His cousins had locked him inside a large closet next to the smallest guest room on the upper floor. This wasn't the first time they had done that. Younger than him, and full of energy, they hadn't the patience to look upon him reading all day. They wanted adventure, and next to their screens and comic books locking up their older cousin in a closet was the second-best thing. And this time they had done a pretty good job of it too, after ropes around his wrists and ankles they had finished by turning him over in a giant bed sheet, in which they had encapsulated his head until all he could see was a white looseness. They had put a couple of rolled-up socks in his mouth. Clean though, so that's okay. Last time they hadn't been.
It was a beautiful day outside. He only wished that he could sit and read in it. His aunt would sometimes come out to him with a couple of glasses of non-alcoholic drinks. She was the best, always made him blush when she pressed her darkly red lips on his cheek and laughed when he rubbed at the spot. Her little prude, she liked to call him, but he knew that she liked to have him over at the house for a week or so, these slow summer days, especially when it turned to evening. They would sit on the porch, looking at the firebugs gathering over the lawn, over the small lake. They would be all alone. Her curly hair would smell like flowers, because she was a good mother and used the perfume that her children gave her every Christmas.
His aunt had such a beautiful home, he really loved it, even though his cousins could be a pain in the neck. But he would only have to--
Turning as he usually did, he failed to loosen the knot behind his back. Instead, he made it tighter.
Son of a bitch, he thought. They switched the knot!
He remembered seeing his oldest little cousin with a book called The Tactics of Small Boat Racing.
Ah...
And it actually was useless. Eventually is started to hurt. He yelped, tried to push at the socks with his tongue. That didn't work, obviously. He shook his head back and forth. That helped somewhat, if only to relieve his frustration. He flopped on the floor like the pile of laundry he was, let out a wet sigh of the general feeling that you get when you are bested by kids much younger than you. As an 18-your old he really shouldn't be involved in situations like this. Instead, he should be reading Live and Let Die, by Ian Fleming, about that incredible, intrepid spy, that...
He sat up, or at least he tried to. "Wha wo Jae Boo oo?"
Morse code was the answer, he was certain. The only problem was... he didn't know any. So, he started tapping his foot on the floorboards, praying that his nasty cousins would hear him and feel remorse. In any case he would tell their mother, but he wouldn't tell them that as they untied him. But he hadn't counted on the house's size, the thickness of the floors, and soon he gave up, trying to console himself with the thought that someone would notice his absence soon enough, if not earlier, then at dinner. His aunt would ask questions.
All the excitement made him tired. His foot hurt from the tapping, his hands from the strangling ropes. But he could still feel the fingertips. That was the important thing, he was sure. And as he laid his head down to sleep, he was grateful of the cover that protected his head from the hardness of the bare floorboards. It was quite cozy actually.
When he opened his eyes, he thought it was a dream, because he had heard someone, and now it was completely still in the closet. He breathed out, checked his body again, but everything was as he had left it. His fingers still worked, his foot no longer hurt. He thought about tapping again, but didn't feel like disturbing the rest of the house. It had never been so quiet. As he looked through the sheet, he saw that the sky was darker, or cloudy. It could be anytime. And because he was tired, he closed his eyes again, figured that he could get his sleep early today. But as he turned over, he felt something. An erection. He also caught the scent of his aunt's flowery perfume, imagined it rather, but so clearly that he couldn't get the feeling out of his head. Was someone in the closet with him? His aunt? No, that couldn't be. She would have untied him if that was the case.
Frustratingly he felt his boner but couldn't reach it. All he could do was press it against the floor, but through the sheet, his pants, the underwear, the floorboards did nothing for him except increase the constant torment. He could feel some of the precum against his skin.
"Oompf!" he sounded, and stopped.
Someone moved!
At least, the floorboards creaked. But they were old. They would creak for anything. He sighed again.
And someone, barefoot, walked across the floor towards him.
He held his breath, thought about the silence again. What could have happened, to create that silence? A burglar, a kidnapper? Maybe the whole family was downstairs right now, bound the same way he was, except by the hands of criminals instead of criminally negligent children! He focused on his forehead, certain that he would feel a gun barrel at any time, hear a menacing growling. As the steps came closer, he noticed the smell of flowers again and started to get worried about his aunt. If anything had happened to her...
His erection diminished considerably. He felt ashamed of himself, thinking about masturbation while his own family was downstairs, caught by murderers. He had thought about reading In Cold Blood once. They would choose them one at a time.
He shrieked as a hand landed on his forearm, but because of the socks the sound came out as a meowling, wet against his cheek. He had never been so scared in his entire life. When a soft voice shushed by his ear, he pressed his body closer to the floor, ready for pain. He tried to move his legs when the hands went down there, but they had fallen asleep. In any case, he was tied from head to foot.
A soft hand touched him in the space between shoe and pantleg. He stopped squirming.
A criminal wouldn't do that, he knew. What for? And as the hand moved up, he closed his eyes again. Has to be a dream, he thought. The sounds, the smell, the feeling on his leg. It all had the mysterious feel of a dream. Yes, a waking dream, they called it. Otherwise, he would have heard the children playing downstairs, would have heard his aunt in the kitchen, listening to the radio. Completely silent, and as if the dream hand had waited for his acceptance of the situation, it moved higher, and another now, lifted the sheet with them. It felt a little cool, except for the hands. They were very soft, very warm. The swishing sound of hands on jeans was also a dream, he decided.
Someone that smelled of flowers kneeled close to him. He could feel the thighs, the hard kneecaps, the fleeting sensation of a foot before it disappeared. It was naked.
He held still as the hands reached his crotch, unbuckled him. As he turned his head, he could see the shadows moving down on him. He could even, though he half-imagined that he did, see a body sitting next to him, a head that moved with curiosity, the same as the hands.
He felt the cool air as it streamed in, but the hands, as they gripped him, made him gasp, or mumble, through the socks. They burned him with their moist heat. It caused him to smell, though the flowery scent was stronger, something akin to summer sweat, and sweet breath.
The owner of the hands breathed with an open mouth as she caressed him, moved up and down his rock-hard penis, picked up precum and used it to caress his tip. Once he felt something hot and slippery drip down from above. The hands made a slurping sound after that. They fought with each other to get closest to him. Every once in a while, one of them would go down the entire length to his testicles. It almost hurt. He groaned, hoped for more. At the same time, he feared what those hands could do to him. They were absolutely in control. They were all over him like oil in saran wrap. The pressure, the pleasure, made him remember that he hadn't had a chance to masturbate at his aunt's yet. Even though it was a dream he was close to the edge.
As close to cumming as possible he felt the hands stop, and he trashed about. It was reflexes. He could barely think in a straight line. His whole body lay wretched in the cocoon, covered in sweat, shaking. He hurt all over from the position he was in, from how he tightened his muscles to get closer to that wonderful feeling. He almost cried.
"Please, please, please..." he tried to say. He knew what it sounded like, but still did it.
He also heard a toned-down chuckle, barely even that. But he could hear the extortion that it took to keep the voice at bay. Beside him the body started to gyrate at the hips. Now, as his own pleasure had left him, he heard a soft panting.
