THE LIBRARY: Trying Out Part 28

trying28TRYING OUT Part Twenty-Eight {CONTINUED FROM HERE}
{This story originally appeared on BDSMARTWORK and features some amazing art by Steve. We thank them for letting us share it with you here}

There was only the sound of frantic thrashing … but no screams. Just gasps, grunts, and groans. Then there was a sharp and sudden thunk.

And after that, nothing … nothing save for the wheeze of deep, heavy breathing.

The deliveryman starred at the motel’s front office through the grimy window of their room. The deskman sat there, watching TV.

“Well,” said Swanson. “What’re you waiting for?”

He looked back at his partner in crime with annoyance. “And what am I supposed to say? ‘Seen my daughter go by?’”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what you’re supposed to say.”

“And what if he thinks calling the cops is a good idea?”

“He had to have helped her,” she muttered.

“So?” he retorted. “He sure had a pass key, and maybe he even had a handcuff key. The question is, what are we going to do about it?” The teacher looked at the deliveryman with growing understanding. “That’s right, you got it. What’ll you do, hold him down while I work him over? Yeah, right.” He looked back at the motel office.

“Overpowering sexy little bitches, is no problem.

Anyone else…?” He shook his head in self-loathing.

“So, what do we do?” she wondered.

“The way I figure it,” he answered, “we got two choices, but only one answer. One, we go in there and beat the crap out of him. If he has her, we take her and run. If he doesn’t, we run. Two, we do a quick search for her. If we find her, we take her and run.

If we don’t, she may have reached the cops, and we’ll have to make a run for it anyway. Hell, they might already be on the way. So what’s the common denominator in our choices?”

The two headed for the unmarked delivery van. “You know we may have to go underground for awhile,” she said.

He snorted while opening the driver’s door. “Tell me about it. But I’ll tell you one thing in return.” He stared at her, his eyes blazing with projected loathing and impotent frustration. “We won’t be going alone.”
"They’re gone,” the deskman said.

Claire looked up at him with blazing hatred and agony. He had slammed her against the desk, knocking the wind out of her. Then his hand was in her hair and pushing down. Her forehead hit the desktop and then she didn’t know anything until she woke up who-knows-how-long later.

By now, she was frozen by the new extremity of her situation. Unlike her evil teacher and the deliveryman, the motel deskman seemingly knew nothing about binding and gagging someone … so he apparently overcompensated.

Her mouth was stuffed, her lips taped, her lower face bandaged, and then an elastic cloth was tied tightly from the bottom of her eyes to beneath her chin … making it even more difficult to breathe.

Ropes and straps were everywhere: over each arm, over both arms, across her chest, between her shoulders, around her waist, across her torso, between her legs, around her ankles, around her shins, around her thighs, everywhere – all ridiculously tight. She felt as if her body and head were in a skintight tarp, which was also in her mouth. She moaned softly and writhed weakly on the floor at his feet.

“They left about ten minutes ago,” he informed her, licking his lips. “After I changed your clothes.”

She tried to look down at herself. Her smooth, soft, skin was everywhere in her vision.

Only a small swash of tight white was barely containing her bulging breasts, while a tartan, pleated, glorified belt hung onto her shapely hips.


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