As I sit in the dark, waiting for her inevitable return, I replay her words in my head, feverishly looking for hidden meaning or missed nuance. Frantic thoughts and nagging doubts spiral around my mind, vying for attention. I shift in the seat, uncomfortable and hot despite the cool midnight breeze through the partially opened window. I feel an insistent pressure against my leg, a rigidity that reminds me of what I’m about to do. As if I needed reminding.

For the twentieth time, I check the pockets of the loose fitting pants I’m wearing. For the twentieth time I find the pre-looped zip-tie and the pocket knife, exactly where I expected them to be, and I try to relax. But no amount of reassurance can slow the quick jackhammer beat of my heart, or cool the burning of my skin, or calm my racing mind.

Am I sure?

The question bubbles to the surface of my racing emotions, momentarily becoming my sole focus. Am I sure? Am I sure she wants this? Her image forms in my mind, dressed as she will be tonight. Flowing, black cocktail dress; long, coltish legs, bare and tanned; pretty heels, strapped to her feet with a complex weave of thin leather. Her honey blonde hair is pinned up and back, revealing the pale fragility of her neck. Am I sure?

Outside the house a car door slams, and I freeze in place. She’s earlier than I expected. I’m not ready. I consider running, consider standing and fleeing through the back door of the house, sinking into the shadows of the garden and forgetting this ever happened. But I remain seated, gripping the armrests of the wing-back chair, trying to slow my breathing. She wants this, I’m certain.

Across the room, I hear her fumble the lock, the soft scratch of metal on metal as she tries to force the key home. She must have been drinking, I think to myself. A flush of irrational jealousy clouds my vision, causing me to exhale softly. Who was she drinking with? Did she speak to anyone? But I swat it away with a shake of my head. She was mine, mine alone. Nothing could change that.

Outside the house, the lock finally capitulates to her drunken attempts and the door creaks open. I watch from the corner, cloaked in darkness, dressed in dark pants, top and a black cap. My heart hammers quickly. I’m sure she will be able to hear me. If she sees me, then it would all be over…

She steps into the room and throws her clutch purse and keys on the table by the window, softly shutting the door behind her. I can hear the sound of her breath, quick and soft; I can smell the sweet aroma of her scent, like spring lilies. Deep inside me, I feel a rush of arousal, a familiar response to the sight of my obsession. I push it back, struggling to control my breathing, unable to move but unable to stop. She walks across the room, heels tapping on the wooden floor, swaying slightly in the dark.

Then she stops, frozen in place by some instinct I can only guess at. Her head lifts up and she looks around, struggling to see in the near darkness. I catch my breath and sink into the seat, fixated on the dark silhouette of her body, framed against the dim light of the far window. Do I say something? Do I reveal myself? But then the moment passes. She shrugs and giggles to herself, then continues walking to the bedroom.

This is it, I think to myself as she leaves the room, this is the point of no return.

Any doubt I had has gone now, banished by the provoked emotion of her proximity, fuelled by the sight of her body and the faint hint of her perfume. As it always was.

I stand quickly, silently, and pad across the room on soft sneakers. I stop beside the door to the bedroom, covering the width of the living room in four long strides. Standing with my back to the wall, I peer around the door frame, pulling back quickly as she turns on the bedside lamp. A warm light spills out of the bedroom and I feel a momentary rush of panic, robbed of the concealing cloak of darkness. But when I look again, she has her back to the door, fumbling with the zip on the back of her expensive dress.

I inhale and close my eyes. Oh god, oh god…

Then I move. Like a pouncing tiger I spring into the bedroom, grabbing her arms and forcing her forwards onto the bed in a single motion. She doesn’t react at first, too surprised by the swiftness of my assault, reactions dulled by the alcohol and the late hour. But her instincts quickly assert themselves and I feel her begin to struggle beneath me, slender arms and legs tugging at my grip. Working quickly, knowing I don’t have much time, I gather her arms behind her back, then reach into my pocket and retrieve the zip-tie, working to a script that I’d performed a thousand times in my mind. Slipping her wrists into the tie, I pull it closed with a quick jerk and she squeals. A momentary pang of shame clouds my vision. I’m sorry, my love…

“Please, please…” she pants, breathless with fear and surprise.

I say nothing, moving down her body and standing up from the bed. Then I grab her bare legs and pull her roughly back, dragging her over the edge of the bed until she’s kneeling on the floor. She cries out again and thrashes beneath my grip, wrists twisting at the hard plastic of the tie, legs kicking out behind her in a frantic but futile attempt to find purchase.

My instincts are driving me now, fuelled by desire and insatiable lust, tinged with a palpable fear. With trembling hands, I pull at the button and zipper of my pants, dragging them down my legs with one hand as I hold her wrists with the other, pressing the weight of my body against her ass to keep her in place.

The strap-on falls free and hangs between us like an accusation. She feels it tap against her leg and she freezes for a second. Does she know? But then her struggle continues anew.

I reach down and tug her dress up around her waist, revealing the ivory curve of her bottom, provoking a hot flush of renewed excitement inside me. With a second motion, I pull her gossamer thin panties down her legs to her knees. She cries out again, voice muffled by the soft comforter. She tries to pull away from me, perhaps sensing what was going to happen, but I hold her in place.

I spit on my free hand and wet the length of the dildo with my palm, then I position myself between her knees. Forcing her legs open with my body, I plunge the dildo into her.

Her struggle stops and she goes tense, head lifting from the bed as I enter her, mouth open in a silent scream of fear and relief. She’s wet down there, I note distantly, and I meet no resistance as I push the dildo home. I feel my own pussy surge as the strap-on harness tugs at my lips and my clit. I slide out from her slowly, then push forward with bold insistence. She begins to pant as my rhythmic strokes pick up pace. Her body rocks forwards with every thrust, yet her struggles never cease, her wrists continue to pull at the ties, her head continues to thrash back and forth.

Faster and faster I move, responding to the quickening cadence of her breath, driven by the rising crescendo between my legs.

“Oh god, what am I doing?” I think distantly as I plough her.

Then she comes, fast and hard, like I’d never seen her climax before. Her body spasms with a single jolt, spine arching up off the bed, slender neck becoming rigid with a thousand small muscles. Her breath catches and her lips part, then she releases her sigh in a stuttering trio of gasps. Finally, she falls forward, collapsing beneath me onto the bed, suddenly limp and lifeless.

I slide the dildo out of her, breathless and buzzing with a nervous, aroused energy, then fall onto the bed beside her. After an eternity, she opens her eyes and gazes at me, angelic face forming a mask of surprised recognition, eyes twinkling and cheeks flushed. Her pretty lips curl up into a smile. She touches her finger to my mouth before I can speak and my mind is catapulted back to a barely remembered conversation, back to a time of bold confession and the tender discovery of a new love…

***

A Sunday morning after a Saturday night, six months ago. Two lovers lie together, enthralled by the mere existence of the other, confessing feelings and desires like guilty accomplices.

“I want to be… taken…” she says, a light flush setting her soft cheeks afire.

“Taken?” I reply, unsure what she means.

“I want to be… Oh god, this is embarrassing.” She pauses. “I kind of want to be raped. It’s a fantasy.”

I smile impishly. “I can do that,” I say and squeeze her breast roughly.

She swats my hand away. “No, I mean… properly…”

I lie back and think for a second, the first glimmering notion of a bold plan forming in my mind.

“Maybe… maybe I could…”

She shakes her head with a knowing smirk and touches her finger to my lips.

“Don’t tell me any more…”

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