special talent.; the one thing she felt, undeniably, that she was very good at. The only problem, as with most good food, was the clean up. The egg leaves this stubborn layer of a weird scummy substance stuck to the pan that clings on tight, before eventually coming off in soggy flakes that almost put her off eggs altogether, and the sauce left at the bottom of the pan of noodles gets oily and tough to wash away.
She thought she remembered something from science at school about dish soap being an emulsifier and pondered why then it didn't seem to fucking work, but thought perhaps she was just misremembering. In any case, she was thoroughly absorbed in the task at hand, furiously scrubbing at the last of the egg protein at the bottom of the one pan as she braced herself to give the noodles pan a second pass. Music on, cleaning the dishes. Completely oblivious to Him. Stood 10m or so behind her, outside, gazing through the window. He had approached silently, not that it would've mattered. She had her headphones on - a big, bulky pair, closed cup and noise cancelling and probably turned up a bit too loud. She would've never heard him walk up to the house. She certainly didn't hear him gently tease open the door and let himself inside.
He watched her without reaction, breathing calmly, stood in the doorway just a few meters behind her. He watched her bob to the music in her headphones, swinging her head side-to-side and stage-whispering the lyrics under her breath as she rinsed the last of the soap out of the egg pan, before placing it triumphantly in the drying rack. She took a final swig of the last of her red wine in celebration, before she turned to grab the half empty bottle on the other counter. He moved with her as she went, stepping quietly and staying right behind her back as she walked over to the bottle and poured another generous glass. He teetered towards her right side, anticipating her turn back to the sink top get stuck back in with the noodles pan, the next song starting in her headphones as the tinny sound of guitars and high vocals leaked out. He was stood so close to her now. He could smell the shampoo she'd used that morning. See the freckles of the skin on the back of her neck and her exposed shoulders.
She was wearing something caught between a tank top and a sports bra in a pink that looked a little mismatched with her pale grey jogging bottoms; comfy clothes for a weekend home alone. She stopped to take another sip from her glass of wine, accidentally leaving behind some suds from her washing up gloves as she did, before rinsing the pan and exclaiming in frustration at the remnants of the sauce that had lingered in the corners. He stared at the wine glass. Her full, plump lips had just touched it when she drank, a little bit of the wine swirling around in the glass had washed over her lips without quite being drank. Preoccupied with her washing up she sighed, but gave her spirits one last rallying cry for the chorus. He reached out, picked up her glass, and took a sip. His heart caught in his chest as he placed it back on the counter. He'd tasted the wine she was tasting. Whether she knew it or not, she was sharing this wine with him, and the thought was electric to him.
They alternated like this for a few minutes, her scrubbing the dishes in between sips of wine, and him taking the glass, placing his lips on the rim exactly where she'd just placed hers, and closing his eyes as he savoured the taste, imagining he could taste her mouth in the wine, and swallowing deeply, barely placing the glass back in time for her to take a sip. She probably would've noticed his hand take it if she was paying attention. Probably should've realised it was strange the glass was emptying so fast. But she didn't. She didn't expect a thing.
She had just a serving spoon to wash now, a little brown from the sauce and sporting a stray sliver of onion that came off easily under the rough side of the sponge. She gave it another once over with some more washing up liquid and the soft side, just to be sure. He thought about how he was going to do it. She rinsed it off under the tap. His hands went to her side, a few centimetres from her body. She placed it in the rack before peeling off the gloves. His cool demeanour faltered for a second as he took a shaky breath, but she couldn't hear through her headphones. She placed the gloves over the tap and took one last, slow drink of the wine. She still didn't realise it had gone down far too fast as she returned the empty glass to the counter. He finally made his move.
She was taken completely off guard, his arms swiftly wrapping around her torso as his left hand went straight to her mouth to stop her screaming. His right arm went across the front of her, pinning her arms to her side as he pulled her down to the floor. It was clumsy, her headphones flying across the floor and scattering ear cuffs, plastic panels, and batteries across the room, but he was much stronger than her. She began struggling as soon as she was on the floor, but he rolled so that she was halfway underneath him and pinned her with his body weight. He was trying to get his right arm out from underneath her now, but she was pushing her weight into it as she screamed uselessly into his palm.
It was hurting him, badly, as they continued to struggle on the laminate floor. She started desperately gnawing at his palm against her mouth, struggling to find purchase again and again before she just about found purchase on a small pinch of skin. He grunted in pain, but continued wrestling her on the floor. He had her pinned still, but his arm was still trapped underneath her. The reality of his situation started to set in. What if she broke free? What if she wore him out and screamed? Managed to run out of the house? His stomach dropped. He wasn't sure if he was sweating from nervousness or exertion anymore, he just knew he needed to get it under control ASAP.
He readjusted his left hand and gripped her face tight, pressing her cheeks painfully against her teeth and halfway blocking her nostrils until she soon couldn't find the breath to keep trying to scream. With the leverage on her face, he pulled her up with as much force as he could from his awkward angle partially on top of her. She tried to push her body down harder in response, and the pain in his pinned arm intensified. He moved it upwards towards her raised shoulders, gritting his teeth against the pain. Every inch further his arm moved up her body, she became more and more desperate to pin it in place. She thrashed her legs trying to find leverage to press down harder, screaming against his hand in desperation. In addition to the deep muscle soreness from the crushing weight of her body, his arm stung with the heat of a friction burn, his skin becoming steadily more damaged as he forced it across the floor.
It was intense, almost unbearable; he considered - with some irony, he thought - using his safeword. But as his arm got closer to her shoulders, it became gradually much easier, less painful. She lost her ability, more and more, to pin his arm, until he suddenly had it free. Immediately her arms went out to her sides to push herself up, but he positioned himself more fully over her to pin her with all of his weight. Securing her against the ground, his still aching arm darted out to force her own right arm behind her back, and with some struggle and adjustment he brought his knee up to pin her wrist just above her tailbone. She was more desperate to escape now then ever, thrashing wildly and kicking her legs as she tried to resist him. She tried to shake her head free as he attempted to swap the hand over her mouth so he could grab her other arm.
It was tricky to keep holding her, his palm was slick and clammy and her saliva had made keeping grip on her face increasingly more difficult. He kept trying to adjust to transfer, but it was too awkward - her face was to the left, and he knew he wouldn't have the strength to keep her mouth covered crossing his arm over behind her head. He tried a few times to turn her head, but she had too much strength in her neck for him to turn it enough to force her to face the other side. She was pushing against the ground with her free arm and trying to use her foot to push off against the cupboards to get out from under him. The horrible feeling of dread entered his gut again, urging him to fix it. He honestly hadn't thought she would put up such a fight - certainly not enough that he might actually lose. Moments before she finally squirmed out of his grasp, he used his free hand to pull her head up sharply by the hair and successfully swapped his hands, letting her only get out a sharp exhale before he reestablished his complete grip on her face. With this left hand now free, he grabbed her left arm firmly - not without a couple failed attempts - and brought it onto her back to pin with his other leg.
They were both exhausted now, panting desperately and dripping sweat onto the plastic laminate. Awkwardly, he managed to produce a zip tie from his pocket and wrap it, still open, around one of her wrists below the point his knee pinned. He attempted, struggling, to manoeuvre her hands so he could get it around the other, but it was impossible. He realised he'd need both hands. Chucking the zip tie to the side, he instead produced a roll of duct tape from his back pocket. With some effort, he peeled away the edge of the strip with his teeth to use. He rolled her onto her side so he was behind her, his right arm now under her neck, still holding her mouth shut, and pressed the sticky side of the loose strip against her cheek.
She squirmed. It didn't help. She tried to yell out, but it barely made a sound, muffled behind his hand. Moving his hand to hold her more by the chin, he was able to get the tape over her sealed lips. She probably could've put up a little bit more of a fight, but she was exhausted, and she wondered whether it would achieve anything more than a delay. The tape reached her cheek on the other side, and he bit it and pulled wildly until the roll came away with an uneven tear. Her mouth was taped shut. Tight. And with no need to keep his hand over her mouth, he brought himself to a kneel, pinning her down again by the middle of her back, and fastened the zip tie around both wrists. He had bound and gagged her. Just about.
