Like most people, I like to do something interesting with my Friday evenings: dinner with friends; a visit to the theatre; sometimes, just curl up in front of a warm fire with a good book. This Friday evening held none of those attractions, however; instead, I'd spent it tied to a chair in my bedroom with a gag between my teeth and nursing a steadily filling bladder.
Arriving home at six, I'd dashed upstairs to shower and change for dinner with Janet, an old school friend who was anxious to hear about Tom, my latest conquest, and tell me all about her weekend in Paris. As soon as I entered the bedroom, I knew something was wrong. My jewellery box lay open on the bed, empty. The implication barely had time to register before a hand clamped over my mouth and a threatening voice whispered in my ear: "One sound, and I slit your throat. Got it?" Too stunned to react, I offered no resistance as I was marched to my dressing-table chair and made to sit down.
In the mirror, I saw a man wearing a stocking over his head (one of my own, I discovered later, snatched from my underwear drawer when he'd heard me come in). I was grateful for that stocking, because without it I would have been able to identify him. Still numb with shock, I watched as this intruder unplugged the cord from the phone and wall socket and used it to bind my wrists together behind me. "Why did you have to come home now?" he grumbled as he opened the bottom left drawer of the dressing table.
"Sorry," I said, not quite sure why I was apologising to him for burgling my house. He took a stocking from the drawer, the partner to the one on his head, and moved behind me, holding it stretched out between his hands. I understood what he intended to do.
"There's-there's no need to gag me," I said, addressing his reflection.
"'Course not," he mocked as he forced the stocking between my teeth and secured it at the base of my neck.
Assured that I wasn't going anywhere, he left the room. In his absence I looked around for a pair of scissors, a nail file, anything I might use to free myself, but nothing useful was visible. I did spot a small black bag on the floor next to my bed, however; his presumably, no doubt containing my jewellery.
When he returned, he was carrying the coil of clothes line I kept in the garage against the possibility of the tumble drier breaking down. I drew in a startled breath as he knelt down in front of me and slid my skirt up a few inches. But instead of the kind of attention I was expecting, he set about tying one end of the rope around my ankles, then wound it around my calves and thighs until he reached my hips. Here, he routed the rope back and forth across my abdomen before looping it through the chair back and cinching it tight. I winced, receiving the first signals of discomfort from my bladder.
Apparently satisfied, he passed the rope around my waist, between my breasts and over my left shoulder where he tied it off on the chair back. He literally had me trussed up like a turkey, and I couldn't understand why he was being so meticulous about restraining me... until I it occurred to me that he was actually enjoying this. Not content with being a burglar, he was also a bloody pervert!
He surprised me again by dragging me to the foot of the bed, then pulled a bedsheet from the bed itself and rolled it up, using it to anchor the back left chair leg to the bed frame, presumably to stop me scooting over to the window when he had gone. He wasn't leaving anything to chance.
At last, he picked up his bag, gave me a final appraising look, and left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
That had been hours ago, and since then my bladder had gone from mild discomfort to near bursting. My only contact with the outside world all evening had come in the form of a phone message from Janet to inform me that she didn't appreciate having her Friday evening wasted. You're not the only one, I thought, feeling decidedly sorry for myself by this time.
About the time the light outside had started to fade, my bladder had begun to seriously throb, demanding attention I couldn't give it. All I could do was sit there tapping my heels and rocking back and forth as far as my bonds would allow. My leg muscles were growing tired from the incessant wiggling it took to keep everything corked up. But I had been waiting a long time, and I now needed to piss like a racehorse! I bit down hard on my stocking gag, wishing I could bite right through it and call for help, but I knew it was a futile wish.
I could put an end to my discomfort in a matter of moments, of course, simply by wetting myself, but if I did that, there was no telling how long I'd be forced to sit in it before someone rescued me. It was an unattractive prospect, so I made up my mind that I would hold on for as long as I possibly could, in the slim hope that Tom might pay me a late visit, something he did whenever he wanted to spend the night.
As the pain around my groin became unbearable, frantic thoughts and questions tumbled through my head: "Is it possible for my bladder to actually burst if I wait too long? What would Tom think if he found that I'd wet myself like a child? Would he be disgusted? Would he never want to see me again? Ooooh God! What am I going to do?"
I was just reaching the stage where no amount of wiggling seemed to help and I was beginning to accept that I would soon have to go in my clothes, when I thought I heard the sound of the front door opening. I held my breath, straining to hear further sounds. Had Tom come round after all? There was a creak on the stair and a strip of light appeared under my bedroom door. There was no question about it: someone was here. I became suddenly excited and correspondingly more frantic to pee. I issued muffled cries through my gag, urging whoever it was to come and untie me before it was too late.
But, when the bedroom door finally creaked open, my heart sank. Framed in the opening, backlit by the landing light, stood a familiar man wearing a stocking over his head. My burglar had come back!
He flipped on the light as he entered the room, came to stand beside me, then leaned in close to my face. "Hello again, sweetheart," he said, the stench of stale beer on his breath. "I'm gonna take the gag off, and when I do, no screaming. Right?"
Without waiting for me to signal that I understood, he tugged the stocking from my mouth. "I brought you a little something," he resumed, producing a bottle of Millers Lite beer from his coat pocket. "Thought you might be thirsty."
I couldn't believe it. He had risked coming back to the scene of the crime to bring me a drink! Was he completely mad? "I can't drink anything," I protested. "I'm dying to go to the loo!"
"So hold it," he said matter-of-factly.
"I've been holding it. For hours. I've got to go!"
"Drinkies first," he insisted, prying off the cap and holding the bottle to my trembling lips.
"Nooooo. Pleeeaaassse. I've got to pee."
"And I told you to hold it."
"I can't!" I wailed, shaking my head frantically. "I'm nearly bursting!"
"Is that right?" he jeered, and to my horror, he placed his free hand against my abdomen and began to rub, applying additional pressure to the rope already squeezing my tight-as-a-drum bladder. I could have died.
"Stop it. Stop it!" I implored, my voice shaking as I fought the rapidly escalating desire to pee. "If you don't stop, I really will wet myself."
He shook his head too and said in a dangerously quiet voice. "Beer first, then potty."
"Oh God," I wailed as he pressed the lip of the bottle to my mouth again. With tears brimming in my eyes, I let the bastard insert it and force me to gulp down the contents as if this were a beer-drinking contest. Some of the liquid spilled from the corners of my mouth and plopped onto my blouse and skirt. This was the last straw.
My bladder contracted violently and pee exploded out of me with a loud hiss, spraying everywhere because I couldn't part my legs. It gushed up through the front of my skirt, and soaked through the back as it spread to the edges of the chair and spilt over onto the floor with an audible splatter. As soon as he heard that sound, my tormentor withdrew the bottle from my mouth and watched my humiliating accident, transfixed.
Finally, my body sagged as my muscles started to relax. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I went on relieving myself, but it seemed to take forever for my bladder to empty. I felt acutely embarrassed and vulnerable, sitting there performing this normally private act in front of him, but I had no choice.
Finally, it was over...or so I thought. To my consternation, the burglar rested a hand on my lap and began stroking the wet material of my skirt. A chill rippled through me as I realized that this perverted burglar wasn't finished with me yet, and that this was likely to be a very, very long night.