His Favorite Holiday
His Favorite Holiday
By Adrian Hunter
She tugged on the rope that stretched from her hands up to the wood dowel that extended across the width of the closet.
Nothing.
A mournful groan tried its best to escape the foul rubber ball jammed deep in her mouth.
It wasn't going anywhere, either.
A metaphor for life, she thought despondently. Especially hers right now.
God, was he going to leave her like this all night?
She bounced on her toes, trying to relieve the stress of the rope buried alive in her netherworlds.
Nothing.
She stared straight ahead at the door, vaguely aware of the dim light that seeped through the crack at the bottom. She tried to look down, but he had hitched the top of the trainer to the rack contraption bolted to the back wall of the closet.
Nothing.
Is this the trick? Or is it the treat?
It had been his idea, of course, to dress her up as a French maid. He had taken an unusual interest in helping her make her costume "perfect," although it was a little racier than she usually preferred for public display.
What the heck, she remembered thinking. ‘Tis the season, etc.
The shoes should have tipped her off. Lace-up Victorian ankle boots with monumental heels, now bound tightly together with what seemed like a yard of nylon cord.
And let’s not forget his Grim Reaper getup. Hell, oh…
They had left the party early, but she had caught enough of a buzz to feel frisky. So she didn't complain when he put the blindfold over her eyes.
In fact, she had been looking forward to it all evening.
Once ensconced in darkness, she felt his fingers pulling down the delicate lace that pretended to veil her breasts.
Fiery breath.
Tongue.
Suckling.
Drawing her nipples deep inside his mouth.
His hands snaking between her legs.
Pushing them apart.
Caressing the damp patch of satin.
Fingers.
Digging.
Deeper.
Using his thumb to press her most eager button.
As her hips began to grind in rhythmic counterpoint, his touch had vanished.
Nothing.
Only to return in the form of cuffs around her ankles, soon extended wide with a spreader bar.
Good, she remembered thinking.
Right on schedule.
He kissed his way quickly up one of her stockinged legs until his head was under her silly petticoat.
Then his mouth found her crotch.
Hungry.
Pulling aside the G-string with his teeth.
Greedy.
Grazing.
Gnawing.
Gluttonous.
By the time he told her to open her mouth, she was practically hyperventilating.
She was ready for a kiss.
Instead, she got…a Tootsie Pop?
"Suck," he rasped as he returned his attentions to her triangle while moving his fingers like spiders up her belly until they found her breasts, then her nipples.
As the childhood cherry flavor overwhelmed all sense of taste, she put her hands against the back of his head and pushed his face hard into her groin.
She needed to scream. Soon.
Instead, she slurped the hard candy ball with all her might, in hopes he would return the courtesy.
Close.
Red-alert sirens wailing.
Closer.
Nerves on fire like ruptured power lines sputtering on the street in a downpour.
Too close to endure it another second.
Mind and muscles rigid in suspended eruption.
Don’t you dare fucking stop.
Suddenly, he stood up, grabbed her wrists, and pulled them behind her back.
No, she implored with all her heart.
"Yes," he replied out loud.
She swore at him through teeth clenched tight around the lollipop stick as he lashed her arms together.
Desperately willing herself to climax.
Nothing.
She arched her back to relieve the strain as he pulled her elbows close together until they practically touched, then knotted them tight to what she soon realized was some kind of pole.
A minute later, he had immobilized her wrists in cuffs bolted to the end of the rod, forcing her to thrust out her chest like a preening bird of prey.
She felt his hands grab the top of the frilly front of her maid costume.
He wrenched the cheap material until it tore apart, leaving her breasts completely exposed.
Then he reached under her dress and practically pulled her over as he ripped off the G-string.
She couldn’t stop trembling as he plucked what was left of the sucker out of her mouth.
"No…please don’t…"
"G…"
Her lips pressed fast against the leather flap.
The strap drawn taut around her neck.
Then the buckle.
Then more straps.
At least she could finally scream.
Not a bad idea right now, she thought as she reached back for the rope that traveled over the clothes rod from her suspended wrists down to her aching crotch.
Like it would make any difference.
She closed her eyes and let loose an anguished wail.
Nothing.
After finishing with her gag, he had let her claw at her new bonds for quite some time.
That meant he was planning something.
Experience told her to presume the worst.
"Ready to be of service?" he finally asked.
Fuck you, she mumbled, much too coherently.
"I asked you a question."
Something slapped against one of her nipples.
"Well?"
The crop cracked against one of her thighs just above the garter clip.
She yelped into her gag and shook her head yes.
"Good."
He put something flat and hard into each of her cuffed hands. After a moment of exploring their contours with her fingers, she discovered they were coasters.
Her guess was confirmed when he placed his half-filled tumbler of scotch on one of them, and her barely-touched glass of wine on the other.
"Such a useful servant. Pray you don't drop them."
She felt him unzip her skirt.
The lash danced ethereally across her bare buttocks, then slid between her legs.
She gulped and increased her grip on the coasters as he flicked his wrist ever so slightly upward.
Nothing.
Then the first real blow.
Bottom.
Trying to keep count.
Breasts.
Losing track.
The inside of her legs.
Of everything.
No, not there…
The doorbell rang.
"Don't make a sound."
He left her quivering in the bedroom as he stomped into the hall toward the front door.
"Trick or treat!"
"Aren't you kids out a little late?" he asked. "Here, take the rest, we're done for the night."
She heard the door shut, the deadbolt click home, and then footsteps down the hall and past the bedroom.
Why was he going to the kitchen?
A moment later, the mousetraps snapped murderously.
And the drinks were on the floor.
"Too bad," he snarled. "Bend over."
That was hours ago.
So unlike him to leave her alone so long.
Trapped in his fantasies come true.
Maybe every day should be Halloween from now on, he had suggested as he closed the closet door.
She shook her bound arms and twisted her wax-splattered torso in a spastic dance of desperation.
Nothing.
Memo to self: beware of holidays involving candles.
Somewhere outside, off in the distance, a straggler howled at whatever was left of the moon.