Mark's the sort of man you can't help but want to tie down and gag. He's clean shaven, nicely dressed and well mannered with slight build and quick eyes—ah, but that Mr. Brady routine is just a front. The man is actually a tightly wound ball of futile energy and repressed urges. I think he only shaves his head to keep from tearing his hair out in frustration. After a while, his manic approach to life in general makes you want to push him down, sit on his legs and scream, "BE STILL!"
It makes it worse that he is a manager in a busy restaurant—a busy restaurant in a chain of busy restaurants geared towards cheap, picky people (Americans). A million things can go wrong in such a restaurant, and Mark seems to feel that it is his personal responsibility to address every one of those things, every day... whether they actually go wrong or not. "When you get a chance," in Mark-speak translates to: "Now! Now now now, right this very second or something terrible will happen!"
Yet, despite (or rather because of) his hyperactive quirkiness and frantic over-management, I want him. I want him the way certain straight women want gay men. A gay man, to some women, is a challenge: a chance to prove the phenomenal power of their own femininity. They want to convert him. And I want to convert Mark. I want to absorb his heartbreaking urgency, to quell his restlessness and soothe his anguish. I wanted to sate his need, once and for all. All right, I simply want to fuck the spastic twitches right out of his pale, tense little body... but that's essentially the same thing.
I would start by knocking him out. I haven't yet decided how; I don't want to hurt him or leave him with uncomfortable side effects from a drug—oh, if only he would sit still long enough to hypnotize! In any case, once he was unconscious I would take him somewhere—I don't know where, or how I'll get him there without anybody knowing. I do know, however, that in my mind's lusty eye, I see him coming slowly awake to find himself lying propped up more or less comfortably on a semi-soft surface, with limbs bound and eyes covered, unaware of where he was or how he got there.
He would yell at first, I think. Anyone would be fearful in such a position, let alone an obsessive compulsive tight-laced manager in his mid thirties. Gradually he would notice the music playing in the background; piano, soothing and unfamiliar. The temperature, he would find, is just high enough that struggling makes him sweat, but low enough to be pleasant when lying still. Perhaps he would even pick up the faint scent of lavender and eucalyptus in the warm air (my body lotion). In any case, after a while, his yells would cease and he would lie quietly, tugging experimentally at his restraints. And this is where my fantasy begins in earnest...
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"Hi there," I whispered, perching on a stool beside my helpless manager. I placed a finger delicately on his pale throat and lightly teased his Adam's apple, making him swallow involuntarily. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as his fear drained away. I knew what he was thinking: "Is it my ex? Or the ex before that-- It must be her. But I thought she moved to Delaware. Maybe she got somebody else to do this. Maybe it's co-manager Beth. Oh God, what if it is her? We can't socialize out of work! I was only flirting! But she wouldn't do this. Would she?" At any rate, he was beginning to sense that there is something special in store for him, though he still had no idea just how special it will be.
It was difficult for me to stay calm—finally having him under my control was even more of a thrill than I had expected. I hoped his body, strained with anxiety and achingly sensitive due to his inability to see, would react of its own accord to the hungry pheromones streaming from my pores. The bare beginnings of an erection lifted the crotch of his gray work pants just slightly, and the finger I was trailing against his gulping throat paused, sorely tempted by this tentative bulge. I drew a steadying breath and moved upwards instead.
"Oh, Mark," I whispered, my voice breathy and, to him, unidentifiable. He strained to hear, trying to know who had him held captive. "I just want you to relax."
I rested a hand lightly on his close-shaven head for a moment, willing him to surrender, then walked silently away. I nudged the heat and the music up a notch, glancing over to see him shift nervously against his restraints. I returned to my seat at his head and took from my pocket a small bottle of almond oil.
Mark stirred, craning his neck towards the sound of my movement. "Who are you?"
"Someone you know," I murmured, pouring some of the oil between my palms to warm it. "Don't be afraid."
Mark snorted but didn't speak further, resigning himself with a grin. Oh, he was tempting, that "Family Restaurant Fresh" front he always kept up crumbling right before my eyes—the man who ducks out of supermarkets and drug stores if he happens to see one of his workers ("Company policy, we can't socialize out of work!"), the man who flinches at words like "crap", the only man with a To Do List that actually gets done. He was metamorphosing effortlessly into a hungry wolf, and the transformation was utterly delicious to watch.
I took his head between my oiled palms, resting the fingertips just lightly on his stubbly scalp. A smile played on his lips, parted slightly below the blindfold. I had wanted to hold him like this for months, and I smiled contentedly as I began to massage. The pressure points at the back of the skull, right above the neck, the temples, the high curved dome, the sinus cavity in the forehead—all the millions of tingling nerves that rarely receive attention in the typical human, I teased them to distraction and left him luxuriously relaxed but sizzling with desire. I worshiped his head with my hands and slow, sure fingers, then bent close and pressed a sighing kiss against his crown.
