The Audition (M/F)

[ropeladygags]

THE AUDITION

“Cindy?”

A man in his mid-thirties stood behind the open door in front of me. Despite being at home, he was dressed professionally in a navy-blue business suit paired with a matching striped tie. His neatly slicked-back dark brown hair and thin-framed glasses made his bright blue eyes appear slightly larger than they actually were. His smile was warm and welcoming.

“This is she.” I responded with a playful smile. He waved me into his home and quickly shut out the cold of winter behind me.

As I stepped into the foyer, I was immediately struck by the quiet elegance of the space. The soft crackle of a fireplace drew my attention to the far wall, where flames danced behind a glass screen set within a pristine stone surround. The warmth of the fire filled the air, complemented by the faint scent of cedar.

The floors, gleaming with a polished sheen, reflected the glow of the firelight, their surface spotless and smooth beneath my feet. To the left, a pair of low, neutral-toned armchairs flanked a sleek console table adorned with a tasteful arrangement of fresh flowers and a small bronze sculpture. The furniture, though minimalist, exuded a sense of comfort and refinement, every piece seemingly placed with purpose.

Large, spotless windows lined the front wall, offering a glimpse of a well-manicured lawn outside, though the thick drapes—soft greys and taupes—framed them like artwork. Subtle neutral tones dominated the space, creating a serene and timeless palette that felt both welcoming and aspirational.

The entire foyer was a reflection of its owner: polished, poised, and undeniably successful. It was clear that every detail, from the soft rugs beneath the furniture to the neatly stacked logs by the fireplace, had been curated with care. This was a home where everything—and everyone—had its place.

“May I take your coat, Cindy?” The deep voice of my host snapped me back to the present. He faced me with his hands outstretched, ready to do the gentlemanly gesture. With a light shrug, the coat fell from my shoulders as I felt him pull it away from my body.

“Thank you,” I murmured, feeling the weight of the coat lifted from my shoulders.

As I turned to face him fully, he gave a quick, appraising glance, taking in my polished appearance. The hem of my tailored navy pencil skirt fell neatly to just above the knee, its sleek lines accentuating a professional, composed figure. My fitted blazer, the same shade of rich navy, complemented the crisp white blouse beneath it, the collar open just enough to hint at a touch of approachability without breaking decorum. My leather pumps, practical but elegant, clicked softly against the polished floor with each step.

My dark amber eyes, calm but keen, moved from him to the artfully arranged room beyond. Chestnut-brown hair, pinned neatly into a smooth low bun at the nape of my neck, was impervious to the chill I had just escaped. The faintest touch of makeup—just enough to define my cheekbones and darken my lashes—spoke to a preference for understated refinement over excess. Pearl earrings, small and unobtrusive, added a final touch of quiet elegance.

I shifted slightly, clasping my hands gently in front of me as a warm smile curved my lips, matching the steady composure I carried with me into every room I entered. This wasn’t the first time I’d stepped into a world of polished refinement, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

"Right this way." Michael’s polished shoes made a soft thud on the staircase as he led me toward the basement door. His hand rested lightly on the rail, guiding the descent into a dim, cooler space. The scent of unfinished pine and faint traces of fresh paint filled the air.

I followed him down the narrow steps, noting how the basement split into two distinct halves. The side to the right appeared finished—a cozy retreat with a worn leather couch, a mounted flat-screen TV, and neatly organized bookshelves. A warm area rug anchored the space, lending it a homey charm.

The left side, however, was decidedly more utilitarian. Bare concrete walls stood stark and grey, and the floor beneath my feet was smooth, cold cement. Exposed beams crisscrossed the ceiling, their surfaces littered with stray cobwebs clinging to nails and wires. In the center of this workspace, a single wooden chair stood beneath the glow of an overhead lamp.

Directly in front of the chair, a video camera sat atop a sturdy tripod, its lens pointed expectantly. Behind the camera loomed a computer setup—a sleek, black tower humming quietly beside three large monitors arranged in a precise arc. Each screen displayed something different. One held a Zoom link, its window full of empty squares, except for a prominent one labeled "Casting Director: Adam James." Another showed a lively chatroom filled with usernames exchanging comments, punctuated by emojis and bursts of exclamation marks. The third screen displayed a digital script—bold words waiting to be brought to life.

Michael gestured toward the chair as I took in the rest of the space. A four-tiered metal shelf lined the adjacent wall. Plastic storage bins filled each level, some labeled neatly in black marker with words like "Props," "Costume Accessories," and "Lighting Equipment." Others were blank, their contents a mystery. The entire scene felt oddly sterile—half make-shift studio, half unfinished project.

"Here we are," he said, turning with a smile. "It’s a bit of a work in progress, but it gets the job done. Go ahead and have a seat."

I moved cautiously toward the chair, the echo of my heels bouncing off the concrete. “A damsel in distress, right?” I asked with a raised eyebrow as I lowered myself into the chair.
He chuckled, brushing a hand across the back of his neck. "Yeah. Classic stuff. You’re perfect for it—great presence, perfect look. Just follow the script’s flow, and don’t worry about getting every word exact. We’re looking for emotion. Raw fear. Think captured, helpless, but defiant."

The script flickered on the monitor before me. My eyes scanned the lines:
'Please... you don’t have to do this...' Her voice trembled. She fought the ropes biting into her wrists, her breath ragged. 'Someone will come for me.'
I looked back at Michael, his eyes shining with anticipation. The unfinished walls seemed to close in ever so slightly, the rawness of the scene almost too real. I swallowed, the corners of my mouth curling into a half-smile.

Michael adjusted the camera lens with a precise turn, then checked the framing on the monitor. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who had done this before—many times, perhaps.

He glanced back at me with a smile, the overhead light casting sharp shadows across his cheekbones. “So, just so you know,” he began, his voice calm and professional, “we’ve got a few people watching on the Zoom link. Nothing to worry about—no pressure.”

I arched an eyebrow, folding my hands in my lap as I sat straighter in the chair. “Who exactly is watching?”

“The producers,” he said with a slight wave toward the screen. “Adam James, who you saw listed, is the casting director. He’ll give feedback after each take. There’s also the director, Robert Timmons. He has a thing for realism, so don’t be surprised if he pushes for some extra grit. And a couple of assistant producers are logged in too. Mostly silent observers.” He grinned, adding, “Think of them as shadows in the back row of a theater—there, but out of sight.”

I nodded, my gaze flicking to the small gallery of muted faces in Zoom squares. Only one square had its camera on: a well-dressed man with graying hair and a sharp expression. He scribbled something in a notebook, barely glancing up.

Michael continued, “We’ll do a few different takes. I’ll call out some direction between shots—changes in tone, pacing, that kind of thing. First, I want to see how you handle the scene naturally. Just go with your instincts.”

I exhaled, steadying myself. The atmosphere felt heavier now, more purposeful. “Got it,” I replied, my voice calm despite the knot tightening in my stomach.
Michael gave an encouraging nod. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I took a slow breath, letting it fill my lungs before I released it in a shudder. Closing my eyes briefly, I summoned the fear that lived just beneath my skin, the kind that crept into your bones when you were truly helpless. When I opened them again, I was no longer in Michael’s basement. My breath came in shallow gasps, my gaze darting toward the unseen menace.

“Please... don’t do this,” I whispered, my voice trembling. My hands gripped the sides of the chair as if bracing for an unseen blow. Tears welled in my eyes as my mouth quivered with barely restrained panic. “I’ll do whatever you want, just—just don’t hurt me.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. The room seemed to hold its breath.
Michael, leaning against the camera tripod, watched intently. He didn’t speak right away. A smile ghosted across his lips—not amused, but satisfied. He nodded.

"That was excellent," he said quietly. “Real fear. Honest.” He turned to the keyboard beside the camera and typed a quick message into the chat box on the middle monitor. The tapping of his fingers filled the silence as I tried to calm my breathing.

He pressed Enter.

I glanced at the screen. Names I barely recognized populated the chat: Adam James (Casting Director), Robert Timmons (Director), and Elaine Rivers (Producer). A simple message appeared under Michael’s name: Thoughts? Feedback?

A moment passed. Then another.

Finally, a response popped up in bold letters from Elaine Rivers:
Push it further. Make it more real. Less polished, more visceral. We want to feel the terror.

Michael’s eyes flicked over the words, his expression unchanged. He turned to me, a hint of apology in his gaze. “They want more. More raw. Don’t think—just react. Let it feel messy, like it’s all falling apart. Can you do that?”

I swallowed hard and nodded, my pulse racing. I clenched my fists, readying myself for another plunge into the darkness.

I closed my eyes, taking another deep breath as I prepared for the next take. The echo of Elaine’s critique rang in my head: More visceral. Less polished. The tremble in my hands wasn’t part of the performance this time—it was real. Fear was easy to imagine, but dragging raw terror into the open was something else entirely.

I let the breath catch in my throat, my chest heaving as I whimpered again. “No, please—” My voice broke, ragged and desperate. “You don’t have to do this, I swear I won’t tell anyone—” I kicked back in the chair, thrashing as if the threat was looming right in front of me.

Michael didn’t flinch, his eyes following my movements with a calm, professional detachment. When I collapsed back into the seat, breathless and trembling, he didn’t speak. Instead, he turned back to the keyboard, his fingers dancing across the keys as he typed a new message into the chat.
The response was almost immediate this time.

Elaine Rivers: Still not raw enough. Too controlled. We need her to feel the panic in her body. Consider stimulus. Make her feel restrained.
I watched Michael read the comment, his face impassive as his jaw tightened slightly. He glanced at me, then back to the chat.

“I think they’re suggesting…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. His tone was careful but not hesitant. “They think it might help if we add a physical element. Something tactile. Restraints—not real, just enough to feel it. For authenticity.”

I blinked, heart pounding faster now for entirely different reasons. “You mean tie me up?”
Michael nodded slowly, his eyes steady on mine. “Only for the scene. Just to help you connect with the role. We’ll agree on a signal, and I’ll release you immediately when the audition is done. You’ll be in control.”

My thoughts raced, but I could feel the pull of the challenge—how far was I willing to go?
“You’ll untie me right away?” I asked firmly, my voice low but clear.

“Absolutely,” he assured me. “This is just a tool. Nothing more. You’re safe here.”
I took a long breath, considering the cold, unfinished basement around me, the plastic bins on the shelves, and the flickering images on the computer screen.

“Okay,” I said, my voice steadying. “Let’s do it.”

Michael gave me a small, reassuring nod before he turned to the shelving unit behind him. He reached up to one of the unmarked plastic bins, pulling it down with ease. The lid came off with a soft snap, and I watched as he rummaged through its contents before drawing out a coil of rope. It was thicker than I expected, a natural tan color with a slightly rough texture.

I swallowed hard as he approached, holding the rope carefully, as if to show me it was just another prop. “You’re sure about this?” he asked one last time, his voice calm.
I nodded. “Yes.”

“Okay, then,” he said. He moved behind me, his fingers brushing my wrists lightly as he gathered them together. “Just remember the signal we agreed on. Tap twice with your foot if you need me to stop immediately.”

“Got it.” My voice was quieter now, my pulse quickening.

The first loop of rope was snug but comfortable as it circled my wrists. He worked efficiently, threading and knotting the rope with a skill that struck me as oddly practiced. On the third loop, I felt the binding tighten more than I had expected. It dug into my skin just enough to send a jolt of surprise through me.

I opened my mouth to speak but hesitated. I had agreed to this. I told myself it was all part of the performance, a way to tap into something deeper, something real. Still, my heartbeat thudded in my ears.

“There,” Michael said after securing the final knot. He gave the ropes a small tug to test their strength, and I felt my wrists firmly locked in place. “Too tight?”
“No,” I whispered, though the tension in the rope made my fingers tingle slightly. “It’s fine.”

He stepped back, his eyes scanning my expression as if to gauge my true feelings. Satisfied, he moved behind the camera again, adjusting the frame to capture me fully in the chair.
“All right,” he said, his tone all business now. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I closed my eyes, drawing in a slow, measured breath. When I opened them again, fear bloomed across my face like a dark, suffocating cloud.

“Please, no,” I whispered hoarsely, my voice trembling with raw emotion. I strained against the ropes, feeling their bite against my skin. My breath came faster, shallow and panicked. “I won’t fight, I swear—please, just let me go.” My body thrashed, the chair beneath me groaning in protest as I fought a battle I couldn’t win.

The ropes burned against my wrists as I twisted harder. A whimper slipped from my throat, and I felt the tears sting my eyes, hot and heavy with despair.

Behind the camera, Michael’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. A few moments passed, and then I heard the familiar ping of a response.
“That’s it,” he read aloud, his voice filled with quiet triumph. “Perfect. This is exactly what we wanted.”

The producers’ chat box lit up with praise.

Elaine Rivers: Finally. Real fear. Authentic emotion. She nailed it.

I slumped back into the chair, my chest heaving as relief and exhaustion washed over me. The ropes still held firm around my wrists, a reminder of the scene I had just lived, more than performed.

Michael’s fingers flew over the keyboard, his eyes fixed on the chat window as messages from the producers streamed in. His expression remained eerily flat, betraying no emotion. The only sounds in the room were the soft clatter of the keyboard and the hum of the computer’s fan.

I shifted in the chair, my heart still pounding from the intensity of my performance. I glanced down at my bound wrists, testing the ropes again. “Michael?” I asked, my voice light but edged with unease. “Are you going to untie me now?”

He didn’t respond.

My pulse quickened. “Michael?” I repeated, louder this time.

Seconds stretched into a minute as he continued typing, his focus never leaving the screen. The silence pressed down on me until it felt like a weight.
Finally, he spoke without turning. “The producers think you have a little more in you.”

“What?” My voice wavered.

“They suggest…” He paused, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk before he typed something else. “They suggest we bind your ankles too. It’ll add another layer of realism. Make it feel more authentic.”

I tensed, my breath catching in my throat. “No. I think I’ve done enough.”

Michael turned slightly, meeting my eyes for the first time since he’d tied my wrists. “You’ve been amazing. Seriously. That last scene? It was exactly what they’ve been looking for.”

“If it was exactly what they were looking for, why do they want me to do another? Aren’t they satisfied?” My voice was confident and firm.

He offered a small, reassuring smile. “I know you can do this. Just one more push. You’ve got real talent. Don’t stop now.”

My mouth opened, then closed. Doubt warred with the small thrill of his praise. “Are you sure this is safe?”

“Completely,” he said without hesitation. “I’ll be right here. And you can tap your foot anytime if it’s too much. You’re in control.”

I exhaled slowly, my hesitation lingering. But after a long moment, I nodded. “All right… if it’s just my ankles.”

Michael retrieved another length of rope from the bin. Kneeling in front of me, he looped the cord around my ankles, weaving it tightly but with the same calm, precise efficiency. The ropes cinched snugly around my legs, binding them together.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his tone gentle but focused.

I nodded weakly, my breathing shallow as I tried to center myself.

“As comfortable as I can be while also being tied up.” I said, my voice laced with sarcasm.

“Ready,” Michael announced, stepping back behind the camera, seemingly ignoring my comment.

The scene began again, and I hurled myself into the performance with an intensity that felt raw, primal, and desperate. My body convulsed against the chair, the sharp edges of the bindings digging into my wrists as I thrashed and twisted. My bound feet kicked futilely, the soles of my shoes scraping against the worn wooden floor, filling the air with harsh, erratic sounds. My breaths came in short, jagged gasps, each one laced with mounting frustration and growing unease. The sweat dripping from my brow stung my eyes, but I didn’t dare stop, as if sheer force alone could shatter the ropes holding me captive.

When the final take ended, Michael’s hands flew back to the keyboard, the clicks as sharp and staccato as nails being hammered into wood. The room seemed darker, the corners swallowed by shadows that crept closer with every passing second. I sat frozen, the sweat on my skin now chilling me to the bone as I whispered, “Michael, you can untie me now, right?”

My voice cracked. It didn’t just tremble—it was a plea, weak and brittle, barely holding together. Michael didn’t look at me. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, his face an emotionless mask. The silence between us stretched out, heavy and suffocating, until the sudden ping of the chat window shattered it.

More names popped up on the screen. At first, I thought I was imagining the figures who joined, but then my stomach plummeted. Their faces appeared, stark and too real, illuminated in the glow of their cameras. Middle-aged men and women, their expressions almost hungry, gripped numbered paddles in their hands like some grotesque parody of an auction.

“What…” My voice faltered, caught on the edge of my panic. “What’s going on?”

Michael’s gaze finally shifted to me. There was no kindness in his faint smile, only something cold and calculated, a hunter sizing up his prey. He reached toward the bin beside him, pulling out a roll of silver duct tape. The way the light caught its metallic surface made it glint like a knife in the dim room.

“Michael, wait—”

The hiss of the tape being peeled from the roll cut through the air, its harshness like nails dragged across my eardrums. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, loud and erratic, as I squirmed against the ropes. His movements were deliberate, almost practiced, as if he had done this before. My protests tumbled out, frantic and nonsensical, but he ignored them.

The first strip came down over my lips, yanking at my skin with a sharp, unpleasant tug. The adhesive stuck fast, sealing my words behind a prison of silence. My lips burned from the pressure as he smoothed the tape firmly into place, his hand lingering just long enough to make my skin crawl.

Then he wrapped it again. The second layer was tighter, harsher, pressing into the soft flesh of my cheeks. I could feel my skin folding uncomfortably beneath it, the sensation sharp and unrelenting. The third pass came with such force that my jaw ached, my cheeks bulging grotesquely as the tape compressed everything into submission. Each wrap seemed to erase another shred of my identity, turning me from a person into an object—a thing to be handled, controlled, displayed.

The chemical scent of the adhesive invaded my nose, clinging to the back of my throat and mixing with the metallic bitterness of fear. My breaths were shallow, desperate, each inhale ragged and sharp as my nostrils flared against the strain. I tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed by the tape, muffled and pathetic, like a dying animal’s whimper.

Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision until the world became an indistinct swirl of faces, paddles, and Michael’s cold, unreadable expression. My body trembled with terror, my muscles spasming in a futile attempt to fight against the growing inevitability of whatever was coming next.

He stepped back, his eyes flicking over me with a detached, clinical intensity. “This,” he said quietly, his voice low and cold, “was never an audition.” His lips curled into a cruel smirk as he studied me, his head tilted slightly as if assessing the balance of his masterpiece. “We were searching for a good specimen.”

I screamed into the gag, but the sound came out a distorted, muffled cry, more like a hum of resistance than the primal roar I intended. My head jerked futilely, the tape straining but holding firm. My muffled words—begging, protesting, pleading—merged into a jumble of desperate noise. I could feel tears welling in my eyes, their warmth streaking down my cheeks as I thrashed, the futility of my struggle only fueling my terror.

“Raise your paddles,” Michael announced, his voice cold and detached.
The room on the screen erupted in a frenzy.

The chaos of the bidding swelled like a storm, voices clashing and layering over each other in a frenzied chorus of numbers and demands.

“Five!” a gruff man barked, his paddle thrust into the air as his eyes locked on me with a hungry intensity. His voice cut through the hum of excitement, sharp and guttural.

“Seven!” another bidder shouted, their tone sharper, more aggressive, the number like a weapon meant to cut down the competition.

The sharp-featured woman raised her pristine paddle without hesitation, her voice calm but commanding: “Ten.” Her calculating gaze scanned me like I was merchandise—an asset she intended to win at any cost.

Michael’s fingers hovered over the rope bin again, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the rising frenzy of the bidders. He turned to face me, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he whispered, “Cindy, I think they want a little more.”

“No!” I screamed into the gag, my voice breaking into a muffled, pitiful moan. My head thrashed violently, desperate to escape his gaze, but Michael ignored my resistance, reaching for a roll of black straps.

“Twelve!” someone shouted, a woman’s voice trembling with excitement.

“Make her immovable,” the bidder with silver glasses said, his paddle held high. “Strap her thighs to the chair legs. Let’s see her really struggle.”

Michael obliged without hesitation. The straps were cold and unyielding as he wrapped them tightly around my thighs and secured them to the chair’s wooden legs. My muscles tensed as the straps cut into my flesh, each movement sending sharp bursts of pain up my legs.

“Fifteen!” another voice yelled, and the bidding war began to escalate.

“Tighter around her chest!” a bidder called out, their voice tinged with amusement.

Michael grabbed a broader strap this time, pulling it across my chest just above my bound arms. He fastened it with a metallic click, locking me in place so thoroughly that I couldn’t even slump forward. The pressure crushed my ribs, forcing my breaths to come in short, frantic bursts.

“She’s struggling beautifully,” the sharp-featured woman remarked with a satisfied smile. “Look at how she twists. Perfect.”

“Nineteen!”

“Twenty!”

“She can still move her fingers,” someone pointed out. “Bind her hands completely.”

Michael knelt beside me, his hands cold as they wrapped another length of tape over my fingers, balling my hands into fists. Layer after layer encased my palms until I could no longer feel them, the tightness sending painful prickles up my arms.

“Twenty-two!”

“Twenty-four!”

“She’s squirming too much. Cinch her waist tighter!”

Michael responded with mechanical precision, threading another rope around my already bound torso. He pulled it so tight that I gasped into the gag, my vision swimming from the added pressure. The fibers bit cruelly into my flesh, the sensation an agonizing reminder of how completely I was trapped.

“Blindfold her!”

Michael grabbed a strip of black cloth and tied it firmly over my eyes, knotting it at the back of my head. The sudden darkness was suffocating, amplifying every other sensation—the burning in my arms, the ache in my thighs, the cold sweat trickling down my neck.

“Twenty-six!”

“Come on, twenty-seven!”

“Thirty!” a smooth voice cut through the frenzy, silencing the room.

The bidders paused, their voices falling away into stunned silence. I could feel Michael’s hands still against my skin as he processed the number. Then, slowly, he straightened, pushing his glasses up his nose with a small, satisfied smile.

“Sold.”

The word rang out with finality, a death knell that sealed my fate. My body went limp, my strength drained, as the weight of the word settled over me. Somewhere in the darkness, I could hear the bidders murmuring, their voices fading as they disconnected one by one, leaving me alone with Michael and the suffocating silence.

The final word echoed through the room, silencing the frenzy of voices. My heart hammered against the ropes crushing my chest. Michael turned away from me, his fingers gliding across the keyboard as he brought up the face of my bidder in the largest monitor.

The man leaned back in his chair, shadows casting sharp angles across his gaunt face. His dark eyes were deep-set, like twin voids that swallowed the light from his screen. A slow, deliberate smile stretched across his thin lips.

“Mr. Caldwell,” Michael greeted him with a nod, his tone polite, almost deferential. “It’s a pleasure to finally do business with you.”

Caldwell’s head tilted slightly, his eyes never leaving my trembling figure. “I’ve been watching your auctions for a long time. You’ve outdone yourself this time. She’s exquisite.” His voice was low and smooth, the kind of voice that could soothe or terrify depending on the words it carried.

My stomach churned. I strained against the ropes again, every twist of my body draining more of my strength. A muffled protest died behind the tape, little more than a whisper of desperation.

Michael’s eyes flicked toward me, then back to the screen. “When can you collect her?”

“I’ll fly in tomorrow,” Caldwell replied. “I want her prepared. Sedated. I don’t need her fighting me during transport.”

My pulse thundered, drowning out their voices. Sedated? Transport? No. No, no, no. I jerked my body hard, twisting violently in the chair until it scraped loudly against the concrete floor.

Michael glanced down at me, his face impassive. He tapped his fingers on the armrest, then typed something into the chat without saying a word.
Caldwell smirked. “She’s got spirit. I like that. Break her slowly.”

I screamed into the tape, my cries ragged and hoarse. My muscles burned as I fought, my wrists raw from the relentless friction of the cords. But every movement felt heavier, slower. Exhaustion crept over me like a shroud.

Michael’s voice was a chilling lullaby as he crouched beside me, fingers tugging at the ropes with care and precision. “Did you hear that, Cindy?” he said softly, his breath brushing my cheek. “He likes your spirit. You’re impressive, you know. Most people would’ve given up by now.”

I shook my head violently, tears slipping past my lashes as my muffled screams escaped into the oppressive silence. My chest heaved, lungs struggling to pull in enough air against the constriction of the ropes and tape binding me.

Michael chuckled lowly, almost affectionately. “Still fighting. That’s good. He’s going to like that about you.”

He rose and stepped around the chair, his shoes scraping against the cracked concrete floor of the basement. The dim, flickering light cast his tall shadow across the walls, looming over me like a dark omen. My heart thudded painfully as I watched him move to the wooden support beam behind me, his eyes narrowing as he assessed it.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” he murmured, dragging my chair with a single sharp pull that sent it screeching across the cold floor. My body jerked with the motion, the rough jolt making the bindings bite even deeper into my skin. The sudden proximity of the thick beam behind me made my breathing quicken.

Michael began reinforcing my bindings, the ropes around my chest digging tighter as he looped and knotted them to the beam, pinning me immovably in place. The coarse fibers scraped against my sweat-slick skin, each pull sending fresh stabs of pain coursing through my ribs.

As if that wasn’t enough, he reached for the roll of silver tape again, its sharp hiss slicing through the heavy silence. He wound the tape in wide, deliberate strips across my chest, pinning my torso to the chair back. The sticky material pulled uncomfortably at my clothing and skin, sealing me in a cocoon of restraint. I strained, testing the layers of tape, but they refused to budge.

“You’re staying put, Cindy,” he whispered, leaning close to inspect his work. “No slipping away in the night.”

My legs trembled as he crouched by my feet again, wrapping additional rope around my ankles and securing them tightly to the chair legs. The fibers dug into my flesh with relentless pressure, cutting off circulation until my feet began to throb with an uncomfortable numbness.

Finally, Michael stepped back, surveying me with a detached satisfaction, as though admiring a perfectly wrapped gift. His expression was unreadable, but his smile sent an icy shiver through me. “You’ve got nothing but time to think now,” he said softly, almost mockingly.

He leaned forward, brushing his fingers over the edge of the tape gag to ensure it held. His touch was light, almost tender, and it made my stomach churn. “Get some rest,” he added, his voice barely a whisper. “Tomorrow will be an important day.”

I glared at him, hatred burning in my tear-filled eyes, but he only offered a faint, infuriating smile. Without another word, he turned and walked to the stairs. The door creaked shut behind him, the sound of the lock clicking into place echoing through the basement like the slam of a tomb.

I was alone.

The silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint hum of the flickering light overhead. My wrists throbbed against the unyielding rope, the fibers digging deeper with every futile twist. My body ached, every joint and muscle straining against its restraints as I rocked the chair slightly. The beam held firm, the tape and rope keeping me immobile no matter how much I thrashed.

I forced myself to focus, biting back the panic clawing at my chest. Think, Cindy. You have to think.

I tested the ropes around my wrists again, fingers fumbling blindly for a knot or a weakness—anything. But the ropes were expertly tied, the tension perfect. My hands were so tightly bound that the circulation had slowed, leaving my fingers tingling and numb.

Sweat dripped down my face, stinging my eyes as I shifted, arching my back in an effort to break the tape securing me to the chair. The sound of the adhesive pulling slightly against the fabric of my shirt gave me hope, but it was false; the tape didn’t loosen.

My legs twitched as I tried to kick free, but the bindings around my ankles and thighs were so tight they felt fused to the chair itself. Every motion was agony, the ropes grinding against my raw skin and leaving deep, angry marks.

The basement was cold, the concrete floor sapping what little warmth I had left. My breath came in uneven gasps, fogging slightly in the chill. Time stretched endlessly, the flickering light above casting shifting shadows on the walls that played tricks on my mind.

I tried everything—shimmying, rocking the chair, even twisting my head to rub the tape gag against my shoulder—but it was no use. Exhaustion crept over me, my muscles burning with overexertion. My heart pounded against the tight bands of rope, my desperation mounting with every passing second.

As the hours dragged on, the silence became a living thing, pressing down on me like a physical weight. My body trembled, drenched in sweat and tears. Finally, exhaustion won. My head drooped forward, and I slipped into a restless, tortured sleep, my dreams haunted by shadows and the sound of Michael’s calm, calculating voice.

When I awoke, the dull ache in my limbs had grown unbearable. Light seeped in from a small basement window, marking the arrival of morning. I had little time to check my surroundings, mostly to check whether I was in a nightmare or it was reality, before I heard the clicking of the lock at the top of the stairs. The footsteps that followed were slow, heavy and confident. Micael wasn’t in a hurry. Why would he be? He had gotten his prize and I assumed I would soon find out what price I would go for.

The light from the windows was blocked when Michael stepped in front of me. I didn’t bother to look up. My weakness and apathy had overtaken me at this point. There was no reason to fight. The ropes and tape around my body had held strong overnight and my chances of moving or freeing myself were impossible.

“How did you sleep, Cindy?” Michale’s voice sounded cheerful. I couldn’t decide what was worse. The fact that he asked, or the manner in which he asked. My reaction came in the form of a scoff, air escaping my nostrils in frustration. I noticed that the glue of the tape had grown weak from my saliva and sweat. However, the tightness around my mouth did not allow me to move my jaw anyway.

Michael’s hand pulled my face up from under my chin. His fingers palpated the tape covering my lips,

“Hmmm. Looks like your gag is loosening. Let’s give you a new one.”

My breathing increased as I watched him walk over to the dreaded plastic bin. My protests, muffled by the tape, managed to make him stop. When he turned back to look at me, I tried to do my best of explaining that I need med to move around and restore circulation to my body as well as take a restroom break. “I have to go to the bathroom” came out as a mumbled garble but, for some reason, he seemed to understand me.

Michael approached my chair walking slowly in an attempt to tease me. Once stopped directly in front of me, his hand disappeared behind him only to reappear holding a pocketknife. I didn’t flinch. He wanted the money in exchange for turning me over so I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me. Looking me directly in my eyes, he opened the knife dramatically and inched it closer to the tape that circled my body and held me to the support beam. Rather sloppily, he cut through the material and pulled it away, giving me a chance to take a slightly deeper breath through my nostrils.

For the next several minutes, I focused on my breathing. Michael worked away at the ropes, removing them strand by strand, knot by knot. Gradually, the violent embrace of bondage began to loosen, allowing me to move my limbs and take a deep breath. In the final moments that led to my temporary freedom, Michael grabbed the top of my head firmly and stared me down with more fire in his eyes than I had seen since I entered his house.

“Don’t move or I might cut you.”

I remained a statue, watching the blade come closer to my face. Very carefully, he wedged the cold metal between the tape and the skin of my right cheek. With a quick twist of his wrist, he severed the tape strand and tore it quickly from my lips. I felt no pain, the glue having worn off overnight, but my lungs begged for oxygen as I took in mouthfuls of air upon my freedom from the gag.

My attempt to stand failed miserably. My muscles had been without proper circulation for so many hours that they had practically forgotten how to function. Stumbling to the floor, I rolled onto my back and lie there with my arms and legs spread out.

“Get up and go to the bathroom. Freshen up while you’re at it. You stink and I don’t want you disgusting my client when he arrives.”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head,

“If you want me to do anything, you’re gonna have to give me a minute or two so the blood can rush back to my body parts that you decided to tie up last night.”

“You have two minutes to get off your ass and move to the bathroom, or I will drag you by your hair myself.” Michael said firmly, his voice showing no emotion.

Cracking my eyelids only slightly brought the image of his face in a red haze. If I had not been debilitated by the fatigue and stiffness, I would have reached out and landed a powerful fist into his crotch. But instead, the rational part of my mind overtook the unbridled rage and I began to plan out a possible escape.

My limbs throbbed with pain as the uncomfortable tingling of blood returning to them forced a groan from my lips. I turned onto my left side, my eyes landing on the bathroom door ahead of me—ajar and beckoning. Strength seeped back into my muscles with every passing second. Slowly, I managed to prop myself up on my knees and began crawling toward the bathroom like a toddler.

The heavy thud of his footsteps behind me made my heart plummet. Escaping would be far more difficult with him watching my every move.

Once inside the bathroom, I turned and pressed the door shut, but before I could lock it, his hand forced it back open a crack. “Leave it unlocked,” Michael growled, his eyes daring me to protest.

“Can I at least have some privacy?” I snapped, gripping the edge of the sink for balance.

He hesitated for a moment before sighing. “Fine. But don’t take all day.” The door clicked shut, and his heavy footsteps moved away, only to stop just outside.

I turned on the water, its hiss filling the small space, and began scrubbing the grime from my skin. Every movement hurt, but the warmth of the water was a small mercy. It washed away more than dirt—it took a fraction of my fear and humiliation with it, though not nearly enough.

Michael’s voice cut through the sound of the shower. “What the hell is taking so long?” he barked, pounding on the door. “You think I have all day for this?”

I bit back a retort and hurried to finish, shutting off the water and wrapping a towel around myself.

“Grab something to wear,” he called through the door. “There’s a linen closet to the right of the shower. T-shirt and sweatpants. That’s it.”

With trembling hands, I opened the closet and pulled out the plain clothes he’d instructed me to find. I dressed quickly, the rough fabric chafing against my damp skin, and took a deep breath before opening the door.

Michael was standing there, his arms crossed and his face twisted with irritation. His eyes scanned me from head to toe, his jaw tightening as though even my compliance was somehow offensive.

“Finally,” he muttered, spinning on his heel. “Come out and stand by the support beam again.”

I walked out hesitantly, stalling for time as my eyes quickly surveyed my surroundings. The stairs between the bathroom and the support beam caught my attention—my potential escape. My heart thudded in my chest as I calculated the distance. Once my brain registered the opportunity, I didn’t wait any longer. I bolted for the stairs, adrenaline pumping through me like a surge of electricity.

But Michael was fast. Too fast. I had barely made it to the bottom step before his arm clamped around my waist like a steel trap, lifting me off the ground. I thrashed and kicked, trying desperately to free myself, but his grip didn’t falter. He dragged me back, his strength making it clear I was no match for him.

“Did you really think that would work?” he snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. I could feel his breath hot against my ear as he carried me back toward the bathroom.

He set me down roughly, keeping a firm hold on my arm as he fished a small bottle and a syringe from his back pocket. My heart sank when I saw it.

“Hold still,” he ordered, his tone cold and commanding.

“No—what are you doing?” I demanded, trying to twist away, but his grip tightened painfully.

“Relax,” he said, though his voice held no comfort. “It’s just something to help you sleep. You’re too worked up, and I’m not in the mood to chase you around all night.”

He didn’t wait for my consent. In a single, efficient motion, he jabbed the syringe into my upper arm and pressed the plunger. The sting was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the sinking dread in my chest.

Almost immediately, my head began to feel heavy, my vision blurring around the edges. My resistance faded as the drug worked its way through my system, dragging me down into an unnatural lethargy.

“There we go,” Michael said, his tone almost smug as he released my arm and steadied me against the wall. “Much better. Now, let’s get you somewhere you can’t pull another stunt like that.”

The world tilted as he hoisted me into his arms. I wanted to fight back, to scream, but my limbs felt like lead, and my eyelids were too heavy to keep open. Darkness claimed me before I could do anything more.

A faint hissing sound. At first, it was barely perceptible, like a whisper in the dark. Then it grew louder, sharper, more insistent.

Hiss. Pressure around my thighs.
Hiss. A tight squeeze at my ankles.

The sensations came in bursts, pulling me back to awareness. A flat, unyielding surface pressed against my back, cold and unforgiving. My eyelids were heavy, laden with exhaustion, and each attempt to open them felt like a battle against lead weights. As my senses stirred, the memories came flooding back, slamming into me like a tidal wave.

The bathroom. Running. His arm around my waist. Darkness.

Adrenaline surged through my veins, ripping me fully from the fog of unconsciousness. My eyes flew open—or tried to. My head refused to budge, held in place by an unyielding force. The faint, sticky pull at my temples told me everything I needed to know: duct tape. Layers of it. My forehead was plastered to something solid—the support beam.

Panic clawed at my chest as I sucked in short, frantic breaths. Every gasp filled my nose with the acrid smell of the adhesive. I tried to twist, to move any part of my body, but it was useless. Tightness encased me everywhere—my ankles, knees, thighs, hips, waist, chest, and shoulders. I couldn’t so much as shift my weight. He had bound me with meticulous care, each layer of tape taut and unrelenting. My wrists, pinned behind me, were boxed together so securely that I couldn’t even feel where one ended and the other began.

“Welcome back, sleepyhead.”

Michael’s voice slithered into the room, playful yet chilling. He crouched near my legs, tugging on the final strip of tape around my thighs. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but my skin burned under the pressure, every nerve screaming that I was trapped. Completely.

“What… what did you do to me? How long have I been out? What do you want from me?” The words tumbled out in a frantic rush, my voice shaking with a mix of anger and terror.

Michael didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at me. Rising from his crouch, he disappeared from my line of sight, his footsteps echoing as he moved behind me. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the sound of my own labored breathing.

“Michael?” My voice cracked. “Michael, what are you doing?”

The answer came in the unmistakable rip of duct tape being unrolled. The sound was loud, sharp, and deliberate. My heart pounded wildly, dread pooling in my stomach. I didn’t know where the next layer would go, but I knew it was coming.

“Shhh…” His voice was suddenly at my ear, a low whisper that sent a jolt of terror through me. My entire body tensed, but with my limbs immobilized, I was powerless to stop him.

His left hand appeared in my peripheral vision, clutching the roll of tape. The loose end fluttered as his right hand reached across my body to grip it. My eyes widened as I realized what was coming, but before I could so much as protest, he yanked the tape forward and pressed it firmly over my lips.

“Mmmph!” My muffled cry was silenced as he pulled the tape taut, wrapping it around my head and securing it tightly behind the beam.

He worked with precision, each pass tighter than the last. The tape cut into my skin, pressing my lips together so firmly that I could feel them bruising. My head was forced back, the tape pulling hard against the beam, locking me in place. I groaned into the gag, the sound barely audible behind the stifling layers.

When he finally stopped, I could feel the blood pounding in my temples, the pressure so intense that I feared I might pass out. My breaths came in short, panicked bursts through my nose, each one burning as tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

Michael stepped back, surveying his work with a smug grin. His eyes roamed over me, lingering on the gag that stretched across my face.

“Damn,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Not a wrinkle in sight.”

He reached out, smoothing the tape over my mouth with his hand. I flinched at his touch, a muffled groan of discomfort escaping despite myself.

“Don’t bother,” he said, dismissing the sound with a wave of his hand. “No one’s coming to save you. Me. Caldwell will be here shortly to collect you. And you,” he walked up to me close enough to touch his nose against mine, his eyes boring down into mine, “are going to make me a pretty penny, my dear.”

I did what I could to fill the silence with my protests. What I wanted to come out as a several screams for help only manifested as severely muffled groans. Michael smiled, a snickered escaping his throat, as if I were his amusement. With that, he tossed the roll of tape into a plastic bin on the other side of the room and walked away. His footsteps thudded up the stairs until the door latched behind him leaving me alone with my fear and the crushing weight of my restraints.


Two hours later.


Michael’s footsteps echoed down the stairs, the sharp taps of his boots punctuating the heavy silence. His jaw was tight, his fingers drumming a frenetic rhythm against his thigh as he paced back and forth in front of me.

“Where is he?” he muttered under his breath, his eyes darting anxiously toward the door.

My heart hammered in my chest, matching the frantic rhythm of his fingers. Where was he?

Minutes felt like hours, stretching unbearably long before the knock finally came. Michael’s entire body stiffened, and with a deep breath, he smoothed his shirt. He strode toward the door, glancing back at me as if to silently warn me to stay put. As if I could move anyway.

Moments later, Michael returned, trailed by Mr. Caldwell.

Caldwell’s presence filled the room with a strange tension. His dark eyes swept over me, not with the unsettling triumph I had seen before but with a sharp, calculating intensity. He was studying me, every detail cataloged, every injury noted.

Michael beamed, his smile wide and unsettling. He gestured toward me like I was some kind of trophy. “You won’t be disappointed. She’s even more perfect in person.”

Caldwell didn’t respond immediately. His gaze lingered on mine, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something in his expression—regret? Determination?

“She’s… resilient,” he said quietly.

Michael laughed, the sound grating against my ears. “That’s what I thought.”

Then Caldwell did something unexpected. A slow, deliberate grin spread across his face, but it wasn’t one of pleasure. It was a grin with edges—sharp, cold, and full of purpose.

“She’s also safe now,” he said, his voice calm but resolute.

Michael blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “What?”

The answer came in the form of a loud crash upstairs, the splintering of a door reverberating through the house. A second later, heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs, accompanied by authoritative shouts.

“Police! Hands in the air!”

Michael spun around, his face a mask of fury and disbelief. “No! No, no, no!” he roared, lunging toward me, his hands outstretched in a final act of desperation.

But he never made it. Officers swarmed him, grabbing his arms and slamming him against the wall with such force that the air left his lungs in a strangled gasp. His protests were drowned out by the sound of handcuffs snapping into place.

Caldwell stood back, his expression steely and unreadable as he watched Michael being hauled away. “You’re under arrest, Michael,” he said coldly. “It’s over.”

I sagged against the support beam, every ounce of strength drained from my body. Gentle hands reached for me, carefully peeling the tape from my mouth. The adhesive tugged painfully at my skin, but the fresh air that rushed in when it was removed was worth it. I gasped, my breaths shaky and uneven as blood began to flow back into my limbs.

Caldwell knelt in front of me, his hands working deftly to cut the tape that bound my wrists and ankles. “You’re safe now,” he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold efficiency he had shown moments earlier.

Tears streamed down my face, and I couldn’t stop them. Relief, fear, and exhaustion crashed over me in waves. Caldwell caught my gaze and sighed deeply, his expression softening.

“I’m so sorry, Cindy,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. “I’ve been undercover for months, building a case against him. I wanted to stop him sooner, but we had to be sure. You didn’t deserve what he put you through… what I let happen to you. But I swear to you, it’s over now. He’ll never hurt anyone again.”

I nodded, unable to find the words, the lump in my throat making speech impossible.

Strong hands helped me to my feet, but my legs buckled beneath me, numb and unsteady. Two paramedics appeared, their voices calm and reassuring as they supported me.

“We’ve got her,” one of them said to Caldwell. “We’ll take her to the hospital for observation.”

They checked me over quickly, shining a light into my eyes and taking my pulse. “You’re dehydrated and in shock, but you’ll be okay,” one of them said gently.

As they helped me into the ambulance, I glanced back over my shoulder. Michael was being shoved into the back of a police car, his face twisted in rage and desperation. He yelled something incoherent, but the sound was muffled by the thick glass of the cruiser’s window.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I took a deep breath of fresh air. The flashing red and blue lights painted the night sky, and for the first time, they felt like a beacon of hope.

Caldwell stood near the police car, watching as it drove away, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. When his eyes met mine, he gave me a small, solemn nod.

I didn’t know what the future held, but in that moment, I allowed myself to believe that I was finally free.

[Bandit666]

This was a brilliant read and incredibly enjoyable with a nice twist I’ll not mention in case someone else reads this before your tale. Well done and thank you for you efforts

[The G-Man]

That was a fun read, and the twists were interesting. I'm wondering if Cindy will have more ... adventures