“Oh no,” cried Dorothy Swanson, running over to kneel by Claire’s head. “Did I upset you, dear?” She took Claire’s face in her hands, forcing the girl to look back up at her. “Did I make sweet little snookums cry?” The Holden girl’s eyes fluttered as she tried to keep, or lose, her sanity.
“That’s the least of it, bitch,” the woman promised. “I don’t like girls who act like you, all sweetness and light. You look like a sex doll, so that’s just what you’re gonna be. You’re ours now, body, face, and soul, and we’re gonna keep you nice and safe.” Claire was crying in earnest as the woman kneed the man lightly in the shoulder. “You almost done?”
“Give me a minute,” he grunted. “Shit, I already screwed her three times today!”
“Good boy,” Ms. Swanson commended. She squeezed Claire’s face. “Now, that’ll teach you, baby.” Then she rocked back and watched as he curled his arms under the girl’s shoulders, sunk his fingers into the grooves made by her collar bones, and started humping her like a rabid dog.
Claire’s grunts and groans were like music to her insane teacher’s ears, as was her muffled howl when he spurted.
Claire was crying when he crawled off her, but the tears were choked off when he started untying her wrists. Ms. Swanson was already pulling clothes and shoes out of the shopping bags as the deliveryman finished freeing Claire’s lower arms and started working on the head-muzzle. Claire blinked, in stunned surprise, as he sat her up before managing to remove the intersecting, concentric bands – each leaving a mark on her lower face, jaw, chin, and across her hair.
The deliveryman left her sitting on the floor -- elbows still cinched, mouth still stuffed, lips still taped -- and went over to look at the growing pile of nylon, lycra, spandex, polyester, vinyl, cotton, lace, latex, and leather.
Claire slowly, carefully, tested her muscles. She could make out her hands somewhere off to the side, weakly waving like a newborn tyrannosaurus rex. She looked back up to see the two watching her expectantly: the teacher from the east chair and the deliveryman from the couch.
“Well, dear?” Ms. Swanson asked. “Don’t you want to go?” Claire’s eyes widened.
“I’m sure you can do it, dear,” the teacher continued. “You’re young and resilient. I bet you can get your fingers around, tear that tape off and get off one good shout for help before we could stop you. You certainly can run faster than us, can’t you?”
Claire stared in disbelief at the woman before turning her attention to the man, who, for his part, shrugged and made a dismissive sound. “Four times?” he said. “That’s nothing. Bet it hasn’t made a dent in your strength. I’m sure you could go all night.” He waved it all away as if it were nothing, ending his motion with his forefinger pointing at the front of the house. “There’s the door,” he said.
Claire wanted to cry, but fought the nearly overwhelming sensation. She wanted to scream, but still couldn’t. Not with the tape and the thing filling her mouth.
Fighting anguish, she slowly, carefully got her feet under her. Still watching them, she stood smoothly up.
TO BE CONTINUED