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A Married Woman (Chapter 1)

ThePurpleQuill

TMF Regular
Joined
Jan 11, 2018
Messages
161
Points
16
I would like to take a moment to share with you a little story.

It’s about someone, a family friend if you will, someone very special to me.

Her name is Dana, and hopefully, by the time I’m finished, you’ll understand exactly why she’s so special to me.

Let me paint you a picture, knowing full well it will ultimately be insufficient, for no amount of detail or description could truly render the depth of her beauty, the profound wonder of her being that I have come to know and love. Nevertheless, I will try my very best to capture but a glimpse of her marvel through the written word, and hope that you will but indulge my efforts for the time being.

Deep chocolate tresses cascade down the borders of her angelic face, nestling themselves upon her feminine shoulders, a frame for her soft features. A single strand of hair casually placed atop her forehead, her finely shaped eyebrows and seductive lashes adorn two beautiful brown eyes, soft and doughy, the very kind you wish to fall asleep in at night. Her cheekbones are always highlighted by just the slightest tint of blush, along with a dab of mascara defining her minimalistic makeup routine. Her full lips, when pulled into that miracle of a smile, give a warm welcome that could melt the coldest of hearts in an instant.

Basically, she’s pretty.

Her thin build and lengthy stature betrays her modest height at five feet eight inches, no doubt aided by her well-kept physique through healthy eating and vigorous exercise. Her figure is only heightened by the endearing daywear she chooses most often: a black jacket, unzipped revealing a plain white undershirt atop a pair of navy blue jeans, and two gray sneakers. In all fairness, she could be wearing a brown paper bag, and it would not degrade her sultry form one iota.

The fact that she is thirty-eight years old does absolutely nothing but add that level of self-assuredness that only comes through taking life by the horns. The vitality that emanates from deep within her renders her ageless, suspended in crystal only the most precious of souls can be blessed with. Her oak-brushed skin, from the crown of her forehead to the tips of her crimson painted toes, shows not one blemish, not one spot or wrinkle, the most tantalizing of women left seemingly frozen in time.

Her toes you say? Long stems, each sporting a sumptuously plump toe pad, extend graciously from a perfectly shaped pair of size eight soles, their high arches accented by every stiletto and sandal from that endless supply she goes through seemingly once a year. It must be said: there is no shame in such adoration of a woman’s lowliest of appendages: their careful grooming and myriad of complementary footwear meant only to catch the fancy of an attentive admirer. Doubly so, her pristine hygiene habits extend to them as well, driving her to the pedicurist every week with great result: the smoothest of heels, the softest of soles, her fresh nail polish glistening under the most discerning of fluorescent lights.

I was not always consumed by such fascination for her feet, for it was one day, nay one moment in particular, that made them an indulgence I would have to satiate lest I fall into complete and utter madness through my own repression. Seated at her kitchen table one Sunday afternoon, I found myself absolutely drooling over her voluptuous figure: leaning over her kitchen sink washing dishes, her two bright yellow rubber gloves caressing each plate and utensil with sensual implications (it seems every mundane task she performs in my eyes is ripe with sexual innuendo).

As I gaze upon her womanly form, tracing my sight from the top of her crown, down the nape of her neck, the small of her back, all the way down to the backs of her bare heels, I become consumed by a sense of utter longing. Her usual daywear has been replaced by the skimpiest of sandals, much to my curious eye’s pleasure. Slowly, she lifts her right foot, delicately scratching at the back of her left leg, her shoe hanging precariously off her two toes. Then, as though God himself had been watching and chose, to intervene in utter pity, the most wonderous event occurred, one that has both frightened and tantalized me until this very day.

It fell off.

The clasp of the flip flop atop the hardwood floor, revealing the image of a perfectly shaped bare foot right in front of my eyes, made my neck jerk away in fear of my leering gaze being caught, only to slowly turn back for just one more glimpse into perfection. It is difficult to describe such a feeling to those who do not know, who are deprived of its glorious sight until the summer months, when the shoes come off and that most glorious peep show is your daily routine. I can only describe it like this: it is the feeling of the towel being dropped, that which shields the nude body of the object of your wildest of fantasies, bearing itself in front of you, revealing that which you have merely imagined coming to fruition before your very eyes.

What I have just described may be simply the zenith of my fixation on this glorious sampling of the female species. But, as all good storytellers do, I seem to have left something out, for there is one aspect to her, one minuscule detail that has amounted to be the most enticing, and it is the one detail that most, if not all, would find the most discouraging.

She is married.

Such would be the fate of one so priceless as she, a nave of a man slapping a ring on her finger before the words could even come out of her mouth. A storybook wedding, of which I was in attendance, sealed the three-year relationship with he who will remain nameless. It is a common reaction upon seeing a wedding ring to revel in the usual collection of feelings and sensations that come with it: love, commitment, responsibility, partnership, stability, and on, and on, and on. Fortunately, the mind works in mysterious ways, for a different set of thoughts crept up on me since that very day. You want to know what I see when I gaze deep into those three karats of twinkling carbon wrapped around her left third digit?

I see a challenge.

I see that Sisyphean trial of snatching a committed woman away from her knight in shining armor almost as tantalizing as the woman herself. I see questions racing through my head: it’s just a ring, isn’t it? She doesn’t belong to anybody, don’t you know that? She’s ripe for the taking, just waiting for someone to sweep her off her feet, am I right? Don’t you want them? Don’t you want her? Do you have what it takes to have what no one else will? Are you willing to do the unthinkable? Are you?

I was, for you see I am doubly repressed, as beneath this perpetually single exterior is a hidden lust for something, something that inhabits the dark and twisted fears of many who walk this Earth, that those faint of heart dare not speak its name: tickling. How I’ve spent hours reveling in the things I would do with this woman: rendering her completely helpless, binding her in the most restrictive of positions to have my way with her body. How I would trace my fingers into every crack, every crease and crevice, searching for that one spot to drive her absolutely out of her mind. How she could dissolve in ticklish bliss, or agony if need be, unable to resist my tender touch for hours on end. Oh and her feet! Just what I have had in store for them: digging my nails into her heels, scraping across her tender soles, licking and nibbling each flailing toe, holding her on the edge of erotic ecstasy until she begs for pleasure.

It cannot be overstated that I have an overactive imagination that, at the moment, is spilling into reality. That’s right: it’s time.

It didn’t take a private detective to find her left vulnerable that one weekend: an overnight camping trip with the family on one hand, and an importance business meeting that same afternoon on the other, leaving my precious dear alone for an entire night’s length, from dusk until dawn, nothing stopping her from becoming my plaything. Months of fantasizing, conceiving and planning in the abstract up until the wee hours of the morning, crafting the perfect execution of that moment, have amassed a sizable collection of wares: ropes, cuffs, belts, blindfolds, gags, anything you could think of to subdue such a creature was in that black duffle bag hanging in my closet. Luckily, my black woolen suit had just come back from the cleaners.

It is 6:07 PM. Best be quick: she arrives at 6:30 and not a minute later.

I park my vehicle two miles down the road, walking down an isolated side path up to the entrance of the cul de sac where her house resides. A two-story colonial comes into view, its perimeter surrounded by a privacy fence that proves most handy in concealing my approach. I come from the side, hugging the dark mahogany fence as I reach her front walkway. The days are long, but not long enough, the front shrouded in darkness by a well-meaning walnut tree blocking what’s left of the sunset. As I climb the concrete path, silently making my way up three steps, I quickly hug the wall, just avoiding the motion sensor’s perimeter I had marked my previous visit. It is then, pattering my way up those three final steps, my feet scraping against her welcome mat, I make my entrance.

It was just too easy: I did not have to use a crowbar, risking the sight of a broken doorway alerting a passing police cruiser. I did not have to break a window, the sound of shattering glass echoing throughout a neighborhood of those with much too much time on their hands. I did not have to jump through hoops, leap over tall buildings, outrun a speeding train, or overcome any feat of immense effort to gain entry into this guarded fortress.

I merely used my key.

The clasp of the deadbolt rings through the dark empty corridor, its freshly oiled hinges not making one peep as I close it shut, locking it back into place. Shrouded in darkness, I navigate blind through her house, pursuing the spot where I will lay dormant until her arrival. It was a floorplan I had come to know so well I didn’t even have to turn on one light: prowling my way down the hall, past the dining room, up the creaking wooden stairs, over the loosened carpet, into the bedroom above, second door on the right, into the small closet just across from the king-sized bed, where I gently keep the door ajar…

…and I wait.

Not five minutes pass when she arrives, the sound of fresh tires dragging across her concrete driveway. I see her, not with my eyes, but with my ears: pattering footsteps, a deadbolt unlatching and latching again, the squeak of hardwood floors in the kitchen, the drain of the faucet for a glass of water, then up the stairs as she enters her seemingly-vacant bedroom.
She is walking right into my trap.

I peer through the slits of the closet door, watching as she slips her jacket slip her shoulders. Unhooking the analog watch off her wrists, she places it atop her nightstand, her attention diverted from the mirror hanging above her bedframe. It is here I make my approach: motioning the door open, I take three steps toward her, my presence unknown until this very moment. My polyester clothing doesn’t even whisper, while the fabric lining the soles of my shoes absorbs the footsteps even the carpet would miss.

Swiftly, I swipe my arm underneath her collarbone, trapping her in a sleeper hold. A slight yelp of surprise escapes her, the swift motion cutting off her ability to resist, slumping into my arms as she slowly collapses to the ground. With only three seconds until she regains consciousness, I remove a syringe from my pocket, its contents a light sedative purchased from an online pharmacy zero out of five doctors would recommend. Sticking it into her left deltoid, injecting the special substance into her bloodstream, a slight groan is the last sound she makes until she falls into unconsciousness.

Now, with a full thirty minutes at my disposal, I get to work.

Placing her facedown atop her mattress, my duffle bag right to her side, I make quick work with the time I have. Gently I wrap each of her wrists in soft cotton, making sure her delicate skin won’t be damaged over what may be an excruciating night for her. Taking out my leather cuffs, I bind them around her wrists, securing them to one another with a stainless-steel clip. I do the same to her ankles, pulling them together, snapping them to a large ring that keeps them locked to her wrists. From the bottom of my duffle bag, I fish out five sets of thick leather belts, rocking her to and fro as I weave them around and across her limp body.

The first is placed just below her breasts, locking her elbows to her sides as I buckle it tightly into place. Next is her waist, looping itself conveniently around in between the fabric of her jeans, keeping her wrists tight against her buttocks. Her knees are next, a strap for both above and below to nullify any sort of auxiliary movement that could hinder my enjoyment. Finally, the last strap weaves just below her waist, around her ankles far above, trapping her legs against her butt, completing a most constrictive hogtie with minimal effort.

Gazing over the helpless form of my captive, I admire my own handiwork with righteous pride. Only her head and feet will have any movement over the course of her ordeal, and that’s exactly how I planned her. Her feet, the imprint visible through the thin material of her socks, sit motionless, a far cry from the flailing they are to embody in mere moments. I dare not touch them, not even peeling the socks off her feet, savoring the moment when she finally rouses from her slumber, the totality of my fantasies for her to experience in full.

She looks so peaceful, lying there without a care in the world. Little does she know the plans I have for her, the maelstrom of events that will occur before the sun has even the slightest glimpse at my transgressions. Through her body I will wield like a lightning rod, a torrent of ticklish and erotic sensations coursing through every fiber of her being. She will trek into the deepest recesses of my fantasies, a rollercoaster of the perverse and the wicked to satisfy my every carnal desire, and there is absolutely nothing she can do but hold on for the ride.

My sweet Dina, prepare yourself...
 
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