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 isn't going anywhere, either.
A metaphor for life, she thought despondently. Especially mine
right now.
God, is he going to leave me 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 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.
I need 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 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..."
He pushed the hard rubber wad firmly into her mouth.
"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 decided 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 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.
Try 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 is 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.
Outside, a straggler howled at whatever was left of the moon.
Memo to self: beware of holidays involving candles.
###
Copyright (c) 2003 by Adrian Hunter. All rights reserved. Please do
not repost nor repurpose without permission.
###
About the Authors
Adrian Hunter is the author of Ace of Slaves, Chain Reaction, Come
True, Crash Your Party Dress and Something Just Clicked, and the co-
author of Association and Once Bitten with Chelsea Shepard. He began
posting his fiction on the Internet in 1993. Four years later, he
published his stories on a web site, AdrianHunter.com, which has
attracted more than two million visitors. In 2000, he was the
recipient of the "Best Bondage Writer" award from SIGNY. His smooth
and kinky short stories, novellas, essays and poetry have appeared in
dozens of erotica compilations, publications and webzines, including
Clean Sheets, Darker Pleasures, MASTER/slave, Prometheus, Touch Words
and Sex Writer.
Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard's books can be purchased online
through their respective web sites:
http://www.adrianhunter.com
http://www.chelseashepard.com
