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Happy Endings.... (Part 2)

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    You wake to the surface of unfamiliar sheets, and bolt upright to begin taking stock of your situation. You are in a room on the edge of a surprisingly comfortable bed. And your mind immediately heads on a tangent of admiration and envy for its owner as you think of the uncomfortable piece of shit you routinely loose sleep on at your place. But *** always being tight, this kind of poverty has become an accepted lifestyle you sigh, as you search the room. Its actually quite a cozy space, a dresser with a television next to desk covered in paperwork line the wall across the room. A window with a few small plants on a small bookshelf and a old school radiator on the wall to your left. An oval shaped throw rug made of mostly warm browns and reds occupies the battered hard wood floor. You catch yourself admiring the warmth of the room and turn attention to yourself.
    Your wrists are bound in front of you with two thick plastic zip ties and 2 crossing the bands making them cleverly into cuffs. Getting out of these will be hard even if you manage to get hold of something sharp enough to cut or chew through them. You feel the soft sheets on your exposed feet and legs sinking into the bed. As your attention is drawn downward you barely feel the black cotton thong you are wearing hugging your thighs, running between your exposed ass cheeks. The sense of vulnerability compels you to shrink into the soft over sized flannel shirt you are wearing. Your exposed thighs and chest combined with the restraints on your wrists sends your mind into a survival decision. Nothing, absolutely nothing about this situation ends well for you.
    No one knows you are up yet, you have to seize the element of surprise now because this will most likely be your only chance for escape. Things could be worse you think to yourself. I could have woken up in the back of a truck or trunk of a car, on its way to the site where I will be creatively ***d then ***ed, or god knows fucking what. The door is open and you see what looks like a kitchen connected to a hallway the  room you are in is connected to. On impulse you bolt  through the door figuring you can find some tool to free your hands and defend yourself in the kitchen, and then maybe escape out the back door since all these old apartments seem to have the same sort of layout.
    Your brilliant plan falls apart as your right leg comes out from under you and your forward momentum sends you crashing into the floor. The jig is up as you notice the heavy chain padlocked to your ankle, how the fuck did I miss that you wonder as the *** and adrenaline clouds your senses. Before you realize it the plump intimidating Asian massage parlor manager is over you smirking holding something in her hand at you with a purpose. And you fade again wondering what psycho is out there selling 1.21 jigawatt tazers, as you start to see stars.
    You wake up on the bed again and scurry to the corner of the room where the bed meets the walls, and pull your knees to your chest. She seems to barely notice you as she works at her desk on the opposite side of the room. Your gaze shifts between staring at the plants in front of the window directly across from you, to her momentary rap tap tapping on the keys of her calculator and scribbling in spreadsheets. The chain jingles as you rub and explore your sore ankle, you must have tweaked it really bad as you feel the swell of what must be a mild sprain. You run your fingers across the heavy thick galvanized chain and the Masterlock on your ankle. 
    You think about maybe screaming for help and remember the tazer and realize that it would do you no good and behaving is the best course of action for now. Getting out of these restraints is a truly hopeless situation and you don't want to jeopardize the little bit of freedom and opportunities you do have. For what feels like an eternity you just sit in the corner like a wounded ***, staring at her work and staring at the plants by the window.
    You start to think how long it will take for anyone to notice you're missing, and realize just how unlikely anyone is going to go searching for you. And your heart sinks when you realize that she knows this as well because you volunteered that information before your capture. You oscillate between the stages of denial and bargaining in your head searching for a way out of this situation, really getting nowhere when you hear her scoot her chair away from the desk and leave the room.
    You sit knees to your chest meekly fixated on what little you can see of the kitchen through the door. Glimpses of her movement, the sound of her filling a pot or something and turning on the stove. In a few moments you see her come back through the door with a steaming cup of tea, a bottle of water and a jar. She holds the bottle of water out at you in your direction but out of reach, gesturing at you to take it. You lock eyes with her suspiciously, as she give what you take as a warm smile of amusement. And you cautiously crawl across the bed and take the bottle before retreating back to your little corner wincing in ***. You really did do a number on your ankle, you are pretty sure you couldn't run away on it even if you did manage to get yourself free at this point. You truly are a wounded *** you think in bemusement.
    You also realize how parched you are and start gulping down the bottle of water. At this she seems satisfied and you feel her presence as she sits herself down on the bed as you stare at her in curious terror from your edge. She points to your ankle and commands “Give me your leg.” Which you meekly start offer and she drags your ass closer to her, the strength this woman possess  in her small frame frightens you. She starts inspecting and poking your wound and you wince and whimper, as she complains in a foreign language before switching to English calling you “pretty..... but stupid” and rubs your ankle in ointment from the jar. You feel a cooling numbness counter the burning and stinging radiating from your wound.
    She closes the door and puts a pillow at the end of her thigh and tells you “Come” and you dare not defy her. You slowly crawl and scoot to the best you can in spite of your bound wrists and ankle that only seems to be aching worse as the time passes. Your exposed torso on her lap and head on the pillow. You try to bury yourself in the flannel shirt and cross your legs hiding the mound of your penis, even if it means you are ***d into presenting your ass and thigh to her. And you feel her hand explore the region investigating where she stung you with the tazer. Satisfied she happily assures you, “see, you gonna be okay”, reaches for the television remote and you spend the next few hours watching horrible soap operas in a language you dont understand as she runs her hands across your body petting and playing with you. Pleasant sensations become juxtaposed with confusion and your struggling to wrap your mind around and accept the trauma of the day. You think you hear other voices in the house on the other side of the door, but cant resist drifting to sleep in exhaustion.

Edited by Deleted Member
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