I am hungry and when I am hungry I go to a bar to drink. Thursday nights are best. Always it’s in a wealthy suburb north or west of town.
Never the same place twice. Tonight I was heading to Weston. Thirty-minute train ride to the city so lots of bankers and lawyers. A newish bar with leather furnishings for an “old-world feel.” That’s what the website says. Photos of smiling twenty-somethings men with good hair and great teeth in suits with white shirts and red ties. Ladies in sparkling dresses and just the right proportions of jewelry and, surely, just the right dabs of perfume.
I never use valet parking when I’m hungry. I park on the street. Close, but not too close.
It was 9:23 when I sat at the bar, and the bartender was immediately asking me what I’d have. “Ginger ale in a wine glass. No ice.” Looks enough like a white wine to pass. It attracts them.
By them I mean the two or three gentlemen who eyes kept returning to and lingering on me. One approached to say hello-may-I-buy-your-next-one and I thank him but say no because I never take the first nibble. It’s the bolder I’ll-show-her-a-real-man second one I want. And he comes. Of course he does.
“Financial advisor.” They’re usually “financial advisors.” Tomorrow’s Friday with a the-market’s-up flush. I let him pay for my second glass of “wine” and our dance begins. He’s very interested in the fact that I’m very interested in him. I let him pay for my third glass, which is actually Chardonnay. I am where he wants me and I saunter to “the Ladies’” to let him mull it over. And to fix my make-up and make sure my wig is perfect.
“Oh. Is that the time? I have to get up early for work.”
“May I walk you to your car.”
“You may. I’m just down the street.”
I reach for his hand as we walk and it’s sweaty. He’s in a fantasy. It’s just not his.
I rub his cheek when we reach my car.
“I don’t have to get up that early.” I feel his hardness as he leans in, tentatively until I raise my mouth to his.
“I’m . . . I’m not far.”
“I don’t want to go ‘too far.’” Said as I drag my hand down his cheek before reaching behind his head and pulling it to me and my lips.
He runs back to get his car, bouncing from foot to foot as he waits for the attendant. Who’ll get a nice tip. I follow him, parking on the street a few doors down from his little apartment-building. I enter the lobby with him and reach for his waist as the elevator takes us up. Fifth floor. Fumbling for his keys until he gets it right and we’re in his living room. He was not expecting company. Luck be a lady tonight. I drink the proffered water as he rushes to make his bedroom presentable. “I’ll be right out.”
A quick stop in the bathroom and he comes for me, his shirt’s top button no longer undone and his tie tightly at his neck. Jacket on. Going with the Cary Grant look. I run my hands down his sides and accidentally cross his crotch. He is happy to see me.
It takes no time for him to get himself down to his boxers when we reach the bedroom. He’s expecting a slow striptease from me when he is done.
“Let me see him.”
He is proud. Very erect. I approach. Hips moving. One. Two. Three. I am inches from him. And from him.
“Let me get something from my bag. I’ll be right back. Wait for me on the bed.”
When I return, still dressed and with my hands behind my back, he is on his back, fully erect. Probably more than he’s ever been. More than he’ll ever be.
I lean to kiss him and he opens his mouth and sees the gag too late. I am good at this. It’s in and secured before he can register the first thought of what I am doing to him. And that first thought will be that I’m playing a game and he gets even harder.
If a cat plays a game with a mouse, I am playing a game. He is now compliant. “It’ll be fun” he’s thinking. And it will be. I pull out some scarves. “You like?” and he nods. I secure his wrists and I secure his ankles.
I take some ice from his kitchen and apply it to him. He softens. When he does I place a cage over his penis and lock it. I place a blindfold over his eyes and it too is secured. I exchange handcuffs for the scarves. It usually takes five days. No one checks on his type. He’ll be found when a neighbor complains of the smell. “Like something died.” Perhaps an item in the local paper. And the police warnings will be disregarded. I’ll be sated for a month. Maybe two.