Getting up yet again, he walked to the door. Sweat still poured from his body. Turning the locks, he jerked open the door. ‘What …’ stopping abruptly in mid-sentence. There was no one. Opening the screen door and stepping onto the stone threshold, he looked up and down the street. It was completely deserted. Swearing under his breath, he slammed the door, locked it again, and returned to his chair. When he reached toward the table beside his chair, his hand stopped in mid-air. It was gone. Jumping to his feet, he looked nervously around the room. He placed it on the table when the doorbell rang. He knew it was there, but now it is gone. Shaking nervously, he eagerly retraced his steps. Nowhere along the path from his chair to the door did he find it. Damn, damn, damn. Where was it? Back and forth, he went – chair to door, door to chair. It was simply not there. He was now drenched in his own sweat. Standing by his chair, slowly turning to look through out the room, he could not find. The touch of cool metal against my neck follows, as I feel it drift down to my breasts, circling my nipple. I have to force myself not to look down. A muffled groan pushes my lips further apart as the sharp bite of a clamp settles against my left nipple with a brush of knuckle against the right nipple. It feels like hours before the connected clamp pinches onto my other nipple, the chain swaying between my breasts as I work to keep still, grunting as the twin peaks of pain course straight down to the throbbing, need between my thighs. Droplets of water falling from my chin to splash against my breasts, the cool paths tracing their way down my body with each bat of my lashes. The urge to squirm, to beg, to look at him is nearly overwhelming. I remain still, knowing that I have lost and that I am at his mercy now. It doesn’t take long before I feel the coarseness of rope sliding around my upper arm, being knotted, sliding across my back to curl around my other arm. Another knot and.
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