Powered by fear, the girl wriggled through the opening, making a stupendous sight that no one ever saw: a beautiful, buxom little girl -- her ankles and wrists bound, her full mouth sealed with a tight, shining, bulging band of dull silver, wearing only high heel boots, a microminiskirt, a latex, nearly nonexistent bra, and opera gloves -- emerging from a hole in the motel’s back wall like a sexy, skinned snake.
She only took a second to get her bearings, then continued to roll away from the enflamed motel -- over the bumpy, crab-grassed yard toward a cove of trees. Again her instincts took over. Her mind registered the sound of running water, and she propelled herself toward it.
Over the small lip of an incline she went, and then gravity spun her down into a narrow, shallow brook just out of sight of the parking lot’s furthest corner. Only then did full awareness return to her. Claire sat up, her ankles, wrists, and rear under water. She heard the flames and saw the smoke, then concentrated on scissoring her arms and legs as fast and as hard as she could – visions of the deskman charging her overwhelming the sensations of the running water coursing through her ass crack and against her crotch.
Within seconds, her arms were free. Just a few moments later, her shapely left leg sprung away from her right, despite the now sodden high heels boots. Claire Holden’s hands sprang up toward her mouth like attacking cobras. She started scrambling to her feet before her fingers even managed to get under the adhesive. It was horrible. The construction tape had been forcefully wrapped around her head, deep into her cheeks, from her nostrils to her chin.
She stood there, hunched down, clawing at her lower face, the water coursing around the high heels -- her exposed legs, stomach, and cleavage gleaming.
Enraged, she scrambled up the incline to see the flames engulfing the motel. Then, like a deer, her head raised and turned toward the sound of sirens. Firemen were coming. Maybe the police too.
Claire spun in every direction, straining to see anything that might stop her. There was nothing, no one. Grabbing the top of the bulge still face-hugging her mouth, the beautiful brunette stumbled toward the street behind the motel conflagration. Just as she reached the corner of the structure, she saw the first fire truck turning into the far driveway.
“Here!” she cried into the shammy still filling her mouth, using one arm to wave wildly. “Over here!” She lowered her head and charged in the direction of her saviours as fast as her weakened limbs would let her. “Help me, help me, over here!”
The fire truck pulled up and the firemen poured out -- each intent on their job. She saw them, but they didn’t see her, not yet, in the waning afternoon light amid the foliage. So she kept moving forward, kept yanking at the second skin tape.
TO BE CONTINUED