Visiting the McIntoshs

Author's Note: (Some wee spoilers ahead): Meet Alistair and Riona McIntosh, who've got nasty plans for each other. And three burglars, who've got no plan at all... This is not a full-fledged BDSM story, so you can keep your trousers on. Yet you will find a good deal of bondage with a general tongue-in-cheek overtone.

He was with her. She knew it. Riona knew the cheating bastard was doing that blonde slut this very second. Like he did for the last couple of weeks.

Working late. That Glasgow project again, you know. Don't stay up for me.

Standing at the kitchen island, one hand clenched around the stem of her whine glass, she stared into empty space, her jaw set, muscles working. Tightening. Straining. The clock at the far wall of the vast room headed for midnight, finding itself in agreement with the display of the double wall oven.

Riona poured the last rest of Cabernet into her glass. The full-bodied red wine had washed away her last concerns. Half an hour ago she had put into practice what had been planned, plotted and deliberated upon in earnest during the last days. This would have been the last night of Alistair cheating on her, mocking her, dishonouring her by screwing that cheap slag.

Her head snapped around at the sound of a car on the drive way.

~

Alistair didn't want to get rid of his wife for one of his conquests. He wanted to get rid of his wife -- full stop. This latest affair just had made it absolutely clear once more. Even way before he had started cheating on Riona, her contempt for him had reached a crushing level. The glances, the scoffs, the sharp comments. As if he could do nothing right. As if he were a complete loser. It was bad in the morning before they left the house. It was worse in the evening. At night, it was devastating. The last time they had slept with each other had been months ago, but still he remembered the total lack of tenderness. When he had tried to kiss her, she had turned her face away. When he had caressed her body, she had kept rigid and irresponsive. Afterwards Riona just had rolled over. "Pathetic" had been the word she had murmured under her breath, yet clearly enough to make sure he had heard it. How could she even blame him for nailing his secretary after that? Holding against him the need to prove that he was still a man! If she knew he was unfaithful, she had to be aware of the reason, too. And Alistair had no illusions about her level of suspicion, nor had he any delusions about what would come next: divorce. And with divorce would come lawyers. And everybody knew what came with lawyers -- courtesy of that prenuptial agreement she had let him sign. He did not even mind losing a good amount of money so much. But he would rather make a bonfire of it than letting that bitch have got one pound.

Driving with one hand and in the wrong gear, he rummaged around behind the passenger's seat until he found the bottle. Still half-full of whisky. Half-full of oblivion if this were about to be just another night of disdain. Half-full of courage tonight. He took a healthy draught and immediately welcomed the familiar burning and enveloping heat of the single malt. Why hadn't anybody invented whisky chewing gum yet? He was sick and tired of the menthol-flavoured stuff which served him as medically sanctioned stress relief.

Alistair followed the road through the city's dark outskirts to the detached house they both had chosen to be their home only a few years ago. Modern. Contemporary. Drive way made of white pebbles. They were crunching underneath the tyres as he drove towards the double garage. Riona had left its gate open again, and her 1 Series was subtly positioned to make parking next to it an ambitious aim. He rejected the challenge and stopped in front of the garage. Alistair wasn't fond of leaving his car outside, but this would be the last time to be vexed with it. With his stuff in one arm, he got out and threw some unsuspicious glances around. No one on the road, and the next house was at least fifty metres away, surrounded by a dense hedge. He took the bag from the small luggage compartment under the front bonnet, locked his car and headed towards the building's side entrance in the garage, closing the gate behind him.

Just a man coming home to his perfect house with its perfect white drive way. Back to his perfect loving wife.

~

"Gentleman, I am most delighted to announce that the main phase of our venture is right about to be initiated."

"Execution," the man next to him stated assiduously.

"Absolutely, Mr Track. The scheme's execution itself!"

Mr Tick loved using vocabulary such as "phase", "operation" and "venture". Performing a precisely timed gesture towards the other side of the street, he readied himself to continue. And even though the information to be presented wasn't exactly new, he could be sure to have the undivided attention of both the driver and the stocky man in the back of the pickup truck's crew cab.

"The McIntoshs. Alistair and Riona. Double income, no kids, no pets."

"Ideal clients," the driver threw in.

"Indeed. A young sexy couple. Modern, urban, well-educated, high-performing, blessed with high purchasing power. The wet dream of every marketing strategist. Mr Trick?"

The man on the rear seat delivered his lines as if he were reading a shopping list:

"He works for Claymore Enterprises, she's an internal consultant at Dearborn & Merryweather, their house's burglar alarm came from Ironclad."

Next it was the driver's to outline the means of transportation and evasion. Always the jolly one of their little posse, Mr Track excursus about how their current vehicle had been obtained digressed into the realm of anecdotes. Not that anything had been funny or worthy of mention about it. Trick and Track had secured an adequate model on a car park east of Falkirk and had provided it with alternative registration plates. For some reasons they had decided on a large Nissan pickup truck, although the times when the three of them had hoisted hi-fi systems out of homes to convert them at the next pawn shop where since long gone. Now their field of expertise involved the precise -- he dare said surgical -- extraction and transfer of possession.

Mr Tick considered himself a method criminal. During an operation he would only use and answer to their respective aliases. He became the operation! Therefore he considered it essential that -- as he liked to put it -- everybody was sure to have gained sufficient insight. Organisation, execution, transportation -- the three pillars of any well though-out plan.

"Well, gentlemen, I reckon the details of our approach to be announced to their full extend. So, any questions left?"

His two companions shook their heads.

"Everybody gained sufficient insight?"

His two companions nodded their heads.

"Grand. Mr Trick, our disguise, please."

The stocky man produced three black balaclavas from the non-descript duffle bag, of which he handed two to the leader and the driver. As soon as the men had put them on, they could only be told apart by their frames, with Tick the tallest and Track the leanest.

"Never underestimate the effect of uniform appearance upon clients," the leader informed his companions.

Track inspected himself in the rear-view mirror.

"Sure the two of you look identical. But my mask has got these odd stitches all over it."

"You are wearing it inside out," Trick stated dryly.

With Mr Track having corrected his fashion faux pas, Mr Tick declared them ready.

"Mind you, gentlemen: Proceed with utmost authority." He granted himself a dramatic pause.

"Go."

The three men simultaneously opened their respective doors, slipped out into the engulfing darkness and closed them silently ere the cool night's air could so much as enter the truck's cabin.

~

She heard Alistair rumble in the hallway, and of course his first way led him to the house bar in the living room. That sorry excuse for a man had long since given up hiding his addiction from her -- too bad for him. Eventually the love of her life appeared in the kitchen entrance with the trophies recently achieved at the bar. A bottle of his favourite whisky brand in one hand, a generously filled glass in the other. He hadn't even bothered taking off his suit jacket, just loosened his tie.

~

Alistair entered the cooking area, which was only lit by the stylish little spot lights around the stainless steel extractor hood -- and immediately regretted it. He had expected Riona to be still awake, but had rather hoped being ignored. Bad luck so far, with her waiting amidst their vanguard Bulthaup kitchen. Following the "sophisticatedly showing off whilst cooking with friends"--trend, his better half had insisted on this monstrosity of aluminium, glass and chrome steel. Now she was standing at the island in her slivery silk pyjamas, cheeks flushed, yet eyes piercing as she welcomed him with her speech already slightly slurred.

"Looking weary, honey."

How she managed to make every term of endearment sound utterly venomous was beyond him.

"Killer day at the office. You, on the other hand, seem to enjoy yourself."

Riona gave him a scornful look, but he only put the bottle on the kitchen table and sat down. Alistair had left the bag in the hallway, yet had taken out the items he would be needing first. He felt them comfortingly heavy within his jacket's pocket, springy in his waistband.

"You left the garage door open. Again."

"That so?"

"Can't you imagine I'm too tired to put up with this every time I come home?"

She tossed her head around in her favourite mannerism, distinctive chin held high, challenging gaze upon him.

"Yes, I can imagine you are spent."

He took a sip from his whisky glass, and for a moment a strange, cold smile appeared on her face. Whatever it supposed to mean, it was immediately replaced by her usual frown. Alistair took another, bolder draught. In his mind he had tried every torture method known to mankind out on his wife. Right now he was falling back on one of his all-time favourites; a ménage à trois between a dental drill, her kneecap and a soundproof cellar room.

"Perhaps if I were to receive more recognition in my private life, I would not have got to seek it at work."

Alistair nearly fell from his chair as the half-full whine glass shattered on the wall right next to his head, sending a crimson shower across the white plaster as well as over him. He struggled to a stand.

"Are you mental?!"

"Have you found your recognition between her legs tonight?!"

"You better plan on cleaning that up, bitch! You better!"

Riona had already switched back from cold fury to devastating odium.

"And the night before? What a well-recognised man you've got to be..."

~

The truck's doors opened a mere five minutes later to allow the three men entry.

"Upon closer observation I could not help but notice that the surname of this house's residents is spelled M-a-c-intosh -- which lends support to the assumption that we became slightly diverted in terms of navigation."

"Wrong house, then?" the driver asked.

"Yes, Mr Track, it is the wrong house. Thank you for pointing that out," Tick replied with the slightest trace of indignation in his voice. "However, neither the operation itself nor its time schedule is imperilled by our small spatial deviation. Mr Track, start your engine!"

~

What sense! That bastard! Her aim might already be compromised by having enjoyed the part of the whine not dripping from the wall, but if he pushed her further, she would have another try, this time with the bottle!

He closed in, veins visible on his forehead.

"I don't have to answer to you in my house. And I don't put up with having stuff tossed at me!"

"Your house?!" snapped Riona, circling the island so she could spit her scorn right into his face. "That's one interesting formulation." She gave it an odd intonation as she went up with her voice at the end of the sentence. One of her most favourite mannerisms. Made it sound almost like a question. Yet it wasn't one. It was a challenge. "Am I mistaken that both of us are registered as owners? And let's not forget," she turned the knife, "that I bring a wee bit more bacon home."

"You utter bitch," he growled.

Riona slapped him in the face. He grunted and grabbed her arm whilst his other hand fished for something in the pocket of his jacket. Before she even had the chance to free herself from his grip, Riona felt a jolt discharging in her thigh. A split second later the shock raced up her leg and into her whole body. The leg gave way, and she slumped to the tiled floor

~

Alistair was quite surprised at the effect. His wife's body had turned rigid, only to collapse a moment later. Just two small burn marks were visible on the expensive silk where he had pressed the stun gun against her left thigh. He put the shock device on the counter and produced the heavy-duty zip ties from his waistband.

"80,000 volts, in case you are wondering."

Riona started to regain control again and was about to struggled to her feet, so he tackled her back to the ground.

"You are fucking dead, you wanker!"

"Language, woman!"

They rolled about on the floor, and Alistair reckoned he should have shocked her longer. Two times she managed to knee him, with the first attack catching him in the stomach. Luckily for him, her leg was still weak from the jolt. Riona's good leg, though, had no lack of strength as it was driven into his reproduction organs. He emitted a choked moan as nauseating pain waved over him, and she tried to reach the drawer with the kitchen knives. Fighting the urge to be sick, Alistair threw all his weight on her, bringing her back to the floor, face down.

"Get off me!"

He put his knee in the small of her back and twisted her arm.

"Ouw! Let go!"

"Stop struggling, bitch!"

"Fuck you!"

Alistair twisted harder, and she groaned through gritted teeth. Oh, how good that felt! He twisted a little further, just for good measures.

"You're breaking my arm!"

Of course she exaggerated, like she always did when it came to criticising his actions. He wasn't breaking her arm. He was dislocating it. Besides, she was quite flexible from doing yoga and stuff. The first loop of zip ties went over her trapped wrist, yet it took some more pain compliance to make her surrender her other hand. She had always been a toughie, Alistair had to give her that. He hauled the cursing woman up and threw her onto the nearest chair. Soon more zip ties restrained her to it, arms forced strenuously around the back rest, bare ankles tethered to its rear legs.

Alistair fetched his bag from the hallway, not without helping himself to another gulp of whisky. Just to take the edge off the pain still pulsating through his groin. He put the bag on the kitchen counter and got rid of his jacket, all the time closely observed by Riona. She had quit swearing at him when he had reached for his glass. Now he brought it from the table as well, together with the rapidly draining bottle.

"Want one, too? You'll be needing it."

She only gave him an icy glance. Alistair shrugged his shoulders and began to empty his bag. Next to the stun gun on the island he laid out a box cutter, a pair of combination pliers and some steel shashlik skewers. From the corners of his eyes he kept watching his wife. The icy glance was still there, yet for some reason she seemed to become a wee bit uneasy on her chair. He made a show of inspecting every single item. For dramatic effect Alistair even switched on the gas cooktop as well, the little blue flame coming to life with a gentle pop. He remembered how she used to taunt him about not knowing how to get anything working in the kitchen. No taunting now, actually no comment at all. How scarce.

"Ah, c'mon, Ro, aren't you the tiniest bit curious?"

Alistair realised that he had called her by her nickname for the first time in months. To be honest, he had had his doubts if and how he could dispatch her. But now a freeing light-heartedness was enclosing him. The single malt was clearly giving him a boost.

"I see, you don't want to play along, but I give you the tour anyway: Burglars break into our home and overpower you. You, of course, decide to be uncooperative, and things turn ugly. They torture you for the PIN codes and such. And since we all know how stubborn you can be, they end up giving you the Third Degree -- literally."

"You haven't got the balls for that!" spat Riona.

"Speaking of which: For kneeing me in the tenders you get an extra half an hour of playtime."

Her expression had changed during his report, alas more towards scunner than fear. Not that this could spoil his big moment.

"Finally, the bastards kill you -- leaving a mourning husband behind."

"That plan is moronic, even for an imbecile like you," she stated. "Is that one of your sick toss-off phantasies?"

"Find comfort in the fact that I'm going to share some of your pains, just to make it look real. You will be outraged to hear that these criminals also shock me with the stun gun, which cause me to fall and suffer a concussion. Eventually I regain consciousness, only to find your dead and destroyed body."

~

He was bluffing, so much was for sure. All that hard talk was coming from a bloke who could not bear the sight of a single drop of blood. Last year, when she had got a nasty laceration from her trekking gear avalanching down its rack in the garage, he had driven her to the hospital. By the time they had arrived, Alistair had looked paler than she had herself. And even if it weren't a bluff, he would be finished soon anyway, given the amount of whisky he had consumed -- and what she had mixed into it. Right on cue, Alistair paused in his move and steadied himself on the counter edge.

"What's up, honey? Feeling a bit lightheaded?" she snarled, voice thick with cold mockery. "Maybe something you drank?"

He scoffed and raised his glass.

"Slàinte mhath!"

"Caw canny with that stuff," she advised, knowing very well it would only encourage him to drink more.

"Don't you worry; the bottle will do for tonight. But once you are all sliced and diced, I'll get myself properly shitfaced."

He set the empty glass down and pulled the final item from his bag. A big red rubber ball with a leather strap running through it. Although never having seen a ball gag before in real life (she didn't do kinky), Riona had a basic concept of its purpose. That Alistair had tied her up was annoying enough, but there was no way she would take that perv-toy into her mouth!

~

Alistair could not tell how many times he had suffered verbal vivisection by his wife. Tonight, however, her sharp tongue would receive a taming. The classic BDSM gag was surely the highlight of his little "snuff kit". Sporting an almost iconic design, the likes of it were present even in today's pop culture. It elicited a stronger reaction from Riona than all his makeshift torture instruments together. Some time ago, still in their better days, he had carefully brought up the topic of non-vanilla lovemaking, but the sole notion had got him two weeks of sex denial.

"Say 'Aah'..."

It was of little surprise that Riona pressed her lips together and turned her head one way or the other every time the silencing device approached her face. Catching her chin with the hand that was also holding the ball gag, he pinched her nose shut with the fingers of the other one. She held her breath whilst stabbing him with her eyes, then made hissing sounds when she sucked in air through between her tightly clenched teeth.