I walked back into the room, carrying my bag of tools. She heard me enter, and craned her head towards the sound.
“Please, please don’t! Let me go, I won’t …!”
Her words were cut off by the insertion of the room’s previous occupant’s balled-up panties. A long scrap of an old t-shirt wrapped around and tied behind her head finished the job.
She couldn’t see because of the blindfold, dark sweatshirt tied over her eyes. Or was it old track pants?
Fuck, it doesn’t matter.
I flipped on the tv and slipped in a dvd. She wouldn’t see me and my earlier guest, but she could still hear. Her imagination would fill in the blanks.
She was a sweet little soccer mom. I’d seen her, like many of the others, all over town. Checking out the lettuce in the produce aisle. Laughing and sharing lattes with girlfriends at Starbucks. Strolling casually through malls, window shopping.
This one was a leggy brunette. Late 30’s maybe. Still attractive, a MILF you might say.
I let her listen to the woman on the screen for a while. She couldn’t help but hear the gagged pleading and the muffled cries. Nor would she miss the sounds of the whip striking flesh, anguished screams, and the animal grunting and pounding of skin on skin that went on and on.
When I thought she was ready, I slipped the knife under her bra straps and took it from her. Very nice, I thought to myself.
She was face down on the platform, wrists tied behind her with cotton rope. Her ass was forced up in the air by the padded leather bolster, and a light sheen of sweat was beginning to show on her skin. Her slim panties came away easily under the knife, revealing her twin holes of delight. Her shaved pussy shone with moisture.
It wasn’t sweat.
I moved to her and bent over close to her head.
“You’re turned on by this,” I whispered. My finger stroked her gently.
“NNNGG MMMM NNNTT!”
I laughed and turned to the other end of the platform. She still wore her black high heels. Not a wise footwear choice for her today.
Slowly I stripped her heels off, revealing her bare feet. Smooth and pedicured. Painted toes.
“You are in for a treat,” I said. Soccer mom moaned.
I usually liked to start at the toes and work my way up. Today would follow the same pattern. I selected an instrument from my bag, and sat on a stool facing her.
She couldn’t see my smile, but I’m sure she heard it in my voice.