ThePurpleQuill
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2018
- Messages
- 161
- Points
- 18
“Well, that’s one less nut job to deal with.”
The cool autumn air kisses my dust-covered cheeks, the warm glow of the setting sun basking me in its radiance as I tread swiftly to the back of my van. I survey my surroundings along the way: a sprawling gated community, lined with multimillion-dollar estates far out of reach for a blue-collared worker like myself. A security vehicle rounds the corner, its occupant an overweight man staring me down behind his aviators as he passes by. For all intents and purposes, this is yet another affluent neighborhood nestled in the great city of Portland.
But, that doesn’t mean there aren’t a few crazies out here.
As a licensed carpenter, I’ve crossed paths with all walks of life: from the simple kitchen remodel to the hilltop renovation, every job has the potential of putting me in the proximity of quite the cast of characters, and having just spent the better part of six weeks constructing an underground fallout shelter, I can only say that the richer they are, the crazier they become. Yes, it seems excess wealth delivers with it a heavy dose of paranoia, having the newfound ability to buy your way out of problems before they even arise. The market for new houses may be in a slump, but in the wake of this tumultuous political and international climate, the market for safe rooms and shelters for the wealthy has never been more lucrative. Of course, just because it’s supposed to keep you safe, doesn’t mean it can’t also be luxurious: be they outfitted with wet bars, arcades, or indoor movie theaters, the list of indulgences are endless with the high and mighty, but so long as the pay is right, the tongue will forever be held.
I open the swinging doors to the back of my work van, hoisting my heavy toolbelt off my waist, letting it collapse atop the carpet-lined flooring without the will to stop it. Modest would be the word to best describe this little clunker of mine, its unmarked pearl white exterior fading under constant direct sunlight after years of heavy abuse. It certainly wasn’t the vehicle to call any attention to itself but, I suppose, that is for the best. I sigh a breath of utter relief, the long holiday weekend just out of reach. waiting to begin the moment I return home. Shaking myself out of my daze, I reiterate just how imperative it is to be home on time tonight, lest I be late for…
“Hey James!” I suddenly hear from behind, wrenching my head around to witness my boss quickly approach. “Could I borrow that new nail gun of yours for the weekend? I promise I’ll have it back by Tuesday.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about Steve,” I brush him off, grasping the door of my van, attempting to block his view of its interior. “Better ask Paul, he probably has one lying around…”
“Now come on, I know you have one!” he responds, forcefully grasping the side of the door, swinging it open in one motion to my dismay. Leering around the haphazard array of power tools and two-by-fours, he catches eye of my brand-new nail gun, grasping it from beneath a pile of rope I had tried unsuccessfully to hide it under, walking away with it as though he were in fact retrieving it from me. “Thanks James! You’re the best!”
“No, please: go ahead and take it,” I mutter under my breath, knowing that it will be months before I even see it again. Closing up the back, I hop into the front seat, beginning the hourlong trek back to my humble abode. The low-hanging sun makes rush-hour traffic that much more unbearable, my eyes barely propped open after working nearly sixty hours this week, just to make sure this weekend would be all mine. The other guys were more than likely heading off to the nearest watering hole after a big job like this, drowning out the calls from their wives in cheap beer and even cheaper women. But not me, for I had something very important to do this weekend that could not be interrupted.
How typical of me, they must think: there goes that James Matheson again, headed back to his empty house, all by his lonesome, to work on yet another project he’s been touting. Despite it more influenced by my displeasure derived from being in their company during work, let alone after it, it’s true: I have been working on a little project, one that has taken up the bulk of my time and resources ever since I bought the property eleven months ago, and one that has just recently neared total completion. It just needed that one last thing to make it complete…
…and today, I finally have it.
After seventy-five grueling minutes of freeway frenzy, I finally arrive home: a midcentury single family, with two stories nestled atop a quarter acre of land at the end of a (somewhat) quiet suburb twenty-three miles outside of Portland. With laser-like precision, I back up into my garage, barely able to angle my way in despite an entire year of experience under my belt. Closing the garage door in front of me, I climb carefully into the back of the van, ducking for cover from the hanging tools that frequently claim portions of my scalp. Turning slightly to my left, I approach an indentation in the floor, gently pulling away the black carpeting to reveal a hidden wooden box, an ornamented brass lock its only decoration. Sifting through my key ring, I take hold of the right one, sticking out from the rest with its Gothic appearance. Ever so gently, I insert it into the hole, hearing the mechanisms churn until it unclasps from within. Hoisting the lid up from its perch, I gaze tenderly into its contents, greeting her for the very first of what will be many more times.
“Hello Christen…”
It has been three weeks to the day since I stumbled upon her divine presence, catching sight of her one Thursday afternoon as she was retrieving her mail. Driving back from my lunch break, I nearly crashed my van into a parked car, encapsulated by the beauty I had only admired until then from behind my computer screen. Little could I have known that Christen Press, star striker of the US Women’s National Soccer Team, was right in my grasp…
…and I just knew I had to act fast.
There was no time to wait, given the short duration I would have access to this area until construction was finished, and no time did I intend to waste. Every day I surveyed her home, spending daylight both before and after work taking meticulous note of anything that would leave her vulnerable: exercise routines, open windows, faulty sprinkler systems, anything that I could use to my advantage. However, well into the second week, I had come up with two things: that the array of security cameras around the house made a quick snatch-and-grab all but impossible, and that her precious little Rottweiler rendered a stealthy night entry out of the question.
No, if I was going to pull this off, I’d have to think bigger than that…much bigger…
At my previous residence, I often moonlit as a freelance electrician, fixing the wiring in my neighbors’ apartments while unwittingly gaining the skills I would need to execute the first stage of my master plan. I intended to rig a power outage, one that would affect only her house, giving me the excuse I needed to approach her home in broad daylight, as well as a way to shut off those pesky security cameras. I had found the location of the neighborhood’s central power terminal, a precautionary measure built so first responders could easily turn off power to any of the houses in case of a fire.
So that’s exactly what I did: accessing the power terminal a mile down the street from her house, I rigged the power to shut off at her address, giving me ample time to drive up past her house to confirm my plan had in fact succeeded. Noting the lack of lighting within the house, I parked my van at the curb, knowing just how commonly seen we were around the neighborhood at this time. Approaching the door, I knocked prominently atop its hardwood surface, remembering that her doorbell was rendered mute by my masterful scheme.
“Can I help you?” she asks curiously, cracking her door only a foot ajar, clad in her pajamas and slippers with a cup of tea nestled in her delicate fingers.
“Yes, I was alerted by one of your neighbors about a recent power outage in this area,” I respond, almost cracking my voice trying to stay on topic. “I’m going door-to-door to ascertain the extent of the outage. Has your home been affected by the recent power outage in any way?” A wave of panic suddenly washed over me: surely it wouldn’t be a coincidence for a handyman to show up to her door at the exact moment of an outage, would it?
I guess so.
“Wow, you guys are quick!” she exclaims, swinging the door open, a look of relief across her face. “My electricity just went off five minutes ago. What, were you just driving by or something?”
“If you’d like, I’d be happy to check your circuit breaker box,” I offer, trying to avoid answering her question while keeping on task. “It’s best to assess any damage that may have occurred to immediately make a claim to your homeowner’s insurance.” I was taking a risk in being so seemingly helpful, not knowing just how comfortable she would be with letting a stranger inside her house.
“It’s in the garage,” she says, the most ideal answer I could have hoped for, knowing that her precious dog would be locked inside. “I’ll go through the house and open it for you.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to pull my van directly up your driveway,” I request, making sure not to sound too insistent as I begin walking to the curb. “It’d make my life a whole lot easier not having to walk to and from my van.”
“Of course, go ahead!” she responds before closing and locking the front door. I make my way back to my van, turning it around as I back my way up into her driveway, watching her garage door open as though I had said the magic word. Parking my van, I climb through the back, pushing the doors open with toolbox in hand. I make my way into her garage, taking off the cover to her circuit breaker box as I begin working away, business as usual.
Little could she analyze just how unprepared I was to work on her circuit breaker box with a pair of nail clippers in hand as, suddenly, my cellphone rings.
“Hey, your phone’s ringing!” she exclaims, noting just how indifferent I was to it, probably believing me to be deaf despite standing five feet behind me.
“Could you check it for me?” I call back to her, not rousing from my post, being too “preoccupied” with the matter at hand. Over my shoulder, I watch as she walks to the back of my van, reaching into its interior until she grasps the illuminated surface of my cellphone. Checking for a number, she may have been surprised to find it to be merely the alarm, and even more so to find the word “PLAYTIME” as its label.
Moving silently up from behind, I grab her by the shoulders, using her moment of unaware to toss her into the back of my van, hearing her grunt the moment she hit the carpeted floor. Hosting myself into the back, I was able to swiftly close the doors, muffling her shrieks for help as I prepared her for storage and transport.
“RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
She wails at the tops of her lungs, the three layers of gaffer tape atop her sumptuous lips rendering her pitiful cries all but completely mute. Such a perfect predicament I have her in: raising the floor of my van, I cleared enough room to hide a submerged chest within its surface, its padded interior serving the needs for both comfort and soundproofing simultaneously, rendered completely invisible by the black carpet I had installed a week prior. It was a small sacrifice: the comfort of a taller ceiling and frequent trips to the chiropractor, traded for the possibility of transporting a precious little package in clandestine fashion. Knowing that she may be kept in here for longer than anticipated, a trio of small fans were built into its interior, utilizing the van’s battery to constantly feed in fresh air.
I wished to tell her exactly how much I considered her in rendering these accommodations but, by the look on her face, I felt it be best to put that off until another time.
I inspect her binds, making sure the setup was effective given the hours of storage and transport she was subject to: her wrists, tied snugly together behind her back with soft nylon rope as not to cut off circulation, remain double knotted in the same position as when I tied them. Lacing upward to her elbows, they too are securely fastened, bound to her back by a length of rope running over and around her chest, highlighting her bodacious bosom through her tight pajama top. Her ankles, bound with padded leather cuffs, remain secured as well, buckled down to a sunken eyebolt in the floor, making sure she couldn’t kick her way out of her confinement if she wanted to (no easy task to assure given her profession). Her slippers flew off during our little dance, treating my eyes to the pair of freshly pedicured size eight feet I had only dreamed on encountering in real life. Lucky for me, I had just the amount of time leftover to retrieve her shoes as a little souvenir, sure to serve as another addition to the growing collection I was starting as of today.
I unhook her ankles from the floor, lacing my forearm underneath her knees as I place my other arm under her shoulders. Lifting her out of the box in one motion, I prop her down on the van floor, remembering just how difficult she was surely going to make this for me. Wrapping my arms around her chest, I manhandle her out of the van, setting her gently atop the cold concrete floor as I prepare her binds for Stage II of transport. Obviously, she didn’t appreciate being treated in such fashion, flopping around my garage like a fish out of water, trying so hard to escape the binds of a registered Eagle Scout (well, almost so, had I not been caught “interrogating” a rival Girl Scout on the secret ingredient to their cookies, still lamenting the fact I only had two hours alone with her).
Now, if she thought the fun had already started, she was surely in for the surprise of her life: recently, I had come across a shuttered mental institution a few miles up the road from one of my last construction jobs. Surveying the impressive structure, I was dumbstruck to find a substantial inventory of medical equipment abandoned within its interior, including to my delight a fully functioning hospital gurney. Finding it to be the perfect combination of wholly effective and disturbingly menacing, I took it home with me, giving it a fresh upholstering, restoring it to better than new. I felt it now time to implement my new little toy on my even newer one.
I roll it over from the side of my garage, watching the terror encapsulate her eyes the moments she hears its approach. Taking her into my arms, I hoist her over my right shoulder, likely barely able to wrap her head around her most unfortunate luck as I plop her lengthwise atop the gurney. Possessing a seven-point restraint system, the dastardly device must have subdued some real strugglers in its heyday, a talent it was rediscovering as of late. Pinning her legs to the padded cushion, I strapped the first set of belts atop her ankles, followed closely by her knees, rendering her lower body now completely immobile.
“NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNMMMMPPPPHHHHHHHHHH!!” she screeches, watching in strained horror every nightmare she has ever had spring to life right in front of her eyes. Lunging forward in one final attempt at freedom, I catch her by her shoulders, pushing her back into the device’s surface while encountering much resistance. Having grappled her into position, I hoisted the final strap over her chest, securing her in with one motion. Quite out of breath from neutralizing her valiant struggle, I watch passively as she tests the might of the restraints for me, jerking her toned body in every direction, only to fall back in pitiful futility.
“Are we having fun yet?” I finally ask her, my tenderly patronizing tone of voice eliciting an abysmal scowl of indignation from my captive. Taking myself away for a moment, I reach into the back of my van to my trusty toolbox, rummaging through its contents to retrieve a small bottle of clear liquid, followed closely by a clean white rag. Dabbing the substance into the cloth, I don’t even have to say a word as I hold it over her nose, watching as she tries to resist what she knows to be the inevitable. As she struggles helplessly against my grasp, the sweet-smelling air slowly but surely invades her body, sending her off into a deep and relaxing slumber.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” I say, watching her eyes slowly roll into the back of her head. “When you wake up, you’ll be transported to a magical place, one full of nothing but laughs for good little soccer stars like you.”
Her head falls back, gently sinking into the padded material she had all but resisted not one moment before. Putting my ear up to her mouth, I check her breathing, making sure she is fully unconscious before wheeling her through the adjacent doorway, into my humble abode. It might have seemed overkill to knock her out in this manner, the exhaustive state of her binds rendering any escape attempt effectively useless. To say she would be having any freedom of movement during her visit would be nothing short of absolute fantasy, slated to be fully secured at every moment, bound in one of my many diabolical inventions I have waiting for her.
Even if she did manage to escape her bonds, little could she do to overcome the myriad of obstacles lying in wait for her, with each soundproofed room possessing reinforced doors with combination padlocks at every turn. For all intents and purposes, there was no need in going the extra mile in sedating her merely to transport her through my chambers, adding yet another step to her procurement. However, even with all these precautions put into the place, there was still one more reason to keep her in such a state while entering my realm: fear of the unknown. From the moment she enters, she will know nothing more than what I want her to know, casting a veil upon her surroundings and, as a result, her impending fate. To put her in a perpetual state of anxiety, not knowing what could be waiting for her behind every doorway, down every corridor, is the sensation I wish to instill in her right from the start, making sure that every potential escape attempt will fail the moment it even begins.
I weave my way through a modest kitchen, crossing the threshold into an unkempt living room that hasn’t seen an update since the early seventies. Down the widened hallway we go, coming to the double doorway at the very end of the hall, serving as the first stop in my little house of horrors here: a spacious add-on, once a mother-in-law suite now transformed into a laboratory created for the sole purpose of inflicting experiments on my unsuspecting subjects. Concrete floors line the room, with sheets of sound proofing scattered across the space. A large wooden x-frame hugs the wall to the left, with lines of ominous chains strewn across its surface. Peering above, illuminated by the bright fluorescent lights, hangs a large hook, attached to a crank atop the wall she will learn to absolutely loathe.
Wheeling her into the middle of the room, I fasten the double doors shut before preparing her for the first of many grueling torments. Unfastening her belts, I gently turn her on her side, unwinding the mountains of double knots encasing her wrists and forearms. Having finished her unbinding, I reach once again into my toolkit, retrieving a pair of fabric scissors as, one by one, I begin slicing up the length of the legs of her pajama bottoms. Like a knife through butter, I make quick work of the tattered garment, stripping her of her last vestige of protection as I toss it into the corner. I do the same to her top, slicing up the sides, lifting her arms over my shoulders to give me access despite her limp body. Finishing up my art, I gaze upon her statuesque form, those nude magazine photos she did many years prior not giving justice to the angelic form I see before me.
Taking her once again into my arms, pushing the cart out of the way with my feet, I place her atop the cold concrete floor, spreading her limbs wide apart in an x-shape to prepare her for the next stage. Making my way to a small cabinet across the room, I reveal a new set of padded leather cuffs, purchased especially for this very moment. Taking her left wrist in hand, I wrap a padded leather cuff around its circumference, nestling the bar in her palm she may find useful soon. I do the same with the other, encasing it within the nifty device, its surface lined with rings for a myriad of bondage patterns at your disposal. Having finished both her ankles and wrists, I bring over a set of spreader bars, attaching them to her extremities, with a length of chain adorning the one by her wrists. Making my way to the large crank adorning the side wall, I initiate the final step of her predicament.
Inch by inch, with every rotation of the crank, I find her angelic body gently hoisted into the air, an appropriate fate given the hell on Earth she is soon to experience. Reaching the final length, I watch as she is lifted to the balls of her feet, hanging in a perfect X-position right in front of my eyes. Her auburn locks now rest square atop her shoulders, framing the gentle features atop her supple face. Whatever ounce of rippling muscle that had been hidden by her limp form is now highlighted in full, her cocoa-kissed skin adorning a toned physique surely the envy of her entire team. The thought on having such a powerful woman in my midst, subject to my abject desires regardless of consent, is all the more tantalizing.
I turn to the side, accessing a large vanity where I store the tools of my “nocturnal” trade. Will she appreciate the bright pink ball gag nestled in her teeth, with cascades of her own drool freefalling across her bare bosom? Would she prefer the simplicity of a wadded cleave gag, her muffled pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears time and time again? Maybe the dental gag, leaving her mouth wide open and vulnerable to a myriad of torments that would follow? Sifting through my wares like a child in a candy shop, there is no extent to my pleasure in choosing the exact one for…ah yes, that’s it!
The cool autumn air kisses my dust-covered cheeks, the warm glow of the setting sun basking me in its radiance as I tread swiftly to the back of my van. I survey my surroundings along the way: a sprawling gated community, lined with multimillion-dollar estates far out of reach for a blue-collared worker like myself. A security vehicle rounds the corner, its occupant an overweight man staring me down behind his aviators as he passes by. For all intents and purposes, this is yet another affluent neighborhood nestled in the great city of Portland.
But, that doesn’t mean there aren’t a few crazies out here.
As a licensed carpenter, I’ve crossed paths with all walks of life: from the simple kitchen remodel to the hilltop renovation, every job has the potential of putting me in the proximity of quite the cast of characters, and having just spent the better part of six weeks constructing an underground fallout shelter, I can only say that the richer they are, the crazier they become. Yes, it seems excess wealth delivers with it a heavy dose of paranoia, having the newfound ability to buy your way out of problems before they even arise. The market for new houses may be in a slump, but in the wake of this tumultuous political and international climate, the market for safe rooms and shelters for the wealthy has never been more lucrative. Of course, just because it’s supposed to keep you safe, doesn’t mean it can’t also be luxurious: be they outfitted with wet bars, arcades, or indoor movie theaters, the list of indulgences are endless with the high and mighty, but so long as the pay is right, the tongue will forever be held.
I open the swinging doors to the back of my work van, hoisting my heavy toolbelt off my waist, letting it collapse atop the carpet-lined flooring without the will to stop it. Modest would be the word to best describe this little clunker of mine, its unmarked pearl white exterior fading under constant direct sunlight after years of heavy abuse. It certainly wasn’t the vehicle to call any attention to itself but, I suppose, that is for the best. I sigh a breath of utter relief, the long holiday weekend just out of reach. waiting to begin the moment I return home. Shaking myself out of my daze, I reiterate just how imperative it is to be home on time tonight, lest I be late for…
“Hey James!” I suddenly hear from behind, wrenching my head around to witness my boss quickly approach. “Could I borrow that new nail gun of yours for the weekend? I promise I’ll have it back by Tuesday.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about Steve,” I brush him off, grasping the door of my van, attempting to block his view of its interior. “Better ask Paul, he probably has one lying around…”
“Now come on, I know you have one!” he responds, forcefully grasping the side of the door, swinging it open in one motion to my dismay. Leering around the haphazard array of power tools and two-by-fours, he catches eye of my brand-new nail gun, grasping it from beneath a pile of rope I had tried unsuccessfully to hide it under, walking away with it as though he were in fact retrieving it from me. “Thanks James! You’re the best!”
“No, please: go ahead and take it,” I mutter under my breath, knowing that it will be months before I even see it again. Closing up the back, I hop into the front seat, beginning the hourlong trek back to my humble abode. The low-hanging sun makes rush-hour traffic that much more unbearable, my eyes barely propped open after working nearly sixty hours this week, just to make sure this weekend would be all mine. The other guys were more than likely heading off to the nearest watering hole after a big job like this, drowning out the calls from their wives in cheap beer and even cheaper women. But not me, for I had something very important to do this weekend that could not be interrupted.
How typical of me, they must think: there goes that James Matheson again, headed back to his empty house, all by his lonesome, to work on yet another project he’s been touting. Despite it more influenced by my displeasure derived from being in their company during work, let alone after it, it’s true: I have been working on a little project, one that has taken up the bulk of my time and resources ever since I bought the property eleven months ago, and one that has just recently neared total completion. It just needed that one last thing to make it complete…
…and today, I finally have it.
After seventy-five grueling minutes of freeway frenzy, I finally arrive home: a midcentury single family, with two stories nestled atop a quarter acre of land at the end of a (somewhat) quiet suburb twenty-three miles outside of Portland. With laser-like precision, I back up into my garage, barely able to angle my way in despite an entire year of experience under my belt. Closing the garage door in front of me, I climb carefully into the back of the van, ducking for cover from the hanging tools that frequently claim portions of my scalp. Turning slightly to my left, I approach an indentation in the floor, gently pulling away the black carpeting to reveal a hidden wooden box, an ornamented brass lock its only decoration. Sifting through my key ring, I take hold of the right one, sticking out from the rest with its Gothic appearance. Ever so gently, I insert it into the hole, hearing the mechanisms churn until it unclasps from within. Hoisting the lid up from its perch, I gaze tenderly into its contents, greeting her for the very first of what will be many more times.
“Hello Christen…”
It has been three weeks to the day since I stumbled upon her divine presence, catching sight of her one Thursday afternoon as she was retrieving her mail. Driving back from my lunch break, I nearly crashed my van into a parked car, encapsulated by the beauty I had only admired until then from behind my computer screen. Little could I have known that Christen Press, star striker of the US Women’s National Soccer Team, was right in my grasp…
…and I just knew I had to act fast.
There was no time to wait, given the short duration I would have access to this area until construction was finished, and no time did I intend to waste. Every day I surveyed her home, spending daylight both before and after work taking meticulous note of anything that would leave her vulnerable: exercise routines, open windows, faulty sprinkler systems, anything that I could use to my advantage. However, well into the second week, I had come up with two things: that the array of security cameras around the house made a quick snatch-and-grab all but impossible, and that her precious little Rottweiler rendered a stealthy night entry out of the question.
No, if I was going to pull this off, I’d have to think bigger than that…much bigger…
At my previous residence, I often moonlit as a freelance electrician, fixing the wiring in my neighbors’ apartments while unwittingly gaining the skills I would need to execute the first stage of my master plan. I intended to rig a power outage, one that would affect only her house, giving me the excuse I needed to approach her home in broad daylight, as well as a way to shut off those pesky security cameras. I had found the location of the neighborhood’s central power terminal, a precautionary measure built so first responders could easily turn off power to any of the houses in case of a fire.
So that’s exactly what I did: accessing the power terminal a mile down the street from her house, I rigged the power to shut off at her address, giving me ample time to drive up past her house to confirm my plan had in fact succeeded. Noting the lack of lighting within the house, I parked my van at the curb, knowing just how commonly seen we were around the neighborhood at this time. Approaching the door, I knocked prominently atop its hardwood surface, remembering that her doorbell was rendered mute by my masterful scheme.
“Can I help you?” she asks curiously, cracking her door only a foot ajar, clad in her pajamas and slippers with a cup of tea nestled in her delicate fingers.
“Yes, I was alerted by one of your neighbors about a recent power outage in this area,” I respond, almost cracking my voice trying to stay on topic. “I’m going door-to-door to ascertain the extent of the outage. Has your home been affected by the recent power outage in any way?” A wave of panic suddenly washed over me: surely it wouldn’t be a coincidence for a handyman to show up to her door at the exact moment of an outage, would it?
I guess so.
“Wow, you guys are quick!” she exclaims, swinging the door open, a look of relief across her face. “My electricity just went off five minutes ago. What, were you just driving by or something?”
“If you’d like, I’d be happy to check your circuit breaker box,” I offer, trying to avoid answering her question while keeping on task. “It’s best to assess any damage that may have occurred to immediately make a claim to your homeowner’s insurance.” I was taking a risk in being so seemingly helpful, not knowing just how comfortable she would be with letting a stranger inside her house.
“It’s in the garage,” she says, the most ideal answer I could have hoped for, knowing that her precious dog would be locked inside. “I’ll go through the house and open it for you.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to pull my van directly up your driveway,” I request, making sure not to sound too insistent as I begin walking to the curb. “It’d make my life a whole lot easier not having to walk to and from my van.”
“Of course, go ahead!” she responds before closing and locking the front door. I make my way back to my van, turning it around as I back my way up into her driveway, watching her garage door open as though I had said the magic word. Parking my van, I climb through the back, pushing the doors open with toolbox in hand. I make my way into her garage, taking off the cover to her circuit breaker box as I begin working away, business as usual.
Little could she analyze just how unprepared I was to work on her circuit breaker box with a pair of nail clippers in hand as, suddenly, my cellphone rings.
“Hey, your phone’s ringing!” she exclaims, noting just how indifferent I was to it, probably believing me to be deaf despite standing five feet behind me.
“Could you check it for me?” I call back to her, not rousing from my post, being too “preoccupied” with the matter at hand. Over my shoulder, I watch as she walks to the back of my van, reaching into its interior until she grasps the illuminated surface of my cellphone. Checking for a number, she may have been surprised to find it to be merely the alarm, and even more so to find the word “PLAYTIME” as its label.
Moving silently up from behind, I grab her by the shoulders, using her moment of unaware to toss her into the back of my van, hearing her grunt the moment she hit the carpeted floor. Hosting myself into the back, I was able to swiftly close the doors, muffling her shrieks for help as I prepared her for storage and transport.
“RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”
She wails at the tops of her lungs, the three layers of gaffer tape atop her sumptuous lips rendering her pitiful cries all but completely mute. Such a perfect predicament I have her in: raising the floor of my van, I cleared enough room to hide a submerged chest within its surface, its padded interior serving the needs for both comfort and soundproofing simultaneously, rendered completely invisible by the black carpet I had installed a week prior. It was a small sacrifice: the comfort of a taller ceiling and frequent trips to the chiropractor, traded for the possibility of transporting a precious little package in clandestine fashion. Knowing that she may be kept in here for longer than anticipated, a trio of small fans were built into its interior, utilizing the van’s battery to constantly feed in fresh air.
I wished to tell her exactly how much I considered her in rendering these accommodations but, by the look on her face, I felt it be best to put that off until another time.
I inspect her binds, making sure the setup was effective given the hours of storage and transport she was subject to: her wrists, tied snugly together behind her back with soft nylon rope as not to cut off circulation, remain double knotted in the same position as when I tied them. Lacing upward to her elbows, they too are securely fastened, bound to her back by a length of rope running over and around her chest, highlighting her bodacious bosom through her tight pajama top. Her ankles, bound with padded leather cuffs, remain secured as well, buckled down to a sunken eyebolt in the floor, making sure she couldn’t kick her way out of her confinement if she wanted to (no easy task to assure given her profession). Her slippers flew off during our little dance, treating my eyes to the pair of freshly pedicured size eight feet I had only dreamed on encountering in real life. Lucky for me, I had just the amount of time leftover to retrieve her shoes as a little souvenir, sure to serve as another addition to the growing collection I was starting as of today.
I unhook her ankles from the floor, lacing my forearm underneath her knees as I place my other arm under her shoulders. Lifting her out of the box in one motion, I prop her down on the van floor, remembering just how difficult she was surely going to make this for me. Wrapping my arms around her chest, I manhandle her out of the van, setting her gently atop the cold concrete floor as I prepare her binds for Stage II of transport. Obviously, she didn’t appreciate being treated in such fashion, flopping around my garage like a fish out of water, trying so hard to escape the binds of a registered Eagle Scout (well, almost so, had I not been caught “interrogating” a rival Girl Scout on the secret ingredient to their cookies, still lamenting the fact I only had two hours alone with her).
Now, if she thought the fun had already started, she was surely in for the surprise of her life: recently, I had come across a shuttered mental institution a few miles up the road from one of my last construction jobs. Surveying the impressive structure, I was dumbstruck to find a substantial inventory of medical equipment abandoned within its interior, including to my delight a fully functioning hospital gurney. Finding it to be the perfect combination of wholly effective and disturbingly menacing, I took it home with me, giving it a fresh upholstering, restoring it to better than new. I felt it now time to implement my new little toy on my even newer one.
I roll it over from the side of my garage, watching the terror encapsulate her eyes the moments she hears its approach. Taking her into my arms, I hoist her over my right shoulder, likely barely able to wrap her head around her most unfortunate luck as I plop her lengthwise atop the gurney. Possessing a seven-point restraint system, the dastardly device must have subdued some real strugglers in its heyday, a talent it was rediscovering as of late. Pinning her legs to the padded cushion, I strapped the first set of belts atop her ankles, followed closely by her knees, rendering her lower body now completely immobile.
“NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNMMMMPPPPHHHHHHHHHH!!” she screeches, watching in strained horror every nightmare she has ever had spring to life right in front of her eyes. Lunging forward in one final attempt at freedom, I catch her by her shoulders, pushing her back into the device’s surface while encountering much resistance. Having grappled her into position, I hoisted the final strap over her chest, securing her in with one motion. Quite out of breath from neutralizing her valiant struggle, I watch passively as she tests the might of the restraints for me, jerking her toned body in every direction, only to fall back in pitiful futility.
“Are we having fun yet?” I finally ask her, my tenderly patronizing tone of voice eliciting an abysmal scowl of indignation from my captive. Taking myself away for a moment, I reach into the back of my van to my trusty toolbox, rummaging through its contents to retrieve a small bottle of clear liquid, followed closely by a clean white rag. Dabbing the substance into the cloth, I don’t even have to say a word as I hold it over her nose, watching as she tries to resist what she knows to be the inevitable. As she struggles helplessly against my grasp, the sweet-smelling air slowly but surely invades her body, sending her off into a deep and relaxing slumber.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” I say, watching her eyes slowly roll into the back of her head. “When you wake up, you’ll be transported to a magical place, one full of nothing but laughs for good little soccer stars like you.”
Her head falls back, gently sinking into the padded material she had all but resisted not one moment before. Putting my ear up to her mouth, I check her breathing, making sure she is fully unconscious before wheeling her through the adjacent doorway, into my humble abode. It might have seemed overkill to knock her out in this manner, the exhaustive state of her binds rendering any escape attempt effectively useless. To say she would be having any freedom of movement during her visit would be nothing short of absolute fantasy, slated to be fully secured at every moment, bound in one of my many diabolical inventions I have waiting for her.
Even if she did manage to escape her bonds, little could she do to overcome the myriad of obstacles lying in wait for her, with each soundproofed room possessing reinforced doors with combination padlocks at every turn. For all intents and purposes, there was no need in going the extra mile in sedating her merely to transport her through my chambers, adding yet another step to her procurement. However, even with all these precautions put into the place, there was still one more reason to keep her in such a state while entering my realm: fear of the unknown. From the moment she enters, she will know nothing more than what I want her to know, casting a veil upon her surroundings and, as a result, her impending fate. To put her in a perpetual state of anxiety, not knowing what could be waiting for her behind every doorway, down every corridor, is the sensation I wish to instill in her right from the start, making sure that every potential escape attempt will fail the moment it even begins.
I weave my way through a modest kitchen, crossing the threshold into an unkempt living room that hasn’t seen an update since the early seventies. Down the widened hallway we go, coming to the double doorway at the very end of the hall, serving as the first stop in my little house of horrors here: a spacious add-on, once a mother-in-law suite now transformed into a laboratory created for the sole purpose of inflicting experiments on my unsuspecting subjects. Concrete floors line the room, with sheets of sound proofing scattered across the space. A large wooden x-frame hugs the wall to the left, with lines of ominous chains strewn across its surface. Peering above, illuminated by the bright fluorescent lights, hangs a large hook, attached to a crank atop the wall she will learn to absolutely loathe.
Wheeling her into the middle of the room, I fasten the double doors shut before preparing her for the first of many grueling torments. Unfastening her belts, I gently turn her on her side, unwinding the mountains of double knots encasing her wrists and forearms. Having finished her unbinding, I reach once again into my toolkit, retrieving a pair of fabric scissors as, one by one, I begin slicing up the length of the legs of her pajama bottoms. Like a knife through butter, I make quick work of the tattered garment, stripping her of her last vestige of protection as I toss it into the corner. I do the same to her top, slicing up the sides, lifting her arms over my shoulders to give me access despite her limp body. Finishing up my art, I gaze upon her statuesque form, those nude magazine photos she did many years prior not giving justice to the angelic form I see before me.
Taking her once again into my arms, pushing the cart out of the way with my feet, I place her atop the cold concrete floor, spreading her limbs wide apart in an x-shape to prepare her for the next stage. Making my way to a small cabinet across the room, I reveal a new set of padded leather cuffs, purchased especially for this very moment. Taking her left wrist in hand, I wrap a padded leather cuff around its circumference, nestling the bar in her palm she may find useful soon. I do the same with the other, encasing it within the nifty device, its surface lined with rings for a myriad of bondage patterns at your disposal. Having finished both her ankles and wrists, I bring over a set of spreader bars, attaching them to her extremities, with a length of chain adorning the one by her wrists. Making my way to the large crank adorning the side wall, I initiate the final step of her predicament.
Inch by inch, with every rotation of the crank, I find her angelic body gently hoisted into the air, an appropriate fate given the hell on Earth she is soon to experience. Reaching the final length, I watch as she is lifted to the balls of her feet, hanging in a perfect X-position right in front of my eyes. Her auburn locks now rest square atop her shoulders, framing the gentle features atop her supple face. Whatever ounce of rippling muscle that had been hidden by her limp form is now highlighted in full, her cocoa-kissed skin adorning a toned physique surely the envy of her entire team. The thought on having such a powerful woman in my midst, subject to my abject desires regardless of consent, is all the more tantalizing.
I turn to the side, accessing a large vanity where I store the tools of my “nocturnal” trade. Will she appreciate the bright pink ball gag nestled in her teeth, with cascades of her own drool freefalling across her bare bosom? Would she prefer the simplicity of a wadded cleave gag, her muffled pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears time and time again? Maybe the dental gag, leaving her mouth wide open and vulnerable to a myriad of torments that would follow? Sifting through my wares like a child in a candy shop, there is no extent to my pleasure in choosing the exact one for…ah yes, that’s it!
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