Marts
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Oct 16, 2004
- Messages
- 192
- Points
- 43
The silence of the Malibu coastline was the most expensive sound in the world, and Christian Kaufman hated it.
At 6:00 AM, the floor-to-ceiling glass walls of his bedroom—a cantilevered masterpiece of modern architecture perched precariously over the Pacific—showed nothing but grey water and grey sky. The air inside was scrubbed, conditioned, and scented with absolutely nothing. It was a vacuum. A tomb for the living.
Christian sat on the edge of his California King bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets pooling around his waist. He looked at his phone on the nightstand. Three missed calls from his father’s estate lawyers in Zurich. Two emails from the family office regarding a grand opening in Dubai.
He swiped the notifications away without reading them.
He stood up, naked, and walked to the walk-in closet. It was filled with Italian wool suits, bespoke dress shirts, and shoes that cost more than most people’s cars. He bypassed them all.
At the very back, hidden behind a row of tuxedos, was a plastic bin.
He pulled it out. Inside lay the skin of "Ross Weis," folded like a shroud.
A pair of faded, oil-stained Dickies work pants. A grey uniform shirt with a patch that read FACILITIES & MAINTENANCE stitched in fraying red thread. Heavy, steel-toed boots that smelled of old rubber, floor wax, and twenty years of other men's sweat.
Pulling on the rough fabric was a sensory shock. The stiff, industrial cotton scraped against his thighs, a stark, abrasive contrast to the Egyptian sheets he slept in. It felt less like clothing and more like sandpaper against his skin, scrubbing away the billionaire. As he buttoned the shirt, the smell hit him—a cloying mix of stale detergent and damp basement air that seemed to cling to the fibers. He cinched the belt tight, feeling the heavy brass ring of master keys dig into his hip bone. It was a grounding weight, a physical anchor dragging him down from the clouds of Malibu into the gutter he craved.
He didn't take the McLaren sitting in the climate-controlled garage. Instead, he walked down the driveway to the street where a rusted, beat-up 2004 Ford Ranger was parked.
The drive to USC took forty minutes. As he crossed the threshold onto campus, the transformation completed itself.
Christian Kaufman, the bored, lonely, 25-year-old heir to a multi-billion dollar real estate empire, dissolved. Ross, the guy who could get you anything, emerged.
He parked near the maintenance sheds and grabbed his bucket. The air here was alive. It smelled of cut grass, exhaust fumes, cheap coffee, and hormones. Thousands of students, pulsing with energy, stress, and sex drive. He missed this. He missed the chaotic, unrefined reality of university life—the parties that spilled onto lawns, the desperate cramming in the library, the girls in their oversized sweatshirts and tiny shorts walking to early classes.
He had graduated three years ago, but the real world was cold and sterile. Here, he mattered.
He pushed his mop bucket into the main hallway of the Science Building.
Most people looked right through him. To the faculty, he was furniture. To the rich kids, he was invisible labor. But to the ones who knew—the frat presidents, the desperate freshmen, the stoners—he was a legend.
He paused to wring out the mop. He pumped the yellow plastic lever, compressing the dirty grey strands.
Ker-clack. Squelch.
The water gushed out, hitting the reservoir effectively, a thick, visceral splashing sound that echoed in the empty corridor.
Christian lifted the mop head. It was heavy, sodden with the filth of a thousand shoes. He slapped it down onto the linoleum.
Schhh-luck.
He pushed. The wet strands dragged across the wax, leaving a glistening, grey trail. Shhh-wissh. It wasn't just a sound; it was a texture. The friction of the cotton against the floor vibrated up the wooden handle and into his palms, grounding him. This was the sound of invisibility.
A group of cheerleaders walked by, laughing, their ponytails swinging. Christian kept his head down, the brim of his cap shadowing his eyes, but he watched them. He watched the way their skirts pleated, the way their socks hugged their calves. He wasn't just observing; he was cataloging.
He smiled to himself. When he first started this charade, he thought it would be a humiliation ritual. Penance for his privilege. Instead, it was intoxicating. He had the keys to every door. He knew who was sleeping with whom, who was failing, and who was desperate for a fix.
"Ross!"
The hiss came from a shadowed alcove near the trophy case.
Christian looked up, his expression shifting into the easy, lopsided grin of a working-class hustler. It was Garrison, a linebacker for the Trojans, looking sweaty and panicked.
The game was afoot.
"Ross," Garrison hissed again, his voice cracking like dry kindling.
Christian didn't stop mopping the hallway outside the gymnasium double doors. He kept his rhythm steady—slap, swish, wring. "Floor's wet, Garrison. You're gonna slip and sue me, and I ain't got a dime."
Garrison, a stocky figure with more neck than forehead, looked around frantically. "I need a favor. A big one. It’s Kirsten. The captain." He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "She’s in there now. Showering."
Christian paused, leaning on the splintery wooden handle of the mop. He looked at Garrison with the dull, hooded eyes of a man worried about rent, not stock portfolios. "Kirsten Vance? That’s steep, man. She locks her stuff up tight."
"Fifty bucks," Garrison whispered, shoving a hand into his pocket. "Plus a twenty tip if... if they're warm."
Christian let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Eighty. Flat. And you vanish until I come out."
"Done."
Christian watched Garrison scurry off around the corner, then straightened his maintenance cap. He pulled the heavy ring of keys from his belt, the brass jangling against his thigh. He walked to the door marked WOMEN’S LOCKER ROOM, knocked once—hard—and shouted, "Maintenance! Broken pipe check! Coming in!"
He didn't wait for a reply. He pushed the door open.
The atmosphere hit him like a physical wall. It was a dense, humid fog smelling of floral shampoos, damp cotton, and the sharp, coppery tang of overheated plumbing. The sound of showers running was a constant, thundering hiss in the background, masking his heavy work boots as he stepped onto the tiled floor.
"Hello?" he called out again, his voice echoing.
"Occupied!" a voice shrilled from the steam-obscured shower block at the far end.
"Just checkin' the sinks, Miss. Be gone in a sec," Christian grunted, keeping his eyes on the benches.
He moved quickly, his eyes scanning the rows of gym bags and discarded clothing. He knew Kirsten’s gear. A bright crimson duffel bag with a rhinestone 'K' on the side. There it was, sitting on the bench near locker 42.
The bag was unzipped.
Christian stepped closer, his heart rate spiking not from fear, but from the thrill of the violation. He peered inside. Buried under a thick grey sweatshirt and a pair of knee socks was a flash of white.
He reached in. His rough, calloused fingers (the result of gym work, not labor, though no one here knew the difference) brushed against the fabric. He hooked a finger around the elastic and pulled.
White cotton. Simple, functional, but distinctly hers.
He brought the fabric up to his face for a split second. Vanilla body wash and the faint, musky scent of exertion. Visceral. Real.
Then he looked back down at the bag. His cock twitched as he looked at the socks. He picked one up and sniffed the toes, his eyes rolling up from the feminine musk.
"Is the sink leaking?" the voice called out again, closer this time. The water had stopped running.
"Bone dry, Miss. Just a false alarm," Christian shouted back.
He shoved the panties deep into the right pocket of his work trousers, and the sock into the left. He grabbed his pipe wrench from his belt loop, just for show, and strode out of the locker room, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him with a snap.
Garrison was waiting by the water fountain, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Christian walked up to him, face impassive, and held out a hand. Garrison slapped four twenty-dollar bills into his palm.
"Did you...?"
Christian reached into his right pocket and produced the white bundle, dropping it into Garrison’s shaking hands. "Fresh off the bench. Still smells like her expensive perfume."
Garrison gripped the fabric like it was a religious artifact. " You're a god, Ross. Seriously." He looked up, eyes wide. "Hey, listen. We're throwing a rager on Friday. At the Alpha house. We need supplies. The hard stuff. And kegs."
Christian pocketed the cash—pocket change to him, but the currency of his credibility here. "I can get kegs. What else?"
"Everything," Garrison said, clutching the panties. "Can you make the drop comfortably? Around eight?"
"I'll be there," Christian said, picking up his mop. "Just tell me where to park the truck."
---
The chassis of the rented box truck vividly shuddered, vibrating in sync with the bass bleeding through the walls of the Delta-Iota-Kappa frat house.
Christian sat in the cab, the engine idling. It was 8:15 PM, and the humid California air outside was already thick with the smell of cheap decisions—stale malt liquor, marijuana smoke, and body spray.
He adjusted the rearview mirror, checking the mask. The grease smudge on his cheekbone was perfectly placed. The grey thermal shirt was stretched tight over his chest, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that looked like they belonged to a man who fixed pipes, not portfolios.
He killed the engine and stepped out. He didn't skulk; he strode.
"Yo! Ross!"
Garrison was by the back door, practically vibrating with anxiety. He looked sweaty, a red plastic cup crushing in his grip.
"Tell me you got it," Garrison hissed, eyes darting around the alleyway.
Christian walked around to the back of the truck, rolling up the metal door with a loud, industrial clang. "I always get it, Garrison. You know that."
He pointed to the stack of silver kegs. "Four halves. Domestic." Then, he reached into the duffel bag slung over his shoulder and produced a small, nondescript brown paper bag. "And the party favors. The medical-grade stuff your alumni donor asked for."
Garrison snatched the bag like a starving man grabbing bread. He shoved a wad of cash into Christian’s hand—messy, crumpled bills. Christian didn't count it. He stuffed it into his back pocket like it was trash.
"You're the man, Ross. Seriously. The fucking man."
Christian hauled the kegs into the kitchen on a dolly, the metal wheels clattering over the sticky linoleum. The kitchen was already a war zone, fueled by pre-game adrenaline. As he wheeled the alcohol in, a cheer went up from the guys playing beer pong on the island.
"Ross the Boss!" someone shouted. A hand slapped his back.
Christian offered them a lopsided, working-class grin. "Drink up, boys."
He left the kegs by the tap, basking in the brief adoration. He was the provider. The lifeline. The cool janitor who made the night happen.
And then, just like that, he flipped the switch.
He grabbed a red Solo cup, filled it with warm foam from an old keg to blend in, and faded back. He moved away from the light, away from the center of attention, drifting toward the periphery near the fake potted palm at the edge of the living room.
The predator had arrived.
The "Ross" persona was perfect camouflage. No one looked at the help once the beer was flowing. He stood in the shadows, his eyes sharpening, scanning the herd. He wasn't looking for the prom queens or the girls dancing on tables. He was looking for the straggler. The vulnerable one.
Find the mark, he thought, the bass thumping in his chest like a second heartbeat.
His gaze cut through the haze of vape smoke and dim lighting. It swept past the grind of bodies on the dance floor and landed on the far wall.
Target acquired.
Melissa Schwarz.
She pushed her thick black glasses up her nose, her frizzy blonde hair a chaotic halo. She looked cornered. A guy from the debate team—Brad—was leaning over her, trapping her against the wall with his arm, talking fast. Melissa was clutching her cup with both hands, looking for an exit.
Christian watched Brad’s hand. He saw the slight sleight of hand—a quick, nervous hover over Melissa's cup while she was distracted by someone bumping into her. A pinch of white powder fell from Brad’s fingers, dissolving instantly into her cheap vodka tonic.
Christian didn't blink. He didn't intervene. He just checked his mental watch. Rohypnol or GHB. Fast acting in this heat.
He watched Melissa take a sip. Then another.
Two minutes later, the change hit. It was subtle at first—her blink rate slowed. Her shoulders slumped, losing their defensive tension. The tight, polite smile she’d been holding melted into a slack, confused expression. She swayed, her grip on the cup loosening.
Brad saw it too. He leaned in closer, his hand moving to touch her waist, ready to guide her "somewhere quiet."
Not tonight, amateur, Christian thought.
Christian pushed off the wall.
He moved through the crowd with the practiced ease of a man who knew the floor plan better than the residents. He didn't look at anyone. He just focused on the space between him and her. He arrived just as Melissa stumbled, her knees buckling slightly.
He stepped smoothly between them, using his shoulder to box Brad out with the solid weight of a working man.
"You look like you need a life raft," he said, pitching his voice low enough to cut through the thumping bass, steadying her effortlessly.
Melissa looked up, her eyes swimming, pupils blown wide and struggling to focus. She blinked slowly, trying to process his face through the chemical fog rapidly claiming her brain. "Oh... h-hey... You're... the fix-it guy..."
"Guilty," Christian said, capturing her wandering gaze. He glanced at Brad, offering a cold, knowing stare that made the college kid step back. "Looks like your friend here was just leaving."
Melissa giggled, the sound wet and uncoordinated. "Friend? He... the walls are... vibrating, Ross. Why is the room... tilting?"
He took a step closer, testing the waters. "You okay? You look a little... flushed."
"I'm fantastic!" Melissa declared, throwing an arm out for emphasis and nearly knocking over a lamp. "Just... observing the wildlife. It's fascinating. truly."
She giggled, then seemingly lost her balance, stumbling sideways.
Christian caught her elbow, steadying her effortlessly. Her skin was warm, damp with perspiration. He felt the fine bones of her arm under his fingers.
"Whoa there, killer," he murmured. "Gravity works differently after three of those."
Melissa looked up at him, her eyes shining with alcohol and amusement. She didn't pull away. She leaned into his touch, just a little.
"You're strong," she slurred slightly, poking his bicep. "Jan-i-tor muscles."
"Something like that," Christian said, his voice dropping. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back. This was it. The opening.
"Listen," he said, keeping his tone casual. "I'm actually heading out. Gotta check on a property up the coast. Total ghost town. Way quieter than this circus."
He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "If you need an escape... or just some fresh air that doesn't smell like Axe body spray... I’ve got space in the truck."
Melissa blinked, processing this through the haze of alcohol. She looked at the crowded room, then back at the sturdy, safe-looking guy holding her arm.
"A ghost town?" she repeated, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Does it have... crypto bros?"
"Zero," Christian promised. "Just ocean views and silence."
She grinned, a lopsided, endearing expression. "Sold. Get me out of here, Ross the Janitor."
The air in the garage was cool and smelled of gasoline and wet concrete, a sharp relief after the humidity of the frat house.
Christian guided Melissa toward the passenger side of his battered Ford Ranger. She was leaning heavily on his arm now, her steps uncoordinated. She giggled as she tripped over a discarded beer can.
"Whoops," she mumbled, clutching his bicep. "Gravity spike."
"Careful," Christian murmured, his voice tight. He opened the passenger door, the hinges creaking loudly in the quiet space.
He helped her up into the high seat. Her skirt rode up her thighs as she sat, exposing pale skin and a flash of black lace. Christian looked away, forcing himself to focus on the task.
"Buckle up," he said, shutting the door with a solid thud.
He walked around to the driver's side, his boots scraping the concrete. He paused for a second before getting in, taking a deep breath of the night air. Phase one complete
He climbed in and started the engine. It roared to life with a cough and a sputter, vibrating through the seats.
As he pulled out of the fraternity driveway and onto the street, he glanced over at her.
Melissa had curled into herself against the door, head resting on the cool glass of the window. Her glasses were askew, sliding down her nose. Her eyes were closed.
"Hey," he said softly. "You okay?"
"Mmm-hmm," she hummed, a sleepy, contented sound. "Comfy truck. Vibrates."
Christian suppressed a smile. He navigated the streets of Los Angeles, heading west toward the Pacific Coast Highway.
The city lights blurred past—streaks of neon and headlights reflecting off the windshield. The radio was off. The only sounds were the grumble of the engine, the hum of tires on asphalt, and Melissa’s soft, rhythmic breathing.
Twenty minutes in, her breathing deepened. Her head lolled to the side, her chaotic bun loosening further as strands of blonde hair fell across her face.
She was out.
---
The only light in the master bedroom came from the moonlight reflecting off the Pacific Ocean, casting pale, shifting geometric shapes across the floor. The room smelled of expensive, conditioned air and faint sea salt.
Christian walked to a sleek, brushed-steel panel on the wall. He pressed a single button.
Hummmmm.
A low frequency vibration ran through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls. The liquid crystal molecules inside the panes realigned instantly. The view of the grey ocean and the distant, twinkling lights of boats vanished, replaced by an opaque, matte-black surface. The room was now a sealed box. A vault.
He turned back to the bed.
He laid Melissa on the center of the massive mattress. She was dead weight, her breathing heavy and rhythmic, smelling of cheap vodka and the humid, sweaty air of the frat party.
He stood over her for a moment, the silence of the house pressing against his ears. He was no longer Ross the Janitor. He was Christian Kaufman, and this was his domain.
He began the process.
He started with her feet. He untied the laces of her scuffed Converse sneakers, pulling them off one by one and giving each one a deep sniff before dropping them onto the plush carpet with a dull thud. Next came the socks—white, ankle-length, damp with perspiration. He peeled them off, revealing pale, high-arched feet. He licked up her sole, tasting her. She twitched in her sleep, a reflex.
He moved up. He unbuttoned her jeans, the metal fasteners clicking in the quiet room. He worked the denim down her hips, shimmying the fabric over her thighs and calves until she was free of them.
Next, the Stranger Things t-shirt. He lifted her torso gently, pulling the garment up and over her head, discarding it.
Lastly he unclasped her bra and pulled it off her shoulders, and then shimmied her black lace panties down her legs.
She lay before him completely naked, face down on the charcoal-grey Egyptian cotton sheets. Her skin was pale, almost luminous in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the dark bedding. Her breathing was shallow, her back rising and falling gently.
Christian moved to the bedside drawer. The hemp ropes.
He positioned her limbs. He took her left wrist, pulling it up toward the heavy steel bedpost. She groaned low in her throat, shifting, but didn't wake. He looped the rope around her wrist and the post and tied it firmly enough to hold, but loose enough to avoid cutting circulation.
He did the same with her right wrist.
Then her ankles. He spread her legs wide, pulling them to the corners of the footboard and tied each one to the posts.
She was splayed open, helpless, a specimen pinned for study.
Christian reached for the final pieces of the puzzle. He rolled two yellow foam earplugs between his fingers, compressing them, and slipped them gently into her ears. He watched them expand, sealing her off from the auditory world. Lastly, a black silk blindfold was tied securely over her eyes, knotting it at the back of her head, entangling slightly with her frizzy blonde hair.
He stepped back. The visual was striking. The contrast of the coarse hemp fibers biting into her soft skin, the luxury of the room against the raw vulnerability of her position.
He waited.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
A shift. Melissa’s head turned sharply on the pillow, her cheek sliding against the high-thread-count cotton. Her fingers curled, expecting to find the rough texture of a dorm blanket or the denim of her own jeans. Instead, they met luxurious cottom and then, abruptly, the bite of the rope.
She tugged. The resistance was absolute.
"Mmph..."
She tried to bring her knees up, a reflex to curl into a ball, but the ropes at her ankles snapped her legs straight. The movement sent a jolt of adrenaline through her hungover system, piercing the fog of vodka and sleep.
Panic set in immediately. Her breathing hitched, transforming into a ragged, hyperventilating rhythm that sounded like a roar inside her plugged ears. She yanked her arms, the heavy steel bedframe rattling slightly with the force of her struggle.
"Hhh-ung? Wha-?"
She shook her head violently, trying to dislodge the blindfold, but the silk was tied tight at the base of her skull. All she saw was the back of her own eyelids. All she heard was the rushing of her own blood.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked, loud and distorted in her own head. "Is... is someone there?"
She pulled again, her hips bucking off the mattress. "Guys? Brad? If this is some... some screwed up initiation, it's not funny!"
Silence. Or at least, she assumed it was silence. The earplugs created a maddening sensory void.
"Let me go!" She screamed it this time, her voice shrill. "I can't... I can't move! Who’s there?!"
"Please!" She whipped her head up, straining her neck, trying to listen for anything—a footstep, a breath, a laugh. "Take this off! I can't see! Someone help me!"
Standing at the foot of the bed, Christian watched the performance. He didn't make a sound. He watched the way her muscles tensed, the way sweat began to bead on her shoulder blades, the way her panic turned her skin a flush pink. She was screaming into the void he had created, completely unaware that her captor was standing inches away, admiring the geometry of her fear.
Christian moved to the lacquered ebony dresser and opened the top drawer. It slid out on silent runners. Inside lay his collection of implements, arranged with the precision of surgical tools.
He bypassed the leather crops and the cane. Tonight wasn't about pain; it was about overload. He selected a single, long pheasant feather. It was stained a deep crimson, the barbs long, wispy, and agonizingly soft. The quill was flexible but firm.
He walked back to the foot of the California King.
Melissa was fully awake now, her breathing ragged and audible, filling the silence of the room. She was pulling against the ropes, her hips bucking off the mattress in short, panicked bursts. She turned her head side to side, the blindfold holding fast, her hair fanning out over the pillow.
"Hello?!" Her voice was loud, unmodulated due to the earplugs blocking her own feedback loop. "Is someone there? Brad?! If this is a joke, it’s not funny!"
She yanked her wrists, the heavy steel bedframe rattling slightly with the force. "Let me go! I can't see! Who’s there?!"
Christian didn't answer. He stood directly behind her spread ankles. He watched the soles of her feet. They were pale, the skin smooth and uncalloused, with high, elegant arches that twitched with nervous energy.
He leaned in, his face impassive, calculating.
He lowered the feather.
He didn't strike. He merely allowed the very tips of the crimson barbs to graze the center of her left sole. It wasn't just a touch; it was a ghost. A whisper of sensation that was barely there, yet agonizingly present.
The reaction was instantaneous.
"Ah!" Melissa gasped, her leg snapping straight as she tried to kick away. The rope caught her ankle, stopping the motion with a harsh jerk. "What the— hey! Something touched me!"
Christian smiled. Very sensitive.
He dragged the feather slowly up the length of her arch, from the heel to the ball of her foot. He applied just enough pressure to flatten the barbs, increasing the surface area. The friction was electric—millions of tiny fibers bypassing her skin and stripping the nerves raw. It sent phantom sparks shooting up her calf, straight into the base of her spine.
"No! Ah-hahaha! Stop it!" Melissa’s voice pitched up, cracking into a spontaneous, breathless laugh that sounded more like a sob. She shook her head violently, hair whipping across the pillow. "That tickles! Who is doing tha-ha-at?!"
Christian shifted his grip on the quill. He moved to the toes.
He slid the tip of the feather between her big toe and the second digit. He began to saw it back and forth, a slow, rhythmic motion. Swish. Swish. Swish.
Melissa’s toes clamped down instantly, trying to trap the intruder, a defensive reflex to protect the sensitive webbing.
It was exactly what Christian wanted.
As she squeezed her toes together, she only pressed the soft, ticklish barbs harder against the delicate skin between them. The sensation intensified tenfold.
"NO! OH MY GOD! STOP!"
She writhed, her hips lifting high off the bed, her butt cheeks clenching tight. Her foot twisted violently in the bond, trying to scrape the itch away against the air, but there was no relief.
"It’s stuck! Get it ou-hou-out! AH-HAHAHA! PLEASE!"
Her laughter was loud, bordering on frantic. She sounded incredulous, her brain unable to reconcile the fear of restraint with the ridiculous intensity of the tickling.
Christian didn't stop. He kept sawing, watching the way her foot curled and uncurled. Then, without breaking rhythm, he switched to the right foot.
He didn't give her the courtesy of a warm-up. He drove the feather straight into the gap between her third and fourth toes like a precision blade.
"EEEE-YIP!"
Her body jerked as if electrified. "NOT THERE! NO! DON'T-HIHIHI-DO THAT!"
She tried to crawl up the bed, her fingernails scratching uselessly against the fitted sheet, but the wrist restraints held her pinned.
"I can't—ah-hahaha! I can't take it! S-Seriously! Sto-ho-hop!"
Christian worked both feet now, alternating. A brush against the left arch. A saw between the right toes. The room filled with her pleas, her confused laughter, and the soft swish of the feather against her skin.
Christian set the pheasant feather down on the nightstand. The dry, ghostly torment was effective, but he wanted more.
He reached for the bottle of baby oil. The cap popped with a sharp, plastic snap that was lost on Melissa’s plugged ears. He squeezed the bottle.
Splurt.
A heavy dollop of the clear liquid hit his palm—cool, viscous, and smelling intensely of synthetic lavender. He rubbed his hands together, the oil warming instantly, creating a slick, friction-free barrier.
He returned to her feet. He clamped his hands over her soles.
Shhh-tock.
The sound of his oiled palms peeling away from her high arches was wet and obscene in the silence. Plit. Squelch. Because there was no friction, every movement created a suction noise—a sticky, rhythmic smacking that sounded like sex, but felt like surgery.
"AH!" Melissa yelped, her toes curling into the slick nothingness. "It's... it's wet!"
Her toes curled violently, trying to grip the nothingness of the air. The sensation of the oil was a shock—heavy and slick. Christian worked it in, turning the skin of her arches into a frictionless surface.
Then, he used his nails.
He dragged his thumbnails down the center of her oiled arches, digging in deep.
"NO! Hahaha! Cut it ou-hout!" She kicked wildly, the ropes snapping taut. "It tickles! Serious-ly-hee!"
Christian ignored her pleas. He squeezed more oil into his hands, the squelching sound lost to her ears but loud to his own. He began the ascent.
His palms slid up over her calves and thighs, leaving a glistening trail on the pale skin. He moved to her hips, his fingers gliding over the curve of her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh above the bone.
"D-Don't! Hahaha! Not there!" She writhed, twisting her torso, cheeks flushed pink.
He moved higher. His hands coated her ribs in a thick layer of sheen. As he applied it, he rattled his knuckles swiftly up and down her ribcage like a stick on a fence.
"AAAAH-HAHAHA! STOP IT! PLEASE!" Beating the mattress with her chin, she screamed, her voice cracking. "I can't—I can't see! Who is doing tha-ha-at?!"
Christian reached underneath her chest. Since she was pressed face-down, gravity pulled against her. He slid his oiled hands between her skin and the cotton sheets, cupping the weight of her breasts. He coated the soft, yielding flesh, his fingers kneading firmly, teasing the nipples which hardened instantly against his slick palms.
"Nnn-gh! Hey!" She gasped, a sound of shock mixed with the laughter.
Then, he found the target.
He slid his hands out from under her chest and moved to the hollows of her underarms. Because her arms were tied out and up toward the bedposts, the axilla were stretched taut, fully exposed and defenseless.
He slathered the oil into the deep, silken pits.
"NOOO-EEEE!" Melissa shrieked, the sound piercing the quiet room.
Christian curled his fingers into claws. He dug his nails into the oiled hollows, scratching and swirling in the sensitive skin. The oil made the sensation maddeningly intense—fast, slippery, and inescapable.
"AH-HAHAHA! OH MY GOD! ST-STOP!"
She thrashed, her shoulders hunching up in a futile attempt to close her armpits, to trap his invading hands, but the angle was impossible. She was open. She was greased.
"I CAN'T TAKE IT! EEEE-HEEE!"
She was screaming now, tears squeezing out from under the blindfold as the relentless, slippery scratching sent electric shocks through her nervous system.
Christian withdrew his hands from her armpits abruptly.
The sudden absence of sensation was almost as jarring as the assault itself. Melissa slumped against the mattress, her chest heaving against the charcoal sheets, gasping for air.
"Hah... hah... oh god..." Her voice was a ragged whisper, sweat dripping from her nose onto the pillow. "Is it... is it over?"
Christian didn't answer. He didn't even pause.
He poured another heavy dollop of the mineral oil into his palms, the viscous liquid warming instantly against his skin. He watched her for a beat, admiring the sheen of sweat and oil that now coated her upper body like a glaze.
Then, he placed his hands on the small of her back.
Melissa flinched, a full-body twitch. "No... no, please..."
He slid his hands down, over the curve of her spine, until his palms cupped the rise of her ass. The flesh here was soft, substantial, and utterly defenseless. He squeezed the cheeks firmly, the oil making a wet, squelching sound as his fingers sank into the muscle.
He began to knead.
"AH! H-hey!" She kicked her legs, but the ankle restraints kept her wide open. "Don't-hahaha! Don't grab my ass!"
Christian ignored her. He moved from kneading to scratching. He curled his fingers and raked his nails in furious, swirling circles over the curve of her buttocks. He dug into the sensitive dimples, then dragged his nails right down the center, teasing the rim of her cleft.
"EEEE-YIP!"
Her hips bucked wildy, lifting off the bed in a desperate attempt to escape the nails, but it only pressed her harder into his hands.
"NO! NOOO! THAT TICKLES! GET OFF!"
She was laughing again, that high, panicked sound that lived on the edge of tears. Christian moved lower. He slid his hands down from her ass to the backs of her thighs, right where the gluteal fold met the hamstring—a devastatingly sensitive crease.
He scribbled his fingertips there frantically.
"AHAHAHA! OH FUCK! STOP!"
She thrashed, shaking her head side to side. "NOT THERE! PLEASE! I CAN'T-HEEE-HEEE!"
Christian didn't let up. He slid his hands inward, exploring the soft, pale skin of her inner thighs. The position of her legs—spread wide and tied to the bedposts—left this area completely exposed. The skin here was thinner, hotter.
He ran his oiled knuckles up and down the adductors, getting dangerously close to her groin, teasing the heat radiating from her pussy without actually touching it.
"NO! NNN-GH! DON'T!"
Her laughter turned into a chaotic shriek. The anticipation of him going higher mixed with the unbearable, slippery tickle on her inner thighs was overloading her system.
"BRAD! OR WHOEVER! STOO-HOO-OOP!"
Christian grinned, watching the muscles in her legs spasm and twitch under his relentless, oiled assault. He dug his thumbs into the sensitive meat of her thighs and vibrated them, sending shockwaves of sensation straight up her spine.
Christian paused. He pulled his hands back from her trembling thighs, leaving them glistening and red-marked under the dim light.
He watched her.
Melissa was a mess. Her chest heaved against the mattress, her skin flushed a deep, frantic pink. Sweat beaded on her forehead, dampening the blindfold.
More importantly, he saw the reaction below.
The proximity of his frantic, oiled fingers to her groin had done its work. Despite the fear, despite the confusion, her body had betrayed her. A slickness that wasn't baby oil glistened at the very top of her inner thighs. Her pussy was wet. A biological response to the sensory overload, the friction, and the sheer, overwhelming vulnerability of her position.
Christian smiled. Good.
He turned to the nightstand. He ignored the feathers and the crops. He reached past them to a small, unassuming device: a high-powered electric toothbrush. It was sleek, black, and vibrated with a low, potent hummmmm that was almost silent in the conditioned air of the room.
He didn't turn it on yet.
He returned to the bed. Melissa was still catching her breath, unaware of the new tool.
"Please..." She whimpered, her voice small and broken. "Just... tell me what you want..."
Christian placed a hand on her left ass and used his fingers to spread her butt cheeks wide. Her ass was now completely open to him—her dark, puckered anus and the soft, vulnerable perineum exposed to the cool air.
"Mmph!" She flinched, her body tensing instantly. "What...?"
He positioned the head of the sleek, black device. He pressed the power button.
Vvvvv-thrummm.
It didn't buzz; it hummed. A low, penetrating frequency that you felt in your teeth before you heard it with your ears. The bristles blurred into a grey haze of motion.
He pressed the vibrating head directly against her tight rosebud.
Mmm-muhh…
The pitch of the motor dropped an octave as the resistance of her flesh dampened the vibration, turning the sound into a muffled, guttural drone. The sensation wasn't just on the surface; the high-speed oscillation traveled through the soft tissue, rattling her pelvic bone from the inside out.
"AAAAAH!" Melissa screamed, the vibration short-circuiting her nerves.
Melissa’s scream was immediate and shocking. Her entire body spasmed violently, her hips lifting off the mattress as if she’d been electrocuted.
"NO! OH GOD! WHAT IS TH-HAT?!"
The vibration was intense, localized, and inescapable. It sent shockwaves of buzzing sensation straight into her sensitive nerves. She clamped her ass cheeks together reflexively, trying to shut out the intruder, but Christian’s fingers dug in, holding her open.
"GET IT OFF! GET IT OO-HOO-OUT!"
She thrashed, her legs kicking uselessly at the air. The sensation was maddening—a deep, penetrative tickle that rattled her teeth.
He didn't stop there. He dragged the vibrating head slowly down from her anus, moving millimeter by agonizing millimeter along the perineum.
"Nnn-gh! EEEE-HEEE!"
As the vibrations hit the soft, sensitive skin between her ass and her pussy, her reaction changed. The scream turned into a breathless, desperate laugh.
"THAT TICKLES! IT TICKLES SO BA-HAA-AD!"
She shook her head side to side, sobbing with laughter. "STOP! PLEASE! AHAHAHA! I CAN'T TAKE IT!"
Christian kept the pressure steady. He circled the vibrating bristles over the gooch, then moved back up to circle the rim of her anus again. The combination of the humiliation, the sexual arousal leaking from her, and the relentless, buzzing tickle was pushing her over the edge.
"NO MORE! PLEASE! STOO-HOO-OOP!"
She was begging now, her voice thick with tears and hysteria. The toothbrush droned on, a tiny machine of torture against her most private, sensitive flesh.
Christian watched Melissa.
She was thrashing wildly on the tangled sheets, her face flushed and twisted in a rictus of overwhelmed sensation. Sweat slicked her bare skin, mixing with the baby oil in a chaotic, shimmering mess.
Her hips bucked against the restraints, seeking friction, seeking relief. Her pussy was glistening, swollen and weeping moisture onto the charcoal cotton. A distinct, musky scent of arousal filled the sterile air of the room, cutting through the lavender oil.
It was intoxicating.
Christian looked down at himself. Through the rough fabric of his own jeans (he hadn't bothered to strip fully yet), his cock was rigid, straining against the zipper. A familiar, dark heat coiled in his gut.
He clicked the toothbrush off. Bzzzt-thunk.
The sudden silence was deafening. Melissa let out a long, ragged moan, her body collapsing onto the mattress as the localized vibration vanished. Her breathing was a harsh, sawing sound in the quiet room.
"Ah... ah... thank god..." She whimpered into the pillow, her voice trembling. "Is it... is it done?"
Christian tossed the toothbrush onto the nightstand with a clatter. He didn't answer. He returned to her.
He placed his hands back on her inner thighs, right at the precipice.
"No..." Melissa whispered, her voice tightening with dread. "Please... don't..."
He ignored her. He began to scratch.
He used his index and middle fingers, coated in the slick mixture of her sweat and the oil. He dug them into the sensitive creases where her thighs met her groin—the inguinal folds.
"EEEE-YIP!"
Her body jerked as if stung.
He didn't stop. He scribbled his fingers up and down those maddeningly sensitive ridges, teasing the very edge of her labia without actually touching the clitoris. He circled the entrance, then darted away. He traced the swollen pout of her lips, then retreated to the thighs.
"AH-HAHAHA! STOP! OH GOD!"
The laughter was back, but it was desperate now. Needy.
"IT TICKLES SO MUCH! NOOO!"
She writhed, her hips grinding into the mattress, chasing his fingers. The combination of the intense, localized tickle and her own mounting arousal was torture.
"PLEASE! JUST... AH-HA-HA!"
Christian leaned in close, his breath hot against her ass.
He increased the speed. Scritch-scratch-scritch. His nails danced over the sensitive skin, sending electric jolts of sensation straight into her trembling core.
"I CAN'T TAKE IT!" She screamed, turning her head frantically side to side. "TOUCH ME! PLEASE! JUST TOUCH ME THERE!"
Her voice broke on a sob. It wasn't a beg for mercy anymore; it was a plea for release.
"LET ME CUM! PLEASE!"
She bucked her hips up, offering herself to him, desperate for the friction that would push her over the edge.
"DO IT! JUST DO IT! AHAHAHA! I NEED TO CUM!"
Christian kept scratching the creases, his oiled fingers scribbling frantically against the inguinal folds, denying her the direct contact she craved but flooding the nerves surrounding her clitoris with high-voltage friction. He watched her frustration mount, watched her body coil tighter and tighter like a spring about to snap. Her pleasure was his instrument, and he was playing it perfectly.
"Please! I'm… I'm there! PLEASE!" Melissa shrieked, her hips piston-firing off the mattress in a blur of desperation.
Christian leaned in, his eyes locking onto the glistening, swollen pout of her pussy. He watched as she reached the precipice. Her breathing stopped completely, her abdominal muscles locked rigid, and he saw her pink, engorged labia beginning to flutter—the first, involuntary contractions of a climax trying to break through.
With a cold, cruel smile, he lifted his hands.
The stimulation vanished instantly.
The sudden cessation of the torment was a violent shock to Melissa’s overloaded system. The orgasm that had been seconds away from exploding crashed back down on her like a physical weight, dissolving into a jagged,throbbing ache of unreleased tension. She collapsed into the mattress, her breath hitching in ragged, wet gasps of disbelief. Her body was a map of sensation—skin flushing pink, muscles trembling with the phantom energy of a release that never came, and sweat mingling with the heavy coat of mineral oil.
"Hhh... oh god... hhh..." She sobbed into the pillow, too weak to even lift her head.
Christian didn't speak. He moved meaningfully to the foot of the bed.
He reached for the rope binding her right ankle. With a few deft movements, he undid the knot. Melissa didn't kick. She didn't try to pull away. Her leg was dead weight, her muscles jelly from the adrenaline crash.
He lifted her ankle and moved it across the mattress to meet her left one. He lashed them together tight against the steel post of the footboard. Her legs were now closed, her feet side-by-side, soles facing him like an open book.
Christian stood back for a second, looking at the display. The oil on her soles caught the moonlight, glistening wetly.
He reached for his waistband. The sound of his zipper rasping down was loud in the quiet room, though Melissa couldn't hear it through the foam plugs. He shoved his denim down his thighs, freeing himself. His cock sprang out, heavy and fully engorged, pulsing with the dark thrill of the scene.
He stepped in close.
He grabbed her oiled feet, pressing them together. The baby oil made them slick, perfect. He didn't need to be gentle. He thrust his hips forward, sliding his erection deep between her arches.
"Mmph?" Melissa groaned, feeling the intrusion, the heat of him sliding against her sensitive, tickled-out soles. She twitched feebly, her toes curling against the shaft, but she had no fight left.
Christian established a rhythm. Slide. Squelch. Slide. Her high arches cradled him, the oil eliminating all friction, leaving only warmth and pressure.
But it wasn't enough. He needed the full sensory profile.
He reached down to the floor and picked up one of her discarded Converse sneakers.
It was a beaten-up, low-top shoe. The canvas was scuffed, the rubber sole worn down. He brought the opening to his face.
He inhaled deeply.
It smelled of rubber, stale cotton, and the distinct, sweet-sharp tang of feminine sweat. It was the scent of the girl he’d watched from the shadows, the "nerdy hot" girl who had no idea she was currently servicing the billionaire "janitor."
He groaned, his hips snapping forward harder. He fucked her feet, burying his nose in the opening of the shoe, inhaling the essence of her day—the library, the frat party, the fear.
"Yeah..." he grunted into the shoe, the smell driving him closer to the edge. "That's it."
Accidentally, or perhaps instinctively, Melissa’s toes curled tight around the head of his cock as he pulled back. The sensation was electric.
Christian’s breathing was a harsh rasp in the silent room.
He stood pinned against the footboard, his cock sliding slickly between Melissa’s oil-drenched arches. The friction was perfect—warm, slippery, and yielding. But it was too... passive. She was just reacting, barely fighting.
He needed the chaos.
He tossed the sneaker aside with a clatter. It tumbled across the carpet, forgotten.
He reached down with both hands. His fingers curled, finding the sensitive, wrinkled skin of her soles just beneath his shaft.
He dug his nails in.
"AAAAHH!"
It was immediate. Melissa’s body jolted on the mattress, her spine arching violently.
"NO! NOOO! NOT AGAIN!"
Her legs kicked out reflexively, trying to escape the sensation, but the restraints held firm. Instead of pulling away, her thrashing only tightened the grip of her feet around his cock. Her arches cramped, squeezing him hard. Her toes curled and uncurled frantically against the sensitive head of his penis.
It was exquisite.
"Mmmmmph!" Christian groaned, his hips snapping forward into the chaotic, spasms of her feet. "Just like that," he whispered.
He scratched harder. He raked his fingernails down the center of her soles, then scribbled them furiously across the balls of her feet.
"AHAHAHA! STOP IT! OH MY GOD! STOP!"
Melissa was screaming laughter into the pillow, her voice cracking with hysteria. She whipped her head side to side, tears streaming from under the blindfold.
"I CAN'T TAKE IT! EEEE-HEEE!"
Every convulsion of her body sent a fresh wave of pressure through her feet. Every desperate curl of her toes milked him. The combination of the intense physical sensation, the scent of the baby oil and her sweat, and the sound of her helpless laughter was overwhelming.
Christian felt the coil in his gut snap.
"Fuck..." he hissed through gritted teeth.
He increased his speed to a frantic pace, fucking her thrashing, ticklish soles with brutal efficiency.
"NO MORE! PLEASE! I'M BEGGING YOU! AHA-HA-HA!"
He drove deep one last time, his hips slamming into her heels.
"fffffuck!" he groaned, as rope after rope of thick white cum splattered over her soles, her toes, and dripped onto the sheets.
Christian pulled back, his chest heaving. He wiped the splashback of semen from his stomach with a heavy towel, his expression shifting from animalistic release back to cold, clinical detachment.
Melissa was barely conscious. She lay trembling in the ruins of the bed—a mess of oil, sweat, and bodily fluids. Her breathing was shallow, little hitches of air that sounded like a wounded bird.
"P-please..." she murmured, the word wet and broken against the pillow. "Let me... go..."
Christian walked to the head of the bed. He didn't untie her wrists yet. He leaned down, his breath ghosting over her earplugs.
"Time for bed, Melissa."
Melissa was already gasping, her diaphragm spasming in short, shallow hitches. She was oxygen-deprived from the screaming, her system flooded with endorphins and adrenaline. She was teetering on the edge of a Vasovagal syncope—a nervous system crash.
Christian knew exactly how to push her over.
He straddled her heaving chest, pinning her ribcage to the mattress with his full weight. She bucked beneath him, a desperate, animalistic struggle, but he was immovable.
"Breathe," he whispered, knowing she couldn't.
He dug his thumbs hard into the soft, unprotected hollows beneath her floating ribs—the solar plexus—driving them up and under the bone like he was trying to restart a stopped heart. At the same time, his fingers clamped around her ribs, sinking between the bones, and he began to vibrate his hands.
Kuh-hhhhk.
The scream died in her throat, cut off by a wet, sickening click. It felt like a stone being forced under her ribcage. A cold, paralytic knot exploded in her center, seizing the diaphragm instantly. The biological signal to inhale was sent, but the machinery refused to answer.
Hhh-kuh. Hhh-kuh.
The panic in her eyes flared white-hot as her lungs turned into concrete. The silence of her suffocation was louder than her screams had been. She opened her mouth to draw air, but her throat made only a dry, rattling wheeze as the vacuum sealed shut.
Her thrashing limbs stiffened, vibrating with the intensity of the oxygen deprivation, wires cut one by one. And then...
Thump.
She went limp. The voltage left her body instantly, her head rolling to the side with the dead weight of a marionette whose strings had been severed.
She was out. System failure.
Christian checked her pulse. Fast, thready, but stabilizing. The blackout would last long enough.
He didn't linger. He moved with the cold efficiency of a crime scene cleaner.
He grabbed a scalding hot towel from the en-suite and scrubbed her down—not with care, but with the rough pragmatism of a mechanic wiping grease from his tools. He erased the oil, the sweat, and every trace of his DNA from her trembling skin.
He pulled a generic, oversized grey hoodie and sweatpants from a vacuum-sealed bag in the closet—untraceable, bought with cash in Nevada. He manipulated her limp limbs into the fabric, dressing her like a doll.
Then, the tax.
He reached down and picked up the single, white ankle sock lying on the carpet. He pressed the rough cotton to his face, inhaling deeply. It smelled of rubber, fear, and the unique, sour musk of her exhaustion.
He didn't return it to her. He opened the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Inside lay a pile of mismatched fabrics—lace thongs, nylon stockings, hair ribbons. He dropped the sock onto the pile. A cotton graveyard.
He closed the drawer with a soft click.
He carried her dead weight to the garage and dumped her into the passenger seat of the rusted Ford Ranger. She was no longer a guest; she was cargo.
The drive back to the city was a decompression chamber. The silence of the coast receded, replaced by the low, ambient hum of Los Angeles.
He drove inland, navigating the quiet, tree-lined perimeter of the University District.
He killed the headlights a block away, letting the rusted Ford Ranger glide into the service entrance behind the Student Union like a shark entering deep water. He didn't need the lights. He knew every pothole, every speed bump, and every cracked paver in this lot. He swept them every morning.
He checked the dashboard clock: 3:12 AM.
Perfect. He knew the patrol schedule down to the second. Campus Security Unit 4—usually driven by Miller, who never got out of the cart—rolled past this specific loading dock at :05 and :35 past the hour. He had a twenty-three-minute window of absolute invisibility.
He steered the truck into the shadows of the loading bay, parking directly under the overhang of the HVAC units. He knew for a fact that the surveillance camera mounted above the bay door—Camera 7B—had a dead zone in its lower left quadrant. He knew because he was the one who had "accidentally" knocked it out of alignment with a ladder three weeks ago while clearing a gutter.
He killed the engine.
He hauled Melissa out of the cab. She was dead weight, limp and pliable in her oversized hoodie. He hoisted her over his shoulder, his boots moving silent and sure over the concrete he spent forty hours a week scrubbing.
He carried her to a concrete bench near the vending machines, a spot that was technically high-visibility but currently deserted. It was a calculated placement. In the morning, or when Miller drove by at 3:35, she wouldn’t look like a crime scene. She would look like just another burnout freshman who had missed curfew and passed out waiting for a friend.
He set her down gently, arranging her limbs with the precision of a set dresser. He crossed her ankles and slumped her upper body against the brick wall, tucking her chin into her chest to obscure her face.
Then, the narrative anchor.
He pulled the flask of cheap vodka from his back pocket. He uncapped it and splashed a generous amount onto the front of her hoodie, drenching the grey fabric. The sharp, chemical stench of ethanol bloomed in the night air—a liquid alibi that would explain away her unconscious state, her grogginess, and any memory gaps she might have.
Drunk. harmless. Safe.
He stood back for a split second, checking the angles. From the road, she was visible but dismissed. From the security camera on the quad, she was blocked by the vending machine.
"Sleep tight," he muttered.
He turned his back and walked away, checking his watch again. 3:19 AM. Plenty of time.
He slipped back into the truck, the heavy door slamming shut with a solid, metallic thud. As he turned the key and the engine coughed to life, the billionaire evaporated in the exhaust fumes, leaving only Ross to drive back into the night.
---
Squeak. Swish. Squeak. Swish.
The rhythm was hypnotic.
The hallway of the Business School smelled of aggressive pine cleaner and floor wax. It was 11:00 AM the following Monday, and the corridor was bustling with students rushing to Marketing 101.
Christian Kaufman—"Ross Weis"—pushed the yellow mop bucket forward.
He adjusted his cap, pulling the brim lower. The grease smudge was back on his cheek. The grey jumpsuit was stiff and scratched at his neck. The ring of keys on his hip jingled a dull, brassy tune.
He was invisible again. A ghost in the machine.
He watched Melissa Schwarz walk past not ten minutes ago. She looked tired, clutching a large coffee, walking with a slight limp. She didn't even glance at the janitor. Why would she? The man who had owned her soul for three hours the previous night didn't exist in her world.
He felt a dark, warm satisfaction curl in his gut.
"Yo. Ross."
The voice came from near the water fountain.
Christian stopped mopping. He leaned on the handle, adopting the slouched posture of the working class. He looked up.
It was Tyler, a sophomore from Sigma-Chi-Omega. Blonde, athletic, wearing a lacrosse hoodie. He looked nervous, checking over his shoulder to make sure no professors were watching.
"Floor's wet, kid," Christian grunted, his voice rough.
Tyler stepped closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Hey, uh, Garrison told me about... the service. You know. The acquisitions."
Christian’s face remained impassive. "I don't know what you're talkin' about."
Tyler fumbled in his pocket, producing a thick wad of cash. "Look, I’m serious. It’s Ashley. The redhead in Gamma-Phi-Echo. She has these... specifically, her gym shorts. The ones she wears for volleyball."
He looked at Ross with desperate, hopeful eyes. "Can you get them? After the game on Saturday?"
Christian looked at the money. Then he looked at the kid. He let a slow, crooked grin spread across his face—the grin of a man who held the keys to the entire kingdom.
"Volleyball shorts are tricky," Christian said, reaching out to take the cash. He shoved it into his dirty pocket. "Lockers are tight."
He winked.
"But for a hundred? I can get anything."
At 6:00 AM, the floor-to-ceiling glass walls of his bedroom—a cantilevered masterpiece of modern architecture perched precariously over the Pacific—showed nothing but grey water and grey sky. The air inside was scrubbed, conditioned, and scented with absolutely nothing. It was a vacuum. A tomb for the living.
Christian sat on the edge of his California King bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets pooling around his waist. He looked at his phone on the nightstand. Three missed calls from his father’s estate lawyers in Zurich. Two emails from the family office regarding a grand opening in Dubai.
He swiped the notifications away without reading them.
He stood up, naked, and walked to the walk-in closet. It was filled with Italian wool suits, bespoke dress shirts, and shoes that cost more than most people’s cars. He bypassed them all.
At the very back, hidden behind a row of tuxedos, was a plastic bin.
He pulled it out. Inside lay the skin of "Ross Weis," folded like a shroud.
A pair of faded, oil-stained Dickies work pants. A grey uniform shirt with a patch that read FACILITIES & MAINTENANCE stitched in fraying red thread. Heavy, steel-toed boots that smelled of old rubber, floor wax, and twenty years of other men's sweat.
Pulling on the rough fabric was a sensory shock. The stiff, industrial cotton scraped against his thighs, a stark, abrasive contrast to the Egyptian sheets he slept in. It felt less like clothing and more like sandpaper against his skin, scrubbing away the billionaire. As he buttoned the shirt, the smell hit him—a cloying mix of stale detergent and damp basement air that seemed to cling to the fibers. He cinched the belt tight, feeling the heavy brass ring of master keys dig into his hip bone. It was a grounding weight, a physical anchor dragging him down from the clouds of Malibu into the gutter he craved.
He didn't take the McLaren sitting in the climate-controlled garage. Instead, he walked down the driveway to the street where a rusted, beat-up 2004 Ford Ranger was parked.
The drive to USC took forty minutes. As he crossed the threshold onto campus, the transformation completed itself.
Christian Kaufman, the bored, lonely, 25-year-old heir to a multi-billion dollar real estate empire, dissolved. Ross, the guy who could get you anything, emerged.
He parked near the maintenance sheds and grabbed his bucket. The air here was alive. It smelled of cut grass, exhaust fumes, cheap coffee, and hormones. Thousands of students, pulsing with energy, stress, and sex drive. He missed this. He missed the chaotic, unrefined reality of university life—the parties that spilled onto lawns, the desperate cramming in the library, the girls in their oversized sweatshirts and tiny shorts walking to early classes.
He had graduated three years ago, but the real world was cold and sterile. Here, he mattered.
He pushed his mop bucket into the main hallway of the Science Building.
Most people looked right through him. To the faculty, he was furniture. To the rich kids, he was invisible labor. But to the ones who knew—the frat presidents, the desperate freshmen, the stoners—he was a legend.
He paused to wring out the mop. He pumped the yellow plastic lever, compressing the dirty grey strands.
Ker-clack. Squelch.
The water gushed out, hitting the reservoir effectively, a thick, visceral splashing sound that echoed in the empty corridor.
Christian lifted the mop head. It was heavy, sodden with the filth of a thousand shoes. He slapped it down onto the linoleum.
Schhh-luck.
He pushed. The wet strands dragged across the wax, leaving a glistening, grey trail. Shhh-wissh. It wasn't just a sound; it was a texture. The friction of the cotton against the floor vibrated up the wooden handle and into his palms, grounding him. This was the sound of invisibility.
A group of cheerleaders walked by, laughing, their ponytails swinging. Christian kept his head down, the brim of his cap shadowing his eyes, but he watched them. He watched the way their skirts pleated, the way their socks hugged their calves. He wasn't just observing; he was cataloging.
He smiled to himself. When he first started this charade, he thought it would be a humiliation ritual. Penance for his privilege. Instead, it was intoxicating. He had the keys to every door. He knew who was sleeping with whom, who was failing, and who was desperate for a fix.
"Ross!"
The hiss came from a shadowed alcove near the trophy case.
Christian looked up, his expression shifting into the easy, lopsided grin of a working-class hustler. It was Garrison, a linebacker for the Trojans, looking sweaty and panicked.
The game was afoot.
"Ross," Garrison hissed again, his voice cracking like dry kindling.
Christian didn't stop mopping the hallway outside the gymnasium double doors. He kept his rhythm steady—slap, swish, wring. "Floor's wet, Garrison. You're gonna slip and sue me, and I ain't got a dime."
Garrison, a stocky figure with more neck than forehead, looked around frantically. "I need a favor. A big one. It’s Kirsten. The captain." He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "She’s in there now. Showering."
Christian paused, leaning on the splintery wooden handle of the mop. He looked at Garrison with the dull, hooded eyes of a man worried about rent, not stock portfolios. "Kirsten Vance? That’s steep, man. She locks her stuff up tight."
"Fifty bucks," Garrison whispered, shoving a hand into his pocket. "Plus a twenty tip if... if they're warm."
Christian let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Eighty. Flat. And you vanish until I come out."
"Done."
Christian watched Garrison scurry off around the corner, then straightened his maintenance cap. He pulled the heavy ring of keys from his belt, the brass jangling against his thigh. He walked to the door marked WOMEN’S LOCKER ROOM, knocked once—hard—and shouted, "Maintenance! Broken pipe check! Coming in!"
He didn't wait for a reply. He pushed the door open.
The atmosphere hit him like a physical wall. It was a dense, humid fog smelling of floral shampoos, damp cotton, and the sharp, coppery tang of overheated plumbing. The sound of showers running was a constant, thundering hiss in the background, masking his heavy work boots as he stepped onto the tiled floor.
"Hello?" he called out again, his voice echoing.
"Occupied!" a voice shrilled from the steam-obscured shower block at the far end.
"Just checkin' the sinks, Miss. Be gone in a sec," Christian grunted, keeping his eyes on the benches.
He moved quickly, his eyes scanning the rows of gym bags and discarded clothing. He knew Kirsten’s gear. A bright crimson duffel bag with a rhinestone 'K' on the side. There it was, sitting on the bench near locker 42.
The bag was unzipped.
Christian stepped closer, his heart rate spiking not from fear, but from the thrill of the violation. He peered inside. Buried under a thick grey sweatshirt and a pair of knee socks was a flash of white.
He reached in. His rough, calloused fingers (the result of gym work, not labor, though no one here knew the difference) brushed against the fabric. He hooked a finger around the elastic and pulled.
White cotton. Simple, functional, but distinctly hers.
He brought the fabric up to his face for a split second. Vanilla body wash and the faint, musky scent of exertion. Visceral. Real.
Then he looked back down at the bag. His cock twitched as he looked at the socks. He picked one up and sniffed the toes, his eyes rolling up from the feminine musk.
"Is the sink leaking?" the voice called out again, closer this time. The water had stopped running.
"Bone dry, Miss. Just a false alarm," Christian shouted back.
He shoved the panties deep into the right pocket of his work trousers, and the sock into the left. He grabbed his pipe wrench from his belt loop, just for show, and strode out of the locker room, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him with a snap.
Garrison was waiting by the water fountain, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Christian walked up to him, face impassive, and held out a hand. Garrison slapped four twenty-dollar bills into his palm.
"Did you...?"
Christian reached into his right pocket and produced the white bundle, dropping it into Garrison’s shaking hands. "Fresh off the bench. Still smells like her expensive perfume."
Garrison gripped the fabric like it was a religious artifact. " You're a god, Ross. Seriously." He looked up, eyes wide. "Hey, listen. We're throwing a rager on Friday. At the Alpha house. We need supplies. The hard stuff. And kegs."
Christian pocketed the cash—pocket change to him, but the currency of his credibility here. "I can get kegs. What else?"
"Everything," Garrison said, clutching the panties. "Can you make the drop comfortably? Around eight?"
"I'll be there," Christian said, picking up his mop. "Just tell me where to park the truck."
---
The chassis of the rented box truck vividly shuddered, vibrating in sync with the bass bleeding through the walls of the Delta-Iota-Kappa frat house.
Christian sat in the cab, the engine idling. It was 8:15 PM, and the humid California air outside was already thick with the smell of cheap decisions—stale malt liquor, marijuana smoke, and body spray.
He adjusted the rearview mirror, checking the mask. The grease smudge on his cheekbone was perfectly placed. The grey thermal shirt was stretched tight over his chest, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that looked like they belonged to a man who fixed pipes, not portfolios.
He killed the engine and stepped out. He didn't skulk; he strode.
"Yo! Ross!"
Garrison was by the back door, practically vibrating with anxiety. He looked sweaty, a red plastic cup crushing in his grip.
"Tell me you got it," Garrison hissed, eyes darting around the alleyway.
Christian walked around to the back of the truck, rolling up the metal door with a loud, industrial clang. "I always get it, Garrison. You know that."
He pointed to the stack of silver kegs. "Four halves. Domestic." Then, he reached into the duffel bag slung over his shoulder and produced a small, nondescript brown paper bag. "And the party favors. The medical-grade stuff your alumni donor asked for."
Garrison snatched the bag like a starving man grabbing bread. He shoved a wad of cash into Christian’s hand—messy, crumpled bills. Christian didn't count it. He stuffed it into his back pocket like it was trash.
"You're the man, Ross. Seriously. The fucking man."
Christian hauled the kegs into the kitchen on a dolly, the metal wheels clattering over the sticky linoleum. The kitchen was already a war zone, fueled by pre-game adrenaline. As he wheeled the alcohol in, a cheer went up from the guys playing beer pong on the island.
"Ross the Boss!" someone shouted. A hand slapped his back.
Christian offered them a lopsided, working-class grin. "Drink up, boys."
He left the kegs by the tap, basking in the brief adoration. He was the provider. The lifeline. The cool janitor who made the night happen.
And then, just like that, he flipped the switch.
He grabbed a red Solo cup, filled it with warm foam from an old keg to blend in, and faded back. He moved away from the light, away from the center of attention, drifting toward the periphery near the fake potted palm at the edge of the living room.
The predator had arrived.
The "Ross" persona was perfect camouflage. No one looked at the help once the beer was flowing. He stood in the shadows, his eyes sharpening, scanning the herd. He wasn't looking for the prom queens or the girls dancing on tables. He was looking for the straggler. The vulnerable one.
Find the mark, he thought, the bass thumping in his chest like a second heartbeat.
His gaze cut through the haze of vape smoke and dim lighting. It swept past the grind of bodies on the dance floor and landed on the far wall.
Target acquired.
Melissa Schwarz.
She pushed her thick black glasses up her nose, her frizzy blonde hair a chaotic halo. She looked cornered. A guy from the debate team—Brad—was leaning over her, trapping her against the wall with his arm, talking fast. Melissa was clutching her cup with both hands, looking for an exit.
Christian watched Brad’s hand. He saw the slight sleight of hand—a quick, nervous hover over Melissa's cup while she was distracted by someone bumping into her. A pinch of white powder fell from Brad’s fingers, dissolving instantly into her cheap vodka tonic.
Christian didn't blink. He didn't intervene. He just checked his mental watch. Rohypnol or GHB. Fast acting in this heat.
He watched Melissa take a sip. Then another.
Two minutes later, the change hit. It was subtle at first—her blink rate slowed. Her shoulders slumped, losing their defensive tension. The tight, polite smile she’d been holding melted into a slack, confused expression. She swayed, her grip on the cup loosening.
Brad saw it too. He leaned in closer, his hand moving to touch her waist, ready to guide her "somewhere quiet."
Not tonight, amateur, Christian thought.
Christian pushed off the wall.
He moved through the crowd with the practiced ease of a man who knew the floor plan better than the residents. He didn't look at anyone. He just focused on the space between him and her. He arrived just as Melissa stumbled, her knees buckling slightly.
He stepped smoothly between them, using his shoulder to box Brad out with the solid weight of a working man.
"You look like you need a life raft," he said, pitching his voice low enough to cut through the thumping bass, steadying her effortlessly.
Melissa looked up, her eyes swimming, pupils blown wide and struggling to focus. She blinked slowly, trying to process his face through the chemical fog rapidly claiming her brain. "Oh... h-hey... You're... the fix-it guy..."
"Guilty," Christian said, capturing her wandering gaze. He glanced at Brad, offering a cold, knowing stare that made the college kid step back. "Looks like your friend here was just leaving."
Melissa giggled, the sound wet and uncoordinated. "Friend? He... the walls are... vibrating, Ross. Why is the room... tilting?"
He took a step closer, testing the waters. "You okay? You look a little... flushed."
"I'm fantastic!" Melissa declared, throwing an arm out for emphasis and nearly knocking over a lamp. "Just... observing the wildlife. It's fascinating. truly."
She giggled, then seemingly lost her balance, stumbling sideways.
Christian caught her elbow, steadying her effortlessly. Her skin was warm, damp with perspiration. He felt the fine bones of her arm under his fingers.
"Whoa there, killer," he murmured. "Gravity works differently after three of those."
Melissa looked up at him, her eyes shining with alcohol and amusement. She didn't pull away. She leaned into his touch, just a little.
"You're strong," she slurred slightly, poking his bicep. "Jan-i-tor muscles."
"Something like that," Christian said, his voice dropping. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back. This was it. The opening.
"Listen," he said, keeping his tone casual. "I'm actually heading out. Gotta check on a property up the coast. Total ghost town. Way quieter than this circus."
He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "If you need an escape... or just some fresh air that doesn't smell like Axe body spray... I’ve got space in the truck."
Melissa blinked, processing this through the haze of alcohol. She looked at the crowded room, then back at the sturdy, safe-looking guy holding her arm.
"A ghost town?" she repeated, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Does it have... crypto bros?"
"Zero," Christian promised. "Just ocean views and silence."
She grinned, a lopsided, endearing expression. "Sold. Get me out of here, Ross the Janitor."
The air in the garage was cool and smelled of gasoline and wet concrete, a sharp relief after the humidity of the frat house.
Christian guided Melissa toward the passenger side of his battered Ford Ranger. She was leaning heavily on his arm now, her steps uncoordinated. She giggled as she tripped over a discarded beer can.
"Whoops," she mumbled, clutching his bicep. "Gravity spike."
"Careful," Christian murmured, his voice tight. He opened the passenger door, the hinges creaking loudly in the quiet space.
He helped her up into the high seat. Her skirt rode up her thighs as she sat, exposing pale skin and a flash of black lace. Christian looked away, forcing himself to focus on the task.
"Buckle up," he said, shutting the door with a solid thud.
He walked around to the driver's side, his boots scraping the concrete. He paused for a second before getting in, taking a deep breath of the night air. Phase one complete
He climbed in and started the engine. It roared to life with a cough and a sputter, vibrating through the seats.
As he pulled out of the fraternity driveway and onto the street, he glanced over at her.
Melissa had curled into herself against the door, head resting on the cool glass of the window. Her glasses were askew, sliding down her nose. Her eyes were closed.
"Hey," he said softly. "You okay?"
"Mmm-hmm," she hummed, a sleepy, contented sound. "Comfy truck. Vibrates."
Christian suppressed a smile. He navigated the streets of Los Angeles, heading west toward the Pacific Coast Highway.
The city lights blurred past—streaks of neon and headlights reflecting off the windshield. The radio was off. The only sounds were the grumble of the engine, the hum of tires on asphalt, and Melissa’s soft, rhythmic breathing.
Twenty minutes in, her breathing deepened. Her head lolled to the side, her chaotic bun loosening further as strands of blonde hair fell across her face.
She was out.
---
The only light in the master bedroom came from the moonlight reflecting off the Pacific Ocean, casting pale, shifting geometric shapes across the floor. The room smelled of expensive, conditioned air and faint sea salt.
Christian walked to a sleek, brushed-steel panel on the wall. He pressed a single button.
Hummmmm.
A low frequency vibration ran through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls. The liquid crystal molecules inside the panes realigned instantly. The view of the grey ocean and the distant, twinkling lights of boats vanished, replaced by an opaque, matte-black surface. The room was now a sealed box. A vault.
He turned back to the bed.
He laid Melissa on the center of the massive mattress. She was dead weight, her breathing heavy and rhythmic, smelling of cheap vodka and the humid, sweaty air of the frat party.
He stood over her for a moment, the silence of the house pressing against his ears. He was no longer Ross the Janitor. He was Christian Kaufman, and this was his domain.
He began the process.
He started with her feet. He untied the laces of her scuffed Converse sneakers, pulling them off one by one and giving each one a deep sniff before dropping them onto the plush carpet with a dull thud. Next came the socks—white, ankle-length, damp with perspiration. He peeled them off, revealing pale, high-arched feet. He licked up her sole, tasting her. She twitched in her sleep, a reflex.
He moved up. He unbuttoned her jeans, the metal fasteners clicking in the quiet room. He worked the denim down her hips, shimmying the fabric over her thighs and calves until she was free of them.
Next, the Stranger Things t-shirt. He lifted her torso gently, pulling the garment up and over her head, discarding it.
Lastly he unclasped her bra and pulled it off her shoulders, and then shimmied her black lace panties down her legs.
She lay before him completely naked, face down on the charcoal-grey Egyptian cotton sheets. Her skin was pale, almost luminous in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the dark bedding. Her breathing was shallow, her back rising and falling gently.
Christian moved to the bedside drawer. The hemp ropes.
He positioned her limbs. He took her left wrist, pulling it up toward the heavy steel bedpost. She groaned low in her throat, shifting, but didn't wake. He looped the rope around her wrist and the post and tied it firmly enough to hold, but loose enough to avoid cutting circulation.
He did the same with her right wrist.
Then her ankles. He spread her legs wide, pulling them to the corners of the footboard and tied each one to the posts.
She was splayed open, helpless, a specimen pinned for study.
Christian reached for the final pieces of the puzzle. He rolled two yellow foam earplugs between his fingers, compressing them, and slipped them gently into her ears. He watched them expand, sealing her off from the auditory world. Lastly, a black silk blindfold was tied securely over her eyes, knotting it at the back of her head, entangling slightly with her frizzy blonde hair.
He stepped back. The visual was striking. The contrast of the coarse hemp fibers biting into her soft skin, the luxury of the room against the raw vulnerability of her position.
He waited.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
A shift. Melissa’s head turned sharply on the pillow, her cheek sliding against the high-thread-count cotton. Her fingers curled, expecting to find the rough texture of a dorm blanket or the denim of her own jeans. Instead, they met luxurious cottom and then, abruptly, the bite of the rope.
She tugged. The resistance was absolute.
"Mmph..."
She tried to bring her knees up, a reflex to curl into a ball, but the ropes at her ankles snapped her legs straight. The movement sent a jolt of adrenaline through her hungover system, piercing the fog of vodka and sleep.
Panic set in immediately. Her breathing hitched, transforming into a ragged, hyperventilating rhythm that sounded like a roar inside her plugged ears. She yanked her arms, the heavy steel bedframe rattling slightly with the force of her struggle.
"Hhh-ung? Wha-?"
She shook her head violently, trying to dislodge the blindfold, but the silk was tied tight at the base of her skull. All she saw was the back of her own eyelids. All she heard was the rushing of her own blood.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked, loud and distorted in her own head. "Is... is someone there?"
She pulled again, her hips bucking off the mattress. "Guys? Brad? If this is some... some screwed up initiation, it's not funny!"
Silence. Or at least, she assumed it was silence. The earplugs created a maddening sensory void.
"Let me go!" She screamed it this time, her voice shrill. "I can't... I can't move! Who’s there?!"
"Please!" She whipped her head up, straining her neck, trying to listen for anything—a footstep, a breath, a laugh. "Take this off! I can't see! Someone help me!"
Standing at the foot of the bed, Christian watched the performance. He didn't make a sound. He watched the way her muscles tensed, the way sweat began to bead on her shoulder blades, the way her panic turned her skin a flush pink. She was screaming into the void he had created, completely unaware that her captor was standing inches away, admiring the geometry of her fear.
Christian moved to the lacquered ebony dresser and opened the top drawer. It slid out on silent runners. Inside lay his collection of implements, arranged with the precision of surgical tools.
He bypassed the leather crops and the cane. Tonight wasn't about pain; it was about overload. He selected a single, long pheasant feather. It was stained a deep crimson, the barbs long, wispy, and agonizingly soft. The quill was flexible but firm.
He walked back to the foot of the California King.
Melissa was fully awake now, her breathing ragged and audible, filling the silence of the room. She was pulling against the ropes, her hips bucking off the mattress in short, panicked bursts. She turned her head side to side, the blindfold holding fast, her hair fanning out over the pillow.
"Hello?!" Her voice was loud, unmodulated due to the earplugs blocking her own feedback loop. "Is someone there? Brad?! If this is a joke, it’s not funny!"
She yanked her wrists, the heavy steel bedframe rattling slightly with the force. "Let me go! I can't see! Who’s there?!"
Christian didn't answer. He stood directly behind her spread ankles. He watched the soles of her feet. They were pale, the skin smooth and uncalloused, with high, elegant arches that twitched with nervous energy.
He leaned in, his face impassive, calculating.
He lowered the feather.
He didn't strike. He merely allowed the very tips of the crimson barbs to graze the center of her left sole. It wasn't just a touch; it was a ghost. A whisper of sensation that was barely there, yet agonizingly present.
The reaction was instantaneous.
"Ah!" Melissa gasped, her leg snapping straight as she tried to kick away. The rope caught her ankle, stopping the motion with a harsh jerk. "What the— hey! Something touched me!"
Christian smiled. Very sensitive.
He dragged the feather slowly up the length of her arch, from the heel to the ball of her foot. He applied just enough pressure to flatten the barbs, increasing the surface area. The friction was electric—millions of tiny fibers bypassing her skin and stripping the nerves raw. It sent phantom sparks shooting up her calf, straight into the base of her spine.
"No! Ah-hahaha! Stop it!" Melissa’s voice pitched up, cracking into a spontaneous, breathless laugh that sounded more like a sob. She shook her head violently, hair whipping across the pillow. "That tickles! Who is doing tha-ha-at?!"
Christian shifted his grip on the quill. He moved to the toes.
He slid the tip of the feather between her big toe and the second digit. He began to saw it back and forth, a slow, rhythmic motion. Swish. Swish. Swish.
Melissa’s toes clamped down instantly, trying to trap the intruder, a defensive reflex to protect the sensitive webbing.
It was exactly what Christian wanted.
As she squeezed her toes together, she only pressed the soft, ticklish barbs harder against the delicate skin between them. The sensation intensified tenfold.
"NO! OH MY GOD! STOP!"
She writhed, her hips lifting high off the bed, her butt cheeks clenching tight. Her foot twisted violently in the bond, trying to scrape the itch away against the air, but there was no relief.
"It’s stuck! Get it ou-hou-out! AH-HAHAHA! PLEASE!"
Her laughter was loud, bordering on frantic. She sounded incredulous, her brain unable to reconcile the fear of restraint with the ridiculous intensity of the tickling.
Christian didn't stop. He kept sawing, watching the way her foot curled and uncurled. Then, without breaking rhythm, he switched to the right foot.
He didn't give her the courtesy of a warm-up. He drove the feather straight into the gap between her third and fourth toes like a precision blade.
"EEEE-YIP!"
Her body jerked as if electrified. "NOT THERE! NO! DON'T-HIHIHI-DO THAT!"
She tried to crawl up the bed, her fingernails scratching uselessly against the fitted sheet, but the wrist restraints held her pinned.
"I can't—ah-hahaha! I can't take it! S-Seriously! Sto-ho-hop!"
Christian worked both feet now, alternating. A brush against the left arch. A saw between the right toes. The room filled with her pleas, her confused laughter, and the soft swish of the feather against her skin.
Christian set the pheasant feather down on the nightstand. The dry, ghostly torment was effective, but he wanted more.
He reached for the bottle of baby oil. The cap popped with a sharp, plastic snap that was lost on Melissa’s plugged ears. He squeezed the bottle.
Splurt.
A heavy dollop of the clear liquid hit his palm—cool, viscous, and smelling intensely of synthetic lavender. He rubbed his hands together, the oil warming instantly, creating a slick, friction-free barrier.
He returned to her feet. He clamped his hands over her soles.
Shhh-tock.
The sound of his oiled palms peeling away from her high arches was wet and obscene in the silence. Plit. Squelch. Because there was no friction, every movement created a suction noise—a sticky, rhythmic smacking that sounded like sex, but felt like surgery.
"AH!" Melissa yelped, her toes curling into the slick nothingness. "It's... it's wet!"
Her toes curled violently, trying to grip the nothingness of the air. The sensation of the oil was a shock—heavy and slick. Christian worked it in, turning the skin of her arches into a frictionless surface.
Then, he used his nails.
He dragged his thumbnails down the center of her oiled arches, digging in deep.
"NO! Hahaha! Cut it ou-hout!" She kicked wildly, the ropes snapping taut. "It tickles! Serious-ly-hee!"
Christian ignored her pleas. He squeezed more oil into his hands, the squelching sound lost to her ears but loud to his own. He began the ascent.
His palms slid up over her calves and thighs, leaving a glistening trail on the pale skin. He moved to her hips, his fingers gliding over the curve of her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh above the bone.
"D-Don't! Hahaha! Not there!" She writhed, twisting her torso, cheeks flushed pink.
He moved higher. His hands coated her ribs in a thick layer of sheen. As he applied it, he rattled his knuckles swiftly up and down her ribcage like a stick on a fence.
"AAAAH-HAHAHA! STOP IT! PLEASE!" Beating the mattress with her chin, she screamed, her voice cracking. "I can't—I can't see! Who is doing tha-ha-at?!"
Christian reached underneath her chest. Since she was pressed face-down, gravity pulled against her. He slid his oiled hands between her skin and the cotton sheets, cupping the weight of her breasts. He coated the soft, yielding flesh, his fingers kneading firmly, teasing the nipples which hardened instantly against his slick palms.
"Nnn-gh! Hey!" She gasped, a sound of shock mixed with the laughter.
Then, he found the target.
He slid his hands out from under her chest and moved to the hollows of her underarms. Because her arms were tied out and up toward the bedposts, the axilla were stretched taut, fully exposed and defenseless.
He slathered the oil into the deep, silken pits.
"NOOO-EEEE!" Melissa shrieked, the sound piercing the quiet room.
Christian curled his fingers into claws. He dug his nails into the oiled hollows, scratching and swirling in the sensitive skin. The oil made the sensation maddeningly intense—fast, slippery, and inescapable.
"AH-HAHAHA! OH MY GOD! ST-STOP!"
She thrashed, her shoulders hunching up in a futile attempt to close her armpits, to trap his invading hands, but the angle was impossible. She was open. She was greased.
"I CAN'T TAKE IT! EEEE-HEEE!"
She was screaming now, tears squeezing out from under the blindfold as the relentless, slippery scratching sent electric shocks through her nervous system.
Christian withdrew his hands from her armpits abruptly.
The sudden absence of sensation was almost as jarring as the assault itself. Melissa slumped against the mattress, her chest heaving against the charcoal sheets, gasping for air.
"Hah... hah... oh god..." Her voice was a ragged whisper, sweat dripping from her nose onto the pillow. "Is it... is it over?"
Christian didn't answer. He didn't even pause.
He poured another heavy dollop of the mineral oil into his palms, the viscous liquid warming instantly against his skin. He watched her for a beat, admiring the sheen of sweat and oil that now coated her upper body like a glaze.
Then, he placed his hands on the small of her back.
Melissa flinched, a full-body twitch. "No... no, please..."
He slid his hands down, over the curve of her spine, until his palms cupped the rise of her ass. The flesh here was soft, substantial, and utterly defenseless. He squeezed the cheeks firmly, the oil making a wet, squelching sound as his fingers sank into the muscle.
He began to knead.
"AH! H-hey!" She kicked her legs, but the ankle restraints kept her wide open. "Don't-hahaha! Don't grab my ass!"
Christian ignored her. He moved from kneading to scratching. He curled his fingers and raked his nails in furious, swirling circles over the curve of her buttocks. He dug into the sensitive dimples, then dragged his nails right down the center, teasing the rim of her cleft.
"EEEE-YIP!"
Her hips bucked wildy, lifting off the bed in a desperate attempt to escape the nails, but it only pressed her harder into his hands.
"NO! NOOO! THAT TICKLES! GET OFF!"
She was laughing again, that high, panicked sound that lived on the edge of tears. Christian moved lower. He slid his hands down from her ass to the backs of her thighs, right where the gluteal fold met the hamstring—a devastatingly sensitive crease.
He scribbled his fingertips there frantically.
"AHAHAHA! OH FUCK! STOP!"
She thrashed, shaking her head side to side. "NOT THERE! PLEASE! I CAN'T-HEEE-HEEE!"
Christian didn't let up. He slid his hands inward, exploring the soft, pale skin of her inner thighs. The position of her legs—spread wide and tied to the bedposts—left this area completely exposed. The skin here was thinner, hotter.
He ran his oiled knuckles up and down the adductors, getting dangerously close to her groin, teasing the heat radiating from her pussy without actually touching it.
"NO! NNN-GH! DON'T!"
Her laughter turned into a chaotic shriek. The anticipation of him going higher mixed with the unbearable, slippery tickle on her inner thighs was overloading her system.
"BRAD! OR WHOEVER! STOO-HOO-OOP!"
Christian grinned, watching the muscles in her legs spasm and twitch under his relentless, oiled assault. He dug his thumbs into the sensitive meat of her thighs and vibrated them, sending shockwaves of sensation straight up her spine.
Christian paused. He pulled his hands back from her trembling thighs, leaving them glistening and red-marked under the dim light.
He watched her.
Melissa was a mess. Her chest heaved against the mattress, her skin flushed a deep, frantic pink. Sweat beaded on her forehead, dampening the blindfold.
More importantly, he saw the reaction below.
The proximity of his frantic, oiled fingers to her groin had done its work. Despite the fear, despite the confusion, her body had betrayed her. A slickness that wasn't baby oil glistened at the very top of her inner thighs. Her pussy was wet. A biological response to the sensory overload, the friction, and the sheer, overwhelming vulnerability of her position.
Christian smiled. Good.
He turned to the nightstand. He ignored the feathers and the crops. He reached past them to a small, unassuming device: a high-powered electric toothbrush. It was sleek, black, and vibrated with a low, potent hummmmm that was almost silent in the conditioned air of the room.
He didn't turn it on yet.
He returned to the bed. Melissa was still catching her breath, unaware of the new tool.
"Please..." She whimpered, her voice small and broken. "Just... tell me what you want..."
Christian placed a hand on her left ass and used his fingers to spread her butt cheeks wide. Her ass was now completely open to him—her dark, puckered anus and the soft, vulnerable perineum exposed to the cool air.
"Mmph!" She flinched, her body tensing instantly. "What...?"
He positioned the head of the sleek, black device. He pressed the power button.
Vvvvv-thrummm.
It didn't buzz; it hummed. A low, penetrating frequency that you felt in your teeth before you heard it with your ears. The bristles blurred into a grey haze of motion.
He pressed the vibrating head directly against her tight rosebud.
Mmm-muhh…
The pitch of the motor dropped an octave as the resistance of her flesh dampened the vibration, turning the sound into a muffled, guttural drone. The sensation wasn't just on the surface; the high-speed oscillation traveled through the soft tissue, rattling her pelvic bone from the inside out.
"AAAAAH!" Melissa screamed, the vibration short-circuiting her nerves.
Melissa’s scream was immediate and shocking. Her entire body spasmed violently, her hips lifting off the mattress as if she’d been electrocuted.
"NO! OH GOD! WHAT IS TH-HAT?!"
The vibration was intense, localized, and inescapable. It sent shockwaves of buzzing sensation straight into her sensitive nerves. She clamped her ass cheeks together reflexively, trying to shut out the intruder, but Christian’s fingers dug in, holding her open.
"GET IT OFF! GET IT OO-HOO-OUT!"
She thrashed, her legs kicking uselessly at the air. The sensation was maddening—a deep, penetrative tickle that rattled her teeth.
He didn't stop there. He dragged the vibrating head slowly down from her anus, moving millimeter by agonizing millimeter along the perineum.
"Nnn-gh! EEEE-HEEE!"
As the vibrations hit the soft, sensitive skin between her ass and her pussy, her reaction changed. The scream turned into a breathless, desperate laugh.
"THAT TICKLES! IT TICKLES SO BA-HAA-AD!"
She shook her head side to side, sobbing with laughter. "STOP! PLEASE! AHAHAHA! I CAN'T TAKE IT!"
Christian kept the pressure steady. He circled the vibrating bristles over the gooch, then moved back up to circle the rim of her anus again. The combination of the humiliation, the sexual arousal leaking from her, and the relentless, buzzing tickle was pushing her over the edge.
"NO MORE! PLEASE! STOO-HOO-OOP!"
She was begging now, her voice thick with tears and hysteria. The toothbrush droned on, a tiny machine of torture against her most private, sensitive flesh.
Christian watched Melissa.
She was thrashing wildly on the tangled sheets, her face flushed and twisted in a rictus of overwhelmed sensation. Sweat slicked her bare skin, mixing with the baby oil in a chaotic, shimmering mess.
Her hips bucked against the restraints, seeking friction, seeking relief. Her pussy was glistening, swollen and weeping moisture onto the charcoal cotton. A distinct, musky scent of arousal filled the sterile air of the room, cutting through the lavender oil.
It was intoxicating.
Christian looked down at himself. Through the rough fabric of his own jeans (he hadn't bothered to strip fully yet), his cock was rigid, straining against the zipper. A familiar, dark heat coiled in his gut.
He clicked the toothbrush off. Bzzzt-thunk.
The sudden silence was deafening. Melissa let out a long, ragged moan, her body collapsing onto the mattress as the localized vibration vanished. Her breathing was a harsh, sawing sound in the quiet room.
"Ah... ah... thank god..." She whimpered into the pillow, her voice trembling. "Is it... is it done?"
Christian tossed the toothbrush onto the nightstand with a clatter. He didn't answer. He returned to her.
He placed his hands back on her inner thighs, right at the precipice.
"No..." Melissa whispered, her voice tightening with dread. "Please... don't..."
He ignored her. He began to scratch.
He used his index and middle fingers, coated in the slick mixture of her sweat and the oil. He dug them into the sensitive creases where her thighs met her groin—the inguinal folds.
"EEEE-YIP!"
Her body jerked as if stung.
He didn't stop. He scribbled his fingers up and down those maddeningly sensitive ridges, teasing the very edge of her labia without actually touching the clitoris. He circled the entrance, then darted away. He traced the swollen pout of her lips, then retreated to the thighs.
"AH-HAHAHA! STOP! OH GOD!"
The laughter was back, but it was desperate now. Needy.
"IT TICKLES SO MUCH! NOOO!"
She writhed, her hips grinding into the mattress, chasing his fingers. The combination of the intense, localized tickle and her own mounting arousal was torture.
"PLEASE! JUST... AH-HA-HA!"
Christian leaned in close, his breath hot against her ass.
He increased the speed. Scritch-scratch-scritch. His nails danced over the sensitive skin, sending electric jolts of sensation straight into her trembling core.
"I CAN'T TAKE IT!" She screamed, turning her head frantically side to side. "TOUCH ME! PLEASE! JUST TOUCH ME THERE!"
Her voice broke on a sob. It wasn't a beg for mercy anymore; it was a plea for release.
"LET ME CUM! PLEASE!"
She bucked her hips up, offering herself to him, desperate for the friction that would push her over the edge.
"DO IT! JUST DO IT! AHAHAHA! I NEED TO CUM!"
Christian kept scratching the creases, his oiled fingers scribbling frantically against the inguinal folds, denying her the direct contact she craved but flooding the nerves surrounding her clitoris with high-voltage friction. He watched her frustration mount, watched her body coil tighter and tighter like a spring about to snap. Her pleasure was his instrument, and he was playing it perfectly.
"Please! I'm… I'm there! PLEASE!" Melissa shrieked, her hips piston-firing off the mattress in a blur of desperation.
Christian leaned in, his eyes locking onto the glistening, swollen pout of her pussy. He watched as she reached the precipice. Her breathing stopped completely, her abdominal muscles locked rigid, and he saw her pink, engorged labia beginning to flutter—the first, involuntary contractions of a climax trying to break through.
With a cold, cruel smile, he lifted his hands.
The stimulation vanished instantly.
The sudden cessation of the torment was a violent shock to Melissa’s overloaded system. The orgasm that had been seconds away from exploding crashed back down on her like a physical weight, dissolving into a jagged,throbbing ache of unreleased tension. She collapsed into the mattress, her breath hitching in ragged, wet gasps of disbelief. Her body was a map of sensation—skin flushing pink, muscles trembling with the phantom energy of a release that never came, and sweat mingling with the heavy coat of mineral oil.
"Hhh... oh god... hhh..." She sobbed into the pillow, too weak to even lift her head.
Christian didn't speak. He moved meaningfully to the foot of the bed.
He reached for the rope binding her right ankle. With a few deft movements, he undid the knot. Melissa didn't kick. She didn't try to pull away. Her leg was dead weight, her muscles jelly from the adrenaline crash.
He lifted her ankle and moved it across the mattress to meet her left one. He lashed them together tight against the steel post of the footboard. Her legs were now closed, her feet side-by-side, soles facing him like an open book.
Christian stood back for a second, looking at the display. The oil on her soles caught the moonlight, glistening wetly.
He reached for his waistband. The sound of his zipper rasping down was loud in the quiet room, though Melissa couldn't hear it through the foam plugs. He shoved his denim down his thighs, freeing himself. His cock sprang out, heavy and fully engorged, pulsing with the dark thrill of the scene.
He stepped in close.
He grabbed her oiled feet, pressing them together. The baby oil made them slick, perfect. He didn't need to be gentle. He thrust his hips forward, sliding his erection deep between her arches.
"Mmph?" Melissa groaned, feeling the intrusion, the heat of him sliding against her sensitive, tickled-out soles. She twitched feebly, her toes curling against the shaft, but she had no fight left.
Christian established a rhythm. Slide. Squelch. Slide. Her high arches cradled him, the oil eliminating all friction, leaving only warmth and pressure.
But it wasn't enough. He needed the full sensory profile.
He reached down to the floor and picked up one of her discarded Converse sneakers.
It was a beaten-up, low-top shoe. The canvas was scuffed, the rubber sole worn down. He brought the opening to his face.
He inhaled deeply.
It smelled of rubber, stale cotton, and the distinct, sweet-sharp tang of feminine sweat. It was the scent of the girl he’d watched from the shadows, the "nerdy hot" girl who had no idea she was currently servicing the billionaire "janitor."
He groaned, his hips snapping forward harder. He fucked her feet, burying his nose in the opening of the shoe, inhaling the essence of her day—the library, the frat party, the fear.
"Yeah..." he grunted into the shoe, the smell driving him closer to the edge. "That's it."
Accidentally, or perhaps instinctively, Melissa’s toes curled tight around the head of his cock as he pulled back. The sensation was electric.
Christian’s breathing was a harsh rasp in the silent room.
He stood pinned against the footboard, his cock sliding slickly between Melissa’s oil-drenched arches. The friction was perfect—warm, slippery, and yielding. But it was too... passive. She was just reacting, barely fighting.
He needed the chaos.
He tossed the sneaker aside with a clatter. It tumbled across the carpet, forgotten.
He reached down with both hands. His fingers curled, finding the sensitive, wrinkled skin of her soles just beneath his shaft.
He dug his nails in.
"AAAAHH!"
It was immediate. Melissa’s body jolted on the mattress, her spine arching violently.
"NO! NOOO! NOT AGAIN!"
Her legs kicked out reflexively, trying to escape the sensation, but the restraints held firm. Instead of pulling away, her thrashing only tightened the grip of her feet around his cock. Her arches cramped, squeezing him hard. Her toes curled and uncurled frantically against the sensitive head of his penis.
It was exquisite.
"Mmmmmph!" Christian groaned, his hips snapping forward into the chaotic, spasms of her feet. "Just like that," he whispered.
He scratched harder. He raked his fingernails down the center of her soles, then scribbled them furiously across the balls of her feet.
"AHAHAHA! STOP IT! OH MY GOD! STOP!"
Melissa was screaming laughter into the pillow, her voice cracking with hysteria. She whipped her head side to side, tears streaming from under the blindfold.
"I CAN'T TAKE IT! EEEE-HEEE!"
Every convulsion of her body sent a fresh wave of pressure through her feet. Every desperate curl of her toes milked him. The combination of the intense physical sensation, the scent of the baby oil and her sweat, and the sound of her helpless laughter was overwhelming.
Christian felt the coil in his gut snap.
"Fuck..." he hissed through gritted teeth.
He increased his speed to a frantic pace, fucking her thrashing, ticklish soles with brutal efficiency.
"NO MORE! PLEASE! I'M BEGGING YOU! AHA-HA-HA!"
He drove deep one last time, his hips slamming into her heels.
"fffffuck!" he groaned, as rope after rope of thick white cum splattered over her soles, her toes, and dripped onto the sheets.
Christian pulled back, his chest heaving. He wiped the splashback of semen from his stomach with a heavy towel, his expression shifting from animalistic release back to cold, clinical detachment.
Melissa was barely conscious. She lay trembling in the ruins of the bed—a mess of oil, sweat, and bodily fluids. Her breathing was shallow, little hitches of air that sounded like a wounded bird.
"P-please..." she murmured, the word wet and broken against the pillow. "Let me... go..."
Christian walked to the head of the bed. He didn't untie her wrists yet. He leaned down, his breath ghosting over her earplugs.
"Time for bed, Melissa."
Melissa was already gasping, her diaphragm spasming in short, shallow hitches. She was oxygen-deprived from the screaming, her system flooded with endorphins and adrenaline. She was teetering on the edge of a Vasovagal syncope—a nervous system crash.
Christian knew exactly how to push her over.
He straddled her heaving chest, pinning her ribcage to the mattress with his full weight. She bucked beneath him, a desperate, animalistic struggle, but he was immovable.
"Breathe," he whispered, knowing she couldn't.
He dug his thumbs hard into the soft, unprotected hollows beneath her floating ribs—the solar plexus—driving them up and under the bone like he was trying to restart a stopped heart. At the same time, his fingers clamped around her ribs, sinking between the bones, and he began to vibrate his hands.
Kuh-hhhhk.
The scream died in her throat, cut off by a wet, sickening click. It felt like a stone being forced under her ribcage. A cold, paralytic knot exploded in her center, seizing the diaphragm instantly. The biological signal to inhale was sent, but the machinery refused to answer.
Hhh-kuh. Hhh-kuh.
The panic in her eyes flared white-hot as her lungs turned into concrete. The silence of her suffocation was louder than her screams had been. She opened her mouth to draw air, but her throat made only a dry, rattling wheeze as the vacuum sealed shut.
Her thrashing limbs stiffened, vibrating with the intensity of the oxygen deprivation, wires cut one by one. And then...
Thump.
She went limp. The voltage left her body instantly, her head rolling to the side with the dead weight of a marionette whose strings had been severed.
She was out. System failure.
Christian checked her pulse. Fast, thready, but stabilizing. The blackout would last long enough.
He didn't linger. He moved with the cold efficiency of a crime scene cleaner.
He grabbed a scalding hot towel from the en-suite and scrubbed her down—not with care, but with the rough pragmatism of a mechanic wiping grease from his tools. He erased the oil, the sweat, and every trace of his DNA from her trembling skin.
He pulled a generic, oversized grey hoodie and sweatpants from a vacuum-sealed bag in the closet—untraceable, bought with cash in Nevada. He manipulated her limp limbs into the fabric, dressing her like a doll.
Then, the tax.
He reached down and picked up the single, white ankle sock lying on the carpet. He pressed the rough cotton to his face, inhaling deeply. It smelled of rubber, fear, and the unique, sour musk of her exhaustion.
He didn't return it to her. He opened the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Inside lay a pile of mismatched fabrics—lace thongs, nylon stockings, hair ribbons. He dropped the sock onto the pile. A cotton graveyard.
He closed the drawer with a soft click.
He carried her dead weight to the garage and dumped her into the passenger seat of the rusted Ford Ranger. She was no longer a guest; she was cargo.
The drive back to the city was a decompression chamber. The silence of the coast receded, replaced by the low, ambient hum of Los Angeles.
He drove inland, navigating the quiet, tree-lined perimeter of the University District.
He killed the headlights a block away, letting the rusted Ford Ranger glide into the service entrance behind the Student Union like a shark entering deep water. He didn't need the lights. He knew every pothole, every speed bump, and every cracked paver in this lot. He swept them every morning.
He checked the dashboard clock: 3:12 AM.
Perfect. He knew the patrol schedule down to the second. Campus Security Unit 4—usually driven by Miller, who never got out of the cart—rolled past this specific loading dock at :05 and :35 past the hour. He had a twenty-three-minute window of absolute invisibility.
He steered the truck into the shadows of the loading bay, parking directly under the overhang of the HVAC units. He knew for a fact that the surveillance camera mounted above the bay door—Camera 7B—had a dead zone in its lower left quadrant. He knew because he was the one who had "accidentally" knocked it out of alignment with a ladder three weeks ago while clearing a gutter.
He killed the engine.
He hauled Melissa out of the cab. She was dead weight, limp and pliable in her oversized hoodie. He hoisted her over his shoulder, his boots moving silent and sure over the concrete he spent forty hours a week scrubbing.
He carried her to a concrete bench near the vending machines, a spot that was technically high-visibility but currently deserted. It was a calculated placement. In the morning, or when Miller drove by at 3:35, she wouldn’t look like a crime scene. She would look like just another burnout freshman who had missed curfew and passed out waiting for a friend.
He set her down gently, arranging her limbs with the precision of a set dresser. He crossed her ankles and slumped her upper body against the brick wall, tucking her chin into her chest to obscure her face.
Then, the narrative anchor.
He pulled the flask of cheap vodka from his back pocket. He uncapped it and splashed a generous amount onto the front of her hoodie, drenching the grey fabric. The sharp, chemical stench of ethanol bloomed in the night air—a liquid alibi that would explain away her unconscious state, her grogginess, and any memory gaps she might have.
Drunk. harmless. Safe.
He stood back for a split second, checking the angles. From the road, she was visible but dismissed. From the security camera on the quad, she was blocked by the vending machine.
"Sleep tight," he muttered.
He turned his back and walked away, checking his watch again. 3:19 AM. Plenty of time.
He slipped back into the truck, the heavy door slamming shut with a solid, metallic thud. As he turned the key and the engine coughed to life, the billionaire evaporated in the exhaust fumes, leaving only Ross to drive back into the night.
---
Squeak. Swish. Squeak. Swish.
The rhythm was hypnotic.
The hallway of the Business School smelled of aggressive pine cleaner and floor wax. It was 11:00 AM the following Monday, and the corridor was bustling with students rushing to Marketing 101.
Christian Kaufman—"Ross Weis"—pushed the yellow mop bucket forward.
He adjusted his cap, pulling the brim lower. The grease smudge was back on his cheek. The grey jumpsuit was stiff and scratched at his neck. The ring of keys on his hip jingled a dull, brassy tune.
He was invisible again. A ghost in the machine.
He watched Melissa Schwarz walk past not ten minutes ago. She looked tired, clutching a large coffee, walking with a slight limp. She didn't even glance at the janitor. Why would she? The man who had owned her soul for three hours the previous night didn't exist in her world.
He felt a dark, warm satisfaction curl in his gut.
"Yo. Ross."
The voice came from near the water fountain.
Christian stopped mopping. He leaned on the handle, adopting the slouched posture of the working class. He looked up.
It was Tyler, a sophomore from Sigma-Chi-Omega. Blonde, athletic, wearing a lacrosse hoodie. He looked nervous, checking over his shoulder to make sure no professors were watching.
"Floor's wet, kid," Christian grunted, his voice rough.
Tyler stepped closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Hey, uh, Garrison told me about... the service. You know. The acquisitions."
Christian’s face remained impassive. "I don't know what you're talkin' about."
Tyler fumbled in his pocket, producing a thick wad of cash. "Look, I’m serious. It’s Ashley. The redhead in Gamma-Phi-Echo. She has these... specifically, her gym shorts. The ones she wears for volleyball."
He looked at Ross with desperate, hopeful eyes. "Can you get them? After the game on Saturday?"
Christian looked at the money. Then he looked at the kid. He let a slow, crooked grin spread across his face—the grin of a man who held the keys to the entire kingdom.
"Volleyball shorts are tricky," Christian said, reaching out to take the cash. He shoved it into his dirty pocket. "Lockers are tight."
He winked.
"But for a hundred? I can get anything."
