You never know what you’re gonna find when you go trolling through your “Drafts” folder…I found this gem, from 2 years ago. It’s not finished … yet. But I was in the mood for a hot fucking story…and maybe you are, too? ~nilla~
(This never gets old… ~n~)
She splashed through ankle deep water for three steps before it fully registered that she was splashing through water.
In her kitchen.
In the dark pre-dawn hours, she struggled to bring her mind around to what the fuck was going on. No coffee. No light. No dry floor. Backtracking, she stepped once. Twice. Shivered hard, then stepped onto the living room carpet. Sodden carpet. Turning, she stepped forward until she found dryness underfoot. Snapping on the lamp next to the couch she winced, slapping her hands over her burning eyes.
“Goddam!” she yelped. “I’ve fucking blinded myself. Finally brave enough to peer through slatted fingers, she could clearly see a current in the kitchen. The sound of hissing came from the corner of the counter where the dishwasher lived. Cautiously she moved back into the splash zone.
“Oh fuck. Goddam it to fucking hell and fucking back!”
Blue tiles floated or lay skewed on the bottom of the pond that had been her kitchen floor when she’d gone to bed last night. Now it resembled Lake Holyfuck. Stupefied, she stared at the mess. How the hell did one even begin to cope with this? she wondered. She wished she was not alone having to deal with this. That she’d married and had three kids and a dog and maybe a hamster. Then she could share the load of shock and awe and horror with someone. But no, this was all hers.
She made her way to the cellar door, but couldn’t open it. Too much water against it or maybe too swollen from it. Who knew. It was time to call for help.
A quick trolling of the online yellow pages located three plumbers in her area–she called them all. Leaving urgent pleas for help on each machine didn’t resolve this current issue.
“Looks like we’re not going to work today, boys and girls,” she muttered. Splashing into the thick of things she took a pan from the wall and started bailing. Ten minutes into frantic scooping and her phone startled her with the crescendo from the 1812 Overature. Grabbing it up, she very nearly dropped it, but caught it in slippery hands.
“You’ve got a problem, sounds pretty epic.”
“You have no idea,” she said, hating the edgy panic in her tone.
He asked for her address, and promised he’d be there in 20 minutes. Skeptically, she hung up the phone and started bailing again. Sure he’d be here in twenty minutes. No one ever came when they said they would. She was twelve minutes into bailing when she heard the unmistakable sound of a truck in her driveway. Knocking came seconds later at her front door. Good thing, too. If he’d come to the back door he might have been swept away from the current of water that would race out, like in some cartoon she’d seen once.
“Hi. I’m Kevin.”
“No. No, you’re an angel from god. My savior. My hero.”
He bent to lift a battered red box, a motherfucking huge box from the porch floor, then followed her inside.
“Well, whoa. You certainly have a problem.”
“Well there’s an understatement,” she said dryly. “Sorry. I haven’t had my coffee even.”
“Best to not use any electric in here for now. We have no idea what got wet…this is a lot of water. Be right back.”
Sooner than she would have thought possible, the water level began to lower. He’d set up a pump thingy, then showed her how to vacuum up the puddles. Once the floor was clearer, he disappeared under the sink. She had a really great view of his ass, just a hint of crack, as he worked under there. There was a soft curse, then a louder ‘motherfucker!’ and then, silence.
The hissing had stopped.
He eased out from under the sink.
“Got that little bugger.”
“I thought you called it a mother fucker.”
He smiled. With his whole face, he smiled, but his eyes just mesmerized. She didn’t want to stare, but damn she was staring. She looked away, looked down, feeling the heat of a blush rising. Dang it! He was really fucking se…wait…what?
With a blink she stared into the toolbox. There was no mistaking the bright red ballgag in one of the compartments, nor the black eye mask. She cleared her throat.
“So…uhm…that thingy watchadoo…you turned it off. Can you fix it?”
“Nope. Your dishwasher basically crapped out.”
She looked at him, and knew, she just knew that he had seen her looking at the sex toys. The look he gave her was challenging.
“So…you don’t fix dishwashers.”
“Nope. Just the plumbing. And other things. Naughty little girls.”
His hand was in her hair, tugging her head back. She yelped, then gasped as his big hand circled her throat. He looked down at her, his eyes boring into hers. Somewhere she’d lost the power of speech, of fight. Maybe it was his fingers woven through her long, bed-tangled locks, or maybe it was fear, or maybe it was something else. Something dark, with a longing that tore at her civilized manners, a beast seeking freedom.
“Hush. You’re really in no position to ask anything now.”
He bent quickly, scooping up the ball gag. His tersely spoken ‘open’ was quickly obeyed. There was that look in his eyes again. It said ‘danger’…and something else she wasn’t certain of yet.
The blindfold slid over her eyes moments after he’d fastened the gag tightly. A push between her shoulder blades made her stumble forward. Another push, another stumble. Disoriented, she had absolutely no idea which direction she was headed, until her knees hit the bed and she fell forward.
“Don’t fucking move.”
There were sounds behind her. Drawers opened, then closed. He was searching for something. Then quiet until his hand slapped at her ass.
“Up, on your back.”
She didn’t move, feeling defiant. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the sharp slap of what was unmistakably a belt upon her bottom made her yelp. She would have moved then, would have leapt upon the bed, but his hand clamped hard on the back of her neck, holding her down as he other hand slapped her ass, her thighs. The light cotton of her pajama bottoms did nothing to alleviate the burning sting. Her ass was hot, her mouth squealing around the gag with every blow. She didn’t want to cry, but couldn’t stop; the pain was too much, too hard to bear.
“The next time I tell you to move, you move.”
She nodded fiercely, yes, even though his fingernail scraped the back of her neck with each jerky nod. He all but tossed her up on the bed then, flipping her roughly onto her back. Her ass screamed at the movement. She felt fingers on her skin, the brush of air on her thighs as he removed her bottoms. There was a moment when she thought one more time of trying to flee, but the fear of what would happen when he caught her–and she had no doubt that he would catch her–was greater than her confidence that she could escape. Her camisole was ripped in half. It was both thrilling and terrifying. Hands clamped on her tits, squeezing hard, pinching her nipples, then slapping them.
A quick whoosh of sound, of air, and the sharp stinging slap as he used the belt on her left tit drew another muffled scream from behind the gag. She tried to clamp her legs together but his fingers pressed against her slit.
“You’re a fucking noisy thing. Not that I mind. I like the sounds…sexy, hot, makes me want to hurt you more. And your cunt is wet. Your mouth may be protesting, but your pussy is slick and begging for attention.”
Shaking her head no did no good. His fingers twisted and twined their way inside her, violated the empty space, filling her.
“You are fucking sopping wet–as wet as your kitchen floor. Whore. Dirty little whore, needs a good reaming by her plumber. Lucky for you I brought a big plunger with me.”
He moved away, but his hands were quick and firm, lifting her leg, grabbing her wrist, tying her with…her own fucking pantyhose. The way she must look, wrists tied to knees, knees held apart somehow, leaving her deepest secret places exposed and open for him. She should be fucking terrified. She was terrified. But neither could she deny that there was an element of dark turn-on here, too.