Home invasion (MMM/FF)

[tiedgirlie]

The Parisian night clung to the windows of the villa like black velvet, the only light coming from the single security lamp casting long shadows across the manicured lawn. Inside, the silence was a fragile thing, soon to be shattered.

Isabelle Laurent, at forty-six, moved through her living room with the quiet grace of a woman who owned every beautiful inch of it. She adjusted a perfectly straight orchid on the mantelpiece, her silk robe whispering against her skin. Upstairs, her daughter, Chloé, sixteen and all sharp angles and budding defiance, was likely scrolling through her phone, the blue glow a tiny rebellion against the encompassing dark.

The first sign was not a sound, but a draft. A subtle shift in the air that made the fine hairs on Isabelle’s arms stand up. She turned, her brow furrowed, just as three figures materialized from the shadows of the archway leading to the foyer. They moved with a liquid, predatory silence, their faces obscured by sleek black balaclavas that swallowed the light.

There was no scream. The lead intruder, tall and moving with an unnerving economy of motion, was on her before the breath could fully leave her lungs. A gloved hand clamped over her mouth, another snaking around her waist, pulling her back against a hard, unyielding chest.

“Bonsoir, madame,” a voice, low and laced with a terrible, playful charm, murmured in her ear. “We’re here for the tour. We’ve heard so much about your… collection.”

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Chloé, curious about the sudden silence below, had come to her door. It was her undoing. The second intruder, shorter but built like a wrestler, took the stairs two at a time. Chloé’s short, sharp cry was cut off into a muffled gurgle.

They were herded back into the living room, a brutal, efficient ballet. Rough hands forced them face-down onto the thick, cream-colored wool rug. The fibers scratched against Isabelle’s cheek, smelling of expensive vacuuming and now, the faint, metallic scent of her own fear. Zip-ties were produced, the plastic teeth clicking with finality as they bit into the delicate skin of their wrists, yanked tight behind their backs. Then came the gags, thick wads of cloth that tasted of dust and strangers, secured so tightly the corners of their mouths strained. Finally, the blindfolds, black silk scarves that felt absurdly luxurious for the terror they induced, plunging their world into utter darkness.

The loss of sight amplified every other sense. Isabelle could hear Chloé’s frantic, nasal breathing beside her, could feel the vibration of her daughter’s trembling body through the floor. She could hear the intruders moving around them, their footsteps soft on the parquet.

“Now,” said the first voice, the one who seemed to be in charge. Isabelle felt a hand fist in her hair, not painfully, but with absolute authority. “The safe, madame. Let’s not make this tedious.”

She was hauled to her feet, her balance precarious with her hands bound. He guided her, a firm pressure on her shoulder, through the rooms she knew by heart. To the study, to the false panel behind the bookshelf filled with leather-bound first editions she never read. Her fingers, clumsy and trembling, were guided to the keypad. The leader’s breath was warm against her ear.

“Allez, allez,” he coaxed, a teacher with a slow student. “The code. Your daughter’s birthday, isn’t it? Such a sentimental choice. So predictable.”

A cold dread, separate from the fear of violence, seeped into her. They knew. They had been watching. With a final, shuddering breath against the gag, she typed the numbers. A soft beep, a hydraulic hiss, and the door swung open. The interior glimmered with the cold fire of her jewelry, the dull green of cash bundles, the important-looking black of document cases.

“Très bien,” the leader purred. He didn’t immediately loot it. Instead, he produced a knife. The sound of the blade snapping open was the loudest thing Isabelle had ever heard. She flinched, bracing for the cut, but he merely sliced through the zip-ties on her wrists. Before she could process the relief, he pulled her arms in front of her and secured them again, even tighter. “Can’t have you getting ideas back there.”

He marched her back to the living room and pushed her down onto her knees near the bottom of the grand, curving staircase. A new zip-tie was looped through the one on her wrists and then around the cold, wrought-iron baluster of the railing, tethering her to the spot.

Chloé was next. She was pulled up and maneuvered onto one of the delicate Louis XV-style chairs. Isabelle heard the struggle, the muffled protests, the scrape of chair legs on the floor. Then more clicking, as her daughter’s ankles were tied to the chair’s legs and her restrained wrists were secured behind the chair’s spindled back.

Now they were set. Anchored in their nightmare.

For hours, the robbery unfolded. It was not a frantic grab-and-go. It was a leisurely, almost scholarly pillaging. They discussed her art, their voices echoing in the high ceiling.

“This Matisse is a print, non?” one asked, his tone dripping with theatrical disappointment. “For shame, madame. A woman of your taste.”

They emptied the safe, the contents making soft thuds as they were dropped into what sounded like duffel bags. They went through her drawers, commenting on her lingerie.

“Oh la la,” the third one, who had been mostly silent, chuckled, his voice younger. “Someone shops at Agent Provocateur. Bold choice for a PTA meeting, Isabelle. May I call you Isabelle?”

The interrogation was interspersed, casual and cruel.

“The code for the alarm system you so foolishly disarmed to let the cat in,” the leader said, his voice suddenly close to Isabelle’s blindfolded face. “We know you have a secondary code. The one for the police. What is it?”

When she remained silent, shaking her head, he sighed. “D'accord. We’ll try a different approach.”

Isabelle heard him move away from her, his footsteps crossing the rug toward Chloé. A new kind of terror, pure and maternal, seized her.

“Your daughter, she is very… tense,” the leader mused. “All that teenage angst. We should help her relax.”

A finger, light as a feather, traced a line up the sole of Chloé’s bare foot.

Chloé’s body jerked against her bindings. A stifled, high-pitched sound, half-protest, half-laugh, escaped the gag.

“Ah, elle est chatouilleuse!” the younger one exclaimed with glee. “She’s ticklish!”

And then it began in earnest. Not one, but multiple sets of hands descended upon Chloé. They scribbled their fingers over her ribs, dug them playfully into her slender waist, danced them up and down her sock-clad feet. Chloé bucked and writhed in the chair, the wood groaning in protest. Her muffled squeals and desperate, hitching breaths filled the room, a horrifying symphony of helpless laughter. Tears of humiliation and panic soaked the blindfold against her face.

“The code, Isabelle?” the leader asked calmly, returning to her side. “While your daughter enjoys her massage?”

Isabelle strained against her ties, the plastic digging into her wrists until she felt skin break. She shook her head, sobbing silently into her gag.

“Tant pis,” he said. “We have time.”

They switched their attention. The wrestler-built one knelt before Isabelle, his presence a wall of heat. His thick, strong fingers found the sensitive spot just beneath her arms. She, who had not been tickled in twenty years, was appalled by the violent, involuntary reaction that seized her body. She convulsed, trying to curl in on herself, but the railing held her fast. A series of choked, undignified grunts and snorts forced their way past the gag. It was a profound, soul-crushing violation, to be reduced to a squirming, laughing animal in her own home.

This was their pattern for what felt like an eternity. The sarcastic commentary on their lives, based on the documents and photos they found. The methodical packing of their valuables. The playful, degrading torture. A question would be asked. Silence would be met with tickling. A muffled refusal would be met with more intense, prolonged tickling, until both women were breathless, sweating, and utterly broken, their bodies aching from the strain and the uncontrollable spasms.

The leader finally crouched before Isabelle, the bag of their lives bulging at his feet. He reached out and gently, almost tenderly, adjusted the silk of her blindfold.

“You’ve been… formidable hosts,” he whispered, his voice a dark caress. “A truly memorable evening. Don’t bother seeing us out.”

The front door clicked shut.

The silence that rushed in to fill the space was heavier than before, polluted by the ghosts of their laughter and the scent of their fear. They were left in the dark, tied to the architecture of their opulent prison, listening to the fading sound of a car engine that carried away their world.

[Jenny_S]

Awesome!

[LunaDog]

As i'm sure that you know by now i much prefer the females to be performing the tying, the ones in charge. But the way this story is told is utterly magnificent.

[TightsBound]

Fantastic story! Very well written and descriptive. You had me hooked from the very beginning. Thanks for writing!