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Editor’s note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.
So few people pay close attention to the world around them. To the scent of the roses, the movement of the clouds, the way a camera light isn’t lit, the way a shadow is deeper than it should be…
But I’m paying close attention tonight from deep in the shadows. When you walk the guard you’re replacing out the front door and lock up, I’m observing the way you fill out the otherwise shapeless uniform through the eye slit in my balaclava. When your rounds take you to the areas off-limits to the public, where exhibits are assembled and torn down, my footsteps are softly matching yours, and you aren’t hearing a thing.
I choose my spot carefully, and when I move I’m sure that there is no warning. A hand is suddenly clamped around your mouth while another is grasping at your waist. Still, you react well, twisting to throw me over your shoulder.
Since ending up flat on my back is not any part of my night’s planned activities, that can’t be allowed. I lower my own hips as you do, denying you the chance to break my balance, and all your attempted throw does is grind your hips back into me. It’s a good start, I think, with a predator’s grin hidden beneath my mask.
I pull us both backwards and you land on top of me, my legs coming up to trap your arms against the sides of your body, your hair filling my face. The smell of your shampoo is familiar, floral… of course. While you’re struggling to free an arm, I’ve stopped to smell the roses.
Part of choosing this spot was anticipation of our landing on the floor. Rather than the hard wood elsewhere in the museum, we have landed on a pile of a dozen rolled rugs.
Part of the previous month’s exhibit of Persian imperial drinkingware, I’ve already looked the rugs over and concluded that they were cheap, probably second-hand knockoffs the museum had bought to spruce up the display. As we struggle on them, a smell of cinnamon is released from the weave of the rugs, an echo of spilled spices from the Silk Road. Or the display about the Silk Road, anyway.
I’ve given up the grip I had over your mouth in the fall, and it’s with a conjurer’s flourish that I make a little ball of soft rubber, a couple inches across, appear in my hand. It slips between your teeth just as your mouth opens fully. You bite instinctively and before you can realize the mistake it’s in place and tied on.
I’m well equipped for a break and enter tonight, and I take pride in my tools. The little rubber ball can fit into a hidden pocket and used to quietly stop a door or window from closing fully. The handkerchiefs I carry are perfect for wiping fingerprints clean. Right now, though, I’m more interested wrapping one around to hold the ball in place in your mouth, tying it tight at the nape of your neck.
Another serves for your eyes, though the only light nearby is your dropped flashlight, rolling aimlessly and illuminating a dilapidated stuffed hyena tucked into a corner. With your eyes and mouth handled, it’s time for your hands.
I keep it simple, gripping you by the shoulders and sliding my hands down your arms, keeping a controlling grip the entire time, until I’m holding your wrists. A twist of my waist and a heave of my weight flips us over and you’re face-down in the piled rugs now, my weight held on my knees as I draw one of the last items I brought.
Doors can be blocked, locks picked, but what if something needs to be held out of the way? You’ll want something supple, yet strong. Rope is standard, but as has been mentioned, I take pride in my tools, and it shows in the calfskin leather strip that I wind around and about your wrists, binding them tightly together behind you.
Your determination to be free seems to be undiminished. While I’m hitting the quick release button on your equipment belt, taking out the cuffs and keys and tossing the rest aside, you’re still trying to get a leg under you and presumably trying to get back to your feet. I turn around, now sitting just above your hips and facing your feet; your efforts to get a leg under you have pulled the thin fabric of your uniform tight around your ass.
“No, you’re going nowhere,” I say and land a reproving swat directly between your legs. You give an offended squeak through your nose as your legs snap shut. I reach down to slap your ankles, and when my hands move away, your own cuffs are left behind.
Satisfied that you’ll stay put, I stand up and walk over to take your flashlight. I’ve been checking this place for a while; we’re deep enough into the building that nobody will see anything when I turn the lights on. I activate only one of the three banks all the same, leaving a series of spotlights standing tall in the gloom. No reason to tempt fate, after all, and glaring bright light feels wrong for what I have in mind.
Now able to see around me, I quickly find what I’m looking for and return to you. I flip you over onto your back and slap you lightly across bursa escort the face, not hard enough to hurt, just to establish that you could do nothing about it, including see it coming.
“You’re probably wondering just what I’ve got planned here for you. Well, I realized that for all the time I spent lurking in here, I’ve never had a proper tour of the place. Seemed boring. But I think you could make it a lot of fun, huh?”
You make wordless sounds of denial and shake your head until I take your chin between my fingers and hold you still. “I had a bit of a look around earlier, found a few interesting things. Like this,” I say, and you feel a cold sharpness against your cheek, light as a whisper. “First century Aztec obsidian blade, still as sharp as the day it was made. At least, it says that. Think it’s true?” Even if I weren’t holding your head still you wouldn’t dare move in response.
“I think finding out would be a very educational start,” I conclude. My hand tangles in your shirt and pulls it taut, and you can not just hear but feel the slow ripping, sometimes catching for a moment, as I drag knife through fabric. The sleeves take a bit more work with your arms wrapped behind you, but after a couple of turns over I toss the shredded shirt aside and move quickly on to your pants. I work around the cuffs on your ankles until your pants have joined the shirt, leaving you in bra and panties.
Care is required here. I push back your chin, forcing you to arch your back over your bound hands and present yourself to me. You feel the flat of the blade slide up between your breasts, cold and hard and impossible to ignore, and I let it rest there for a second or two before twisting it upward and leaving you topless.
I sit with part of my weight on your upper legs to keep you still and drag the tip of the blade up the outside of your leg. The touch is so light it leaves only momentary white traces in the smoothness of your skin and is chased upward by a tide of goosepimples. The tip slips under the band of your panties and a slide upward slits them. I repeat the process on the other side and your whole body is shaking as I stand back up.
“Well, still sharp enough for use, at least,” I assess with nod.
I unroll a few of the rugs, one on top of another, and deposit you on top of them before I stand up and take a few steps back to admire you. Your squirming form against the pattern of the rug, its swirls and whorls broken by the lovely lines of your body, it’s almost perfect.
Drawn out from an inside pocket is the last of my tools, a small bottle of oil. It’s suitable for removing rusted squeals from hinges, and I prefer a saffron-scented oil sold by my local sex store over anything industrial. After all, it will inevitably get on my hands.
Rather than use the needle nose tip I have fastened to the bottle, though, I unscrew the cap and pour a measure out into my hand before sealing it again. It’s warm from my body heat and goes onto you smoothly, and I savor rubbing it into your body, sliding my hands smoothly along each curve and into every hidden space, until you are gleaming. Now, you look perfect, oiled and helpless on the rug.
“My perfect tour guide. But you’re supposed to commemorate these things, as I recall.”
Even through the blindfold, you recognize the flash of a camera. Your attempts to hide yourself just highlight other lovely parts of you; you twist away and I take a picture of your blind look over a shoulder back at me, a hint of your nipple glimpsed around you. You pull your legs up to cover your bare chest and I take a picture of your lovely thighs demurely framing the lips of your pussy with the gleam of your ankle chain in the foreground.
Wanting a particular effect, I take your hair in my fist and pull your head back as you’re on your side and the arc of your back makes me wish I was a better photographer. When I’m done, I stow the camera away and hoist you up and over my shoulder. I slap your bare ass and declare “Let the tour begin!”
Our first stop is a display of Greek urns. A long Grecian couch is set up beside it and I put you onto its cushion face down, holding your head in place for a few seconds to make it clear that you should be still.
“Pots, urns, boring…” I comment as I walk along the display. “But what have we here?” You hear me opening a display case gently. “Oh, someone had fun with this back in the day! Seems only right that I give it one last hurrah.”
You’re puzzling out what I mean and racking your memory for what was in the Greek display cases when I return to you. My hand returns to the back of your neck, gripping tightly enough to hold you still and make it clear that I am in control. You still struggle when you feel my fingers probing against the tight pucker of your asshole, dripping with more oil.
My fingers are gentle but they are insistent, slipping their way in circles around the sensitive wrinkles before dipping lightly in to push the oil in deeper, coating you and opening bursa escort bayan you. On and on this goes, and I rest my head on your shoulder as I work, enjoying the tickle of your rose-scented hair. Minutes pass and I work away at your resistance, until a knuckle has passed into you with a moment’s tension, then another.
“I think you’re ready,” I say into your ear as my hand moves away. I could swear that I hear a small whimper of disappointment as my finger stop playing but it’s obviously my imagination. The oil comes out once more, warm, smooth drips in your hidden places, and now something more solid than my own digits is pressing where they had been. “Solid work for it to have lasted this long,” I comment. You’re not listening. Your teeth are clenched deeply into the ball in your mouth and sweat is breaking out on your head as you work to cope with the feelings rushing through you. The tension, the impossible size of it like it will never stop getting wider… and then it slips inside, your little hole slips tight to hold it in place, and your gasp hangs in the air while you shake, your stolen breath forgotten in the enormity of the feeling.
I give you time. A few minutes pass while your breathing lowers again, though I don’t help the process along by occasionally giving a flick to the protruding handle. It reverbrates deep within and then spreads outward in a shudder each time, as though you’ve been struck like a bell. Your legs are glistening not only with the oil but also with your own juices now, your pussy overflowing in its need, but the shifting and squeezing of your thighs just makes the need to be touched worse.
I thoughtfully place my hand on the plug’s handle, my fingers brushing against your burning lower lips, and you freeze, unsure whether a stroke or a slap is to come. “Ready to continue the tour?” My fingers push a bit as I ask, ending with one finger nestled between your lower lips, my fingertip resting on your clit. Just that touch is enough to make you shudder in little pre-orgasms. You jerkily nod your head.
“Excellent! I think it’s time you fulfilled the role properly, though.” Drawing the key from a pocket, I undo your handcuffs from your ankles and pull you to you feet by your hair. You manage to stay upright, but barely, as the movement makes the feeling of the plug inside you new again and your knees buckle. I catch you under the arms to be sure you don’t fall, taking the time to have another grope of your breasts, oiled fingers slipping across your stone-hard nipples.
“Easy, now!” I laugh. “I can’t have my treasures getting damaged. There’s still more to experience.” You find your footing and we begin our walk, my hand wrapped in your hair once more, this time to guide you forward. Your steps are hesitant from the unfamiliarity of your passenger as your knees go weak time and again. “Oh, now this gives me some ideas,” you hear as I pull you to a stop.
This time, you’re left to stand, unsure of what is to come. You smell freshly cut wood and decide that it must be one of the upcoming displays. What was next month? The Assyrian things were last month, next month is-
Your thoughts are cut off by an impact across your ass. “Legs together,” I order, and you hesitantly comply. Another impact against your ass raises you up into your toes. “Stay.”
Your shoes are taken, your last piece of coverage, and the feel of the tatami mat beneath your feet is what clues you in that you are at the unfinished display for Japanese Imperial scrolls. The process of building anything can involve quite a bit of rope, of course, and I intend to make use of the coils left lying around.
You look so very beautiful standing there, the wooden frame for the exhibit around you like you’re ready for display. You stand in a pool of light cast by a high above spotlight, waiting, shivering despite the heat. You’re straining to hear where I am and what I’m doing, standing there alone in the dark behind your blindfold.
The rope starts by wending its way around your legs and upward, its smooth cotton making your nerves sing. Your legs are trapped together, but the wrapping continues upward, pressing your knees and then thighs together. The calfskin thong is untied from your hands so that they can be bound at your sides, your chest bound in a zigzag pattern, and you are more helpless than you have ever felt as I finish by attaching more ropes to the backs of your bindings at the ankles, waist and middle of the back.
I move away and you’re left standing once more, but only for a few seconds. My hands take your shoulders and press you forward off balance and panic jolts your system with adrenaline but the ropes stop and hold you before you can go more than a few inches forward.
A tugging sensation tells you that you’re being hoisted upward, the ropes cradling you as you swing gently. The blindfold is drawn off and the gag stifles your gasp at your returned sight.
The sight is of… You, trussed and hanging. A full-length ornamental mirror that escort bursa you remember hearing the workmen complain about bringing in faces you, and you feel as though you’ve become a piece of art yourself, hung for display and admiration.
The pull of the ropes has left your whole body on display in your reflection, and your eyes roam over the lines where it presses your flesh, bound hands resting under your breasts as though you are presenting yourself as an offering. You look for me in the mirror but you are spotlighted and surrounded by darkness. Even as I move up behind you, all you can see is a shadowy masked figure raising something in their hand before the first impact of the flogger lands on your ass.
I watch your reflected eyes widen and down my arm comes again. You clench instinctively in response and the invader reminds you of its presence. Smack, smack, each sound solid and visceral. A rhythm builds, rising and falling, working my way down your ass and thighs, spending a bit of time on the bottoms of your feet. I work my way back upward, reintroducing tender skin to the feel of the flogger’s kiss.
The stings blend into each other, changing, swirling into a warmth that seems to leak into your mind like fog under a door. It fills you up, swelling until you feel stretched thin, until you are sure that it is only the ropes that are holding you together. For as long as you can manage you keep eye contact with yourself but it’s simply too much and your mirror self gives you a knowing look before your eyes close to float in the sensations.
When the impacts stop, you don’t notice at once. It’s the flash of the camera, not hooded this time, that draws you back. I circle you hungrily, capturing your image as I’ve captured you, and your half-hooded eyes in its light are hungry still.
I lower you back down to earth, carrying you over to a futon nearby. The ropes come loose, the gag is pulled from your mouth (I take a moment to wipe away the trails of drool with a handkerchief), and you take a deeper breath than you remembered possible.
It is only your own weakness that binds you as I arrange you carefully, cheek resting against an embroidered pillow, legs pulled up under you. Your back and legs are so sensitive that the drifting air currents are enough to keep your attention while I strip down to match your nudity, balaclava a joining pants and shirt. I’ve been very patient throughout, I’m sure you’ll agree, and I’m eager for the finale.
My fingernails run down your back, feather-light, drawing a deep moan from you. I take your poor abused ass in my hands and the slightest pressure upward from my nails raises you up to the perfect angle for me to push inside you.
You are eager and ready, soaking wet and burning like a banked fire. When I push inside you, I feel each ridge of my hardness pressing against the plug in your ass. I encourage you to match me with gentle slaps on your aching ass and you do so, meeting me hard enough that with each thrust the handle of the plug jars against my pelvis, keeping it deep within you.
I’m close to cumming myself, but this is a tour, after all, and is all about exploration. I stop deep inside of you, pressed against your walls, pull out slowly to savor the sensation and withdraw entirely to your disappointed moan. The moan changes as the feel a pull on the plug inside you, turning your moan into short huffs of air. Then it’s entirely out of you and you have just enough time to feel the aching emptiness before I take its place and push deep inside your ass, steady and inexorable.
I’m lost myself at the end, pushing toward that final release, hands grasping your hips to pull you into me with each slamming thrust until I can take no more and burst deep within you. We shudder together as we share this final peak and collapse spent, our sweat mixing with the oil that coats you still.
I lie next to you as we both catch our breath, pulling a blanket over us, and open my mouth to speak when a shout cuts me off.
“Security! Freeze!” A light shines in my eyes in the shade of migraine. I recognize the voice.
“Frank, could you turn off the flashlight please?” I snap and he flips it off. I realize that you’ve vanished under the blanket entirely. “And what the fuck are you doing here?”
“Whoah, sorry, bud. Forgot my keys up in the tower, got almost home before I realized. So… How many beers you thinking you’ll be needing to bribe me to keep this a secret?”
The outrage is too much and you pop your head up from under the blanket. “After the number of beers it took to get you to put us on the same shift? Does your wife need to know about what’s in your upper-right drawer?”
His hands lifted in surrender, he turns to walk away chuckling, the light of his flashlight swinging back and forth across the darkened hallway like an elephant’s trunk.
“And you,” you say with playful anger. “You need to be giving me those pictures right away.”
I turn away from where I am cleaning the glass butt plug. “No worries, I used your phone,” I say, stretching to retrieve it from my nearby pants and returning it. “But after the amount of effort I put into that, I deserve at least a couple! I wrote a freaking script!”
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