A Day Like No Other

My days are pretty mundane, in the grand scheme of things. Wake up, brush my teeth, shower, go to work, and then look for something to do. Something that will make this day a little different from yesterday. Sometimes I find solace in laundry, sometimes in doing the dishes. And on a really special day, I'll treat myself to a trip to the grocery store. I had no idea that today was going to be different from any day I would have the rest of my life.

The Tuesday morning sun shined through my bedroom window, waking me in a gentle manner. My morning stretches felt more invigorating than usual. Oxygen infiltrated each of my weary muscles, and I felt like I could take on the world. But first, I decided to take on the piles upon piles of laundry that greeted me as I left the bathroom.

I tend to keep to myself quite a bit. I have few friends, but those that I do have I consider an extension of myself. I like to decide to whom I speak, when I do it, who has access to me and my thoughts at any given time. My private time is my own, and I treasure every minute of it. That's not to say that I don't mind company on a regular basis. It's actually a necessity. But I like to control when and where that interaction takes place. And no one really knows everything about me. They may know most of the things that have happened in my life, my political stances, my religious beliefs, but there are always personal thoughts that I don't share. The thoughts that let people really know what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling. I control those. And I control myself enough to always keep people guessing.

On this morning, separating the darks from the lights, I get lost in the likeness of laundry to the world at large. Why don't clothing companies create light and dark clothes that can be washed together? With a sigh in my thoughts, I continue with the apparel apartheid around my house. Such power in forcing certain pieces of clothes to go here, others to go there. And they don't ever argue. So compliant, so willing to please me. So much satisfaction from bossing around things. Humming "Old MacDonald" and dreaming of the farm that has more vocal animals than the movie "Babe," I finish up my first load and start looking for something else to do.

Looking through the fridge for breakfast, I realize it has become very sparse in this appliance. Today must be Grocery Day! Yay! But I look a wreck. With the gentle whir and hum of the washing machine to keep me company, I head for the shower.

I've never been completely happy with the bathroom in my house. It's a little small, and the lack of window really makes it kinda dreary. But I've done the best I could with it.

I start running the water to get it up to the correct temperature, the droplets feeling magnificent on my grungy skin. The CD player I keep in there gets to sing the songs of Tool today. (I'm feeling feisty after those stretches.) As I strip down, the air conditioning kicks on, and the cool air through the vent hits my nipples directly. The soft cotton of my nightshirt slips over them, catching on the erect centers. A slight chill goes through me, and the thought of my shower excites me a little more than it did two minutes ago. It's a good thing I'm about to bathe because, at the mere thought of what I was about to do, I can feel drips of wetness starting to pool and run down the insides of my thighs.

The water hasn't felt this good in so long. As I stand there with the warm water rushing over me, my hard nipples begging for more attention, my head snaps up at a strange sound coming from outside the bathroom. Shrugging it off to the cat feeling feisty today too, I turn my attention back to myself. I run my hands through my drenched hair and let them continue down onto my breasts. My nipples ache with appreciation for the attention. I linger there for a bit, making sure my upper body knows how much I value it as well. My breath has started to quicken a little, and I'm much more aware of each ping of water on my naked body. I allow my hands to continue their admiration by sliding down my smooth stomach, tracing my curves, and slipping between my legs. I almost come right away but manage to keep it under control. I part the smooth lips throbbing with interest and, despite the water running all around it, my own juices overtake my hand. Just the feeling of myself on my fingers makes me weak in the knees. I press on, massaging my pulsating clit for awhile, arousing myself even more.

There's that sound again. Only louder. Stupid cat.

Sighing, I slip two fingers inside my drenched cunt, gasping right away. Slowly moving them in and out, in...out, in...out, I can feel myself starting to tighten around my fingers. I lean against the shower wall to steady myself as the water ruthlessly cascades all over my heaving body. As I move my fingers faster and harder, I massage my clit with my thumb. Moans start escaping my mouth frequently, sounding in turn with each thrust. My pinky finds its way into my asshole, and my whole hand starts pumping in and out, up and down, leading me closer and closer to climax. I let out this low, primal grunt as my muscles start to clamp down on my fingers. The whole world belongs to me, to this moment, as I really start to let loose.

Before I finish letting out my sound of triumph, the bathroom door flies open, interrupting this crucial moment. My first reaction is to simply be really angry that I got startled, my orgasm ruined mid-stroke. My second, and more appropriate thought, is to wonder why the door is now open.

As I pull back the shower curtain to peek out, my hair is grabbed, and I am dragged out of the tub. Before I have a chance to grasp what is happening, to look up to see this man? woman? and ask what is going on, a rolled up bandana covers my eyes and gets tied tightly around my head. Completely paralyzed with confusion (I was surprisingly not scared at that point, just lost), I feel my arms being jerked above my head as I lay on the floor in my now-dark bathroom. Rope is expertly tied around my wrists quickly, silently, into nylon handcuffs. The intruder pulls on the rope, yanking it upward.

"If you don't want to be dragged around your house, now would be a good time to stand up."

The voice is strong, forceful, but not brutal. He is probably in his early 30s and is fully capable of doing me loads of harm. As much as I don't want to make his life any easier right now, I decide quickly that rugburn all over my body won't be very pleasant. After I realized how stupid I was for being concerned about rugburn when there's a stranger in my house who could quite possibly beat, cut, rape and/or murder me, I let out a small chuckle as I stood up.

"You think this is funny? I amuse you?"

A sharp sting warmed my cheek as I felt my head get slapped to the side. Oh, wow... That hurt. A lot.

"No, you don't amuse me. I amuse me. Here you are in my house, probably a convicted felon and I'm about to die, and what upsets me the most is that you interrupted my orgasm and that I might get rugburn. That's funny."

With just a grunt, we leave the bathroom--he of his own free will, me of his will. Was that smile I felt coming from him?

Now, I've heard of people explaining how four senses will sharpen if one is taken away, but I had never experienced that myself. But walking through my own house, blind as can be, I was aware of more life in my house than ever before. I could taste the laundry detergent cleaning my segregated clothes; I could hear every rustle of his jeans as we walked intermingling with the soulful sounds of my CD still playing in the bathroom; and I could smell bits of pieces of this man. A different detergent from my own, but his clothes had been recently washed. Did this outfit have blood spattered all over it before yesterday? I recognize the smell of shaving cream, so I assume his face is smooth. And there's a slight hint of sweat oozing from his body. Perhaps he works out? Maybe he's just nervous about being in my house. Either way, the smell disgusts and turns me on at the same time.

He throws me on the couch like I'm the TV Guide and sits in the opposing chair. I have to work to readjust myself into a comfortable position, which is really hard to do when you don't have use of your hands. Eventually, I get upright. But now, other than music playing far away, it's silent. I can hear my breath quicken; anxiety has started in as I realize what this situation could mean for me.

I had told work I wouldn't be in this week; I needed time to get my house in order and just some time to myself. If I died today, no one would miss me for an entire week. Did I remember to refill my cat's food dish?

One minute goes by. Two minutes. Five. I'm losing control of myself as I start to fidget. My thoughts are starting to turn to panic. Where did he go? Why isn't he getting it over with? I don't have any food in the house, so I know he's not getting a snack in the meantime. My head starts turning back and forth violently, attaching to every little sound that flitters by in hopes that it will lead me to his position.

Finally, two large hands come from behind and encircle my throat. As I suck in air, assuming it will be the last time I ever have to worry about it, I concentrate on the music as I start to mentally float above the couch. As scared as I had been a few moments ago, now that I know where he is and that this is how it will be, a calmness has come upon me. Strangely enough, I feel safe now. The tighter his hands get, the higher I float.

All of a sudden, the hands are gone, and I'm gulping in air heavily. What had happened? Was I not good enough to kill? And I lost his whereabouts now since all I could hear was my own hunger for oxygen.

My legs are thrust apart from each other now, and I feel him kneeling in front of me. Oh god, is he staring directly at my most private of places? Head on? No no no no. Clenching my toned muscles, I attempt to slam my thighs back together, to maintain at least a little control of my own body, even though my thoughts are now running rampant. But his arms meet my thighs swiftly and strongly before they have a chance to reunite.

"How did I know you were going to do that? So predictable, little girl. I expected more from you."

My face flushes with anger, with embarrassment. I pride myself on keeping people guessing; they never know what's going to come from me next. And here's this jackass saying he knows my moves before I do? Oh no.

"Since you've been a bad girl, you must be punished."

I feel more rope get slid over my left knee, and it's then tied down to what I'm assuming was the couch leg. While he's messing with that, I start to kick with my right leg. Didn't see that coming, did you?

But this guy must have three arms or something because my kicks immediately cease, much to my dismay. Rope gets tossed around my right knee now, knowing my every move as I continue kicking to try to get him away from me. But simple mechanics are against me, and I find myself tied spread eagled to the couch. And just to add insult to injury, my hands are then bound to the ropes at my knees, immobilizing me.

"What's sad is that I gave you time to run away. But you stayed for me. Like you wanted this all along. Is that true? Is this what you've always dreamed of? You can answer me. In fact, I insist. Do you want to stay here for me?"

My voice doesn't work anymore. I refuse to make it work. My thoughts are my own. This man can take my body, dispose of me how he sees fit, but I will never let him in on what I'm thinking. Let him know that he's partially right.

His hand slides up the inside of my right thigh. As it comes closer to the opening, I start to squirm. Half of me is afraid that he's going to mutilate me; the other half is terrified that he'll find out he's right. I'm dripping juice all over the couch cushion. I'd like to pass it off as excess shower water, but it's like it was in the shower earlier-there's far too much there to not notice it for what it is.

"Okay, your mouth doesn't want to answer me, so I'll look for nonverbal assurances."

Oh god, oh god. His hand reaches up to where mine was not a half hour ago. I want to fight back, but I can't. I am paralyzed.

"So I'm right, am I? You won't run from me; I intrigue you. Tell me, did you always go after the bad boys in school? The ones that would use you and throw you away like you were a plaything? Or did you go for the safe ones that never really satisfied you but you knew you were always in control?"

As he slips a finger inside me, my breath picks that moment to leave me. He could have stuck a stick of fire up there, as hot as it was and as much as it made me woozy. I tried to keep my nonverbal signs to myself, but the body always betrays the mind. Warm fluid runs down his finger to collect on his hand.

He pulls his hand out, and I'm left sitting alone for a moment.

"You seem to have leaked all over my hand. I understand you're having some issues right now, but that's no reason to make me dirtier than I want to be. So every time you make this mess on me, you'll wear it. Is that understood?"

I have no idea what he means, and I want to apologize, beg forgiveness for my body's betrayal. But I don't. Can't. I just sit there with my eyes wide open behind my dark curtain.

A large hand slides across my face, from ear to ear, leaving a trail of salty slime over my nose and mouth as it passes. My face burns bright red, and my mouth opens with surprise and silent protest. I can feel the slime starting to dry up, like a really bad mud mask. Only this mask seems to be making me wetter. The smell of myself on a place that never occurred to me to put it sends me back into my own floating world.

A strong slap across my face brings me back to reality, where this stranger has tied me up in my own house and is taking and giving control when he can.

"Your thoughts will focus on me until I leave you, assuming you can still think after I leave. I am your whole world right now, and you will make every effort to stay here with me in that mind of yours. Is that understood?"

Against my will, I can feel my head nod up and down. No! What was I doing? Non-action was my only defense. But that affirmative thought escaped before I even knew it.

"Good girl. Now let's see what else 'doesn't' turn you on since I have your attention."

A cold, hard instrument follows the line his finger took earlier. I can't quite place what it is until he quickly removes it from my leg and lifts my chin with it, its sharp point pressing into my neck. I'm barely breathing now, fearful that any movement from my throat will force the blade's tip into my airway. Tiny wheezes escape from my upturned head as he continues probing for a response.

"I'm so sorry. Perhaps my knife is too cold for you? Would you like me to remove it?"

I hear myself saying, "Yes." Damn.

"Yes? Yes what?"

"Yes please?"

"No, from now on when I ask you a question, you will answer 'Yes or no, Sir,' as appropriate. Is this understood?"

I don't call anyone Sir or Ma'am. This is absurd. I manage to stay quiet in silent defiance.

The blade presses deeper into my throat, and I feel the snap of skin and a trickle of blood run down my neck onto my heaving breasts.

"Is this understood, little one?"

"Yes...Sir."

What's a little "Sir" now and then if it means I never have to say it to another soul the rest of my life? At least I'll have a rest of my life. And he doesn't need to know I don't really mean it with respect. I only did it because he was making me.

"Now, let's see if we can't just warm this up a bit for you. Would that be better?"

Better? A warm knife against my throat versus a cold one. What does it matter to me, really? Since I don't like the options given to me, I don't answer. I'll wait for a better question.

"I'm not talking to myself here, though I think you probably are. I guess I lost your attention."

The knife eases up a little on my throat, and he slips two fingers inside me at the same time. I almost get myself killed because I jerk upward as he enters me, the surprise, disgust, and relief taking over my body. He starts moving in and out of me, the knife never leaving my heaving neck.

"Do you like this, little girl? I can tell your body does, but does your mind? Tell me now."

The heat rising from my lower body, infiltrating all of me, I hear myself say, "Yes, Sir, I do."

"Good girl. You are doing quite well. Good behavior warrants rewards, doesn't it?"

Focusing on the small thrusts in and out of my cunt from this stranger, I let myself loose for a moment, missing his question. His fingers push hard into me, his hand clamping painfully against my throbbing clit.

"I asked you a question. I expect you to answer. Do not let your mind wander again. Is this understood?"

"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

"Alright then. I suppose we can do you a favor then."

The blade is taken away from my throat. More oxygen enters me, making me dizzy. His fingers slow and then come out completely. But I thought I wasn't being punished? Oh, okay, they're coming back now. But colder. And only cold on one side.

His hand pushes deep inside me, the coldness invigorating and confusing at the same time. He starts pumping in and out again, my juices providing plenty of lubrication. He pulls his hand out, but my insides are still cool.

"There you go, little girl. You just sit there and warm up that blade for me."

That's what was in me. He just put a knife inside me and left it there. No way. I clench my cunt muscles around it, to see if he was playing a game with my head. I can feel the sharp edges inside me, daring me to clench harder or to fidget. I release my grip on it, scared completely motionless. My body is no longer mine. It finally dawns on me that I have no control over my body. And he's gotten into my mind a little. What is happening here? Just this morning, the sunlight on my body, I was making myself hot. I controlled what I said and to whom I said it. And now...The most sacred of things to me are being taken away without my consent. And I'm loving it.

A smack across my face brings me out of my own thoughts.

"Tell me what you were just thinking."

I shake my head back and forth. He responds with another smack across my other cheek.

"I will accept your nonverbal response because I told you to respond to questions. But I will not tolerate disobedience. You will tell me what you were thinking."

I sit still, silent with defiance and fear. Slaps start raining on my cheeks. First the left, then the right. Tears start to slide down my cheeks, escaping from beneath the bandana. The blows are getting harder and harder; my neck is getting sore from my head being tossed around. Finally, in a shaky voice, I manage to squeak out a few words to make the barrage stop.

"I was thinking about how I always have control over myself, how you couldn't get into my head. But I can't any longer. You rule my body and my mind right now. You were right. You are my whole world. And that not only scares the shit out of me, it comforts me. There. Are you happy?"

"Yes, little girl, I am. Thank you."

I feel his tongue slide from my clit up my stomach, and finding a spot on my sore neck to rest. He starts sucking and licking my whole neck, as if to give me the largest hickie ever. But mid-lick, he bites down hard on my jugular, making me grasp for breath and clamp down on the blade still inside me. I have never felt such pleasure from something so insanely painful before. But now all I think of is how to get him to do it again. He keeps licking my neck, slowly tracing the flow of blood from my brain to the rest of my body. The heavy pressure of his tongue on my immobilized body has started to make my cunt ache unlike ever before. He bites down again, harder than the first, and that primal groan from earlier escapes my open mouth. He continues licking and biting, each time more intense, as his hand slides down my body to my throbbing netherlips. Just the feel of his hand on me again is almost enough to bring me to orgasm. But he knows just where to touch to make sure I don't come yet.