The Lockpick

I had a friend in college who was dating someone I could never figure out. One day he asked for my help with something a little, as he put it, delicate. He explained that his girlfriend only really got off on play rape, and had in fact been hinting that she wanted more realism than he'd been able to muster. Knowing that I'd taught myself to pick locks for fun as a teenager, he wanted me to pick the lock on her door one night.

Now, the two of us had a history of sorts, so his making the request wasn't too odd. He explained that he wanted me to come with him after opening the door, and help keep her from seeing his face or hearing his voice so she couldn't be completely sure whatever we did wasn't real, rather than a fantasy role play. I was a little leery, since I didn't know her at all, but he assured my I could trust him: she wanted it, bad.

Several days later, we went by, late. She lived in a cheap, two-story fourplex; her apartment lights were out. The lock was flimsy and easy (you probably could pick it yourself based just on watching television crime scenes), though my friend asked me to be sure that the tools clicked a lot before I got the door open, in the hopes that she might hear. As soon as the door was open he ran in, knowing his way in the dark, I assume. By the time I bumbled through the dark main room to the little bedroom in the back, my eyes had adjusted to the dimness and I saw he had a knee in her back and his hands over her mouth and eyes.

She struggled; I went over his assurances to me while he jerked his head silently at a roll of wide grey industrial tape he must have dropped on the bed. I taped her eyes shut fast, then he slapped her hard. The noise was loud, and I was a little surprised. He quickly taped around and around her head, cutting off her gasps by taping her mouth, then again and again over her eyes. He dropped her head and she squirmed on the bed, breathing loudly through her nose, moans of one sort or another filtering through. Then he taped her wrists together behind her back, and pulling her arms together hard, taped her elbows. It didn't look comfortable.

He grabbed her by the hair and arms and lifted her up (she was very petite), then pressed her face to a full-length wall mirror in a way that forced her to stand on tiptoe or hang by her hair and elbows. It really didn't look comfortable, but she did look awfully hot taped like that. Holding her, he handed me a utility knife, very sturdy and sharp, and whispered to me carefully to cut off her long-sleeved pajamas. She must have squirmed when she felt what I was doing, but all I remember is focusing on cutting flannel rather than skin.

After he had pulled the shreds of cloth off her body roughly -- and now, I had to admit to myself, I was starting to respond physically to her naked, taped body and the rather perverse situation -- he whispered what to say to me. I threatened her then, explaining that if she didn't allow and enjoy how we were going to use her, she might have another encounter with that knife.

Probably worried that I didn't believe she wanted quite this level of realism, he took my hand and shoved it roughly between her legs. She stumbled a little at the contact, since he still had her pinned on tiptoe against that mirror. I found that my hand sank into her in a way I hadn't expected; still reasonably young, I hadn't been with anyone that small who, getting excited, opened so damned wide. The demonstration was convincing -- I felt like I could have shoved my whole hand inside her, though that was probably just a surprised, self-important reaction.

Most of the rest of the fun was his; I knew him to be jealous, so I tried not to step on his metaphorical toes. He had me hold her in various positions for him as he used her, whispering to me to slap her face, ass and breasts at times. While she continued to struggle, it was obvious that the harder she could try to elude my grasp and still fail to dislodge it, the more she liked it. By the end her skin was beet red from her hairline to her stomach, and she had gone almost limp.

After he had come on and inside her several times (ah, youth), he wiped himself on her long, black hair and went to the toilet. She was lying on the bed on her side, still taped, still breathing loudly and moaning slightly through her nose. He peed and came back with a narrow plastic spray bottle of some toiletry. Having me hold her in place, he bent her over at the waist and pushed it slowly inside her from behind, base-first. When it was seated as deeply as it would go, he gave me a few choice phrases for her, then beckoned for us to go. He left her as she was on the bed, and drove me home.