Audrey squirms on the ground, tugging on the ropes while turning her head left and right trying to see her captor. She can’t quite see him from her vantage, and she hates it. It makes her angrier. More flustered. It’s important to be able to look the enemy in the eye—to show him just how much he hasn’t won. She can’t let him see just how well he’s slipping under her skin.<br/><br/>And yet, she doesn’t want to move at all. Every time she does, that rope sends her into new fits all over again. His touch makes her wild, and every. Single. Nerve-ending she possesses wants her to beg for more. She resists the sensation with every fiber of her being, and yet she knows she is losing the battle. Thackery had her, and they both knew it. He was just a pathetic amateur thief who just caught her having a bad night. Yes. That was it. He was a terrible thief—she was absolutely better than him, and it was only a matter of time before she would get out of this. She just needed to wait for the ideal opening. And maybe a knife to cut the ropes.<br/><br/>It feels like an eternity that she’s left untouched and helpless on that carpet. She knows that he’s still there, watching her with those boyish blues, and childish smirk. Argh! Audrey can’t help but growl, even though it is little more than a distant, gurgled snarl. She can hardly make any sound at all.<br/><br/>When she hears his loafers softly padding through the room, she goes still and just listens. What is Thackery doing? Still, she cannot set him at all, and the butterflies in her stomach come to rapt attention. Moaning, she turns her head and just out of the corner of her eye, she strains to see. Her ears, however, are suddenly her best friend, as she hears the clunk of objects moving on a wooden surface. Something is dropped into a … is that a glass? Ice; an ice cube to be precise. She hears it again, two delicate clanks, one followed by another. Suddenly, the sound is all too familiar—having spent much of her life around men in suits enjoying their mid-afternoon mini-bars.<br/><br/>The silence between them mounts again. Audrey moans, fighting against her ropes anew. It’s pure torture that she can’t fight back, talk back, or do much of anything. She needs to move; to engage her opponent; to fight back and get the upper hand. Everything is too uncomfortable. Too tight. The room is too hot. She is incapable of doing anything, and again she protests, only to have most of the sound swallowed by her own stupid socks, and that makes her writhe even more. It is a vicious cycle and it’s all James Thackery’s fault!<br/><br/>Eventually, she manages to roll to her side, and the man enters her view. Being on her side, however, is mightily uncomfortable; her arms and shoulders—though not as tightly bound as they had been—begin to strain, and her back starts to arch. The rope between her legs shifts, but as she is, she can’t wriggle or grind and the pressure of the rope begins to build. Audrey realizes cannot remain like this for very long, and yet to get a glimpse of him, it is worth every little discomfort.<br/><br/>He is sitting casually in his club chair, as though the chair were not just a chair, but a throne and he a king. She can almost smell the top-shelf bourbon as he raises the glass to her in a silent toast; or taunt rather, before bringing the rim of the glass pressing lightly against his lips.<br/><br/>Audrey narrows her eyes back at him, letting him know that she’s still ready and willing to fight back. Shaking her head as she tries to curse at him through her gag.<i>Let me go,</i>she wants to say,<i>I’ll get out of this eventually, and then you’ll be sorry!</i>She tries to convey her intent with her eyes, as every word—every syllable fails mightily.<br/><br/>Thackery merely chuckles as he sets the drink down upon a coaster beside him and slowly rises from his seat—his throne. His steps are quiet as he strides over, until he is standing directly over her, his eyes casting down directly over her. “What was that? I couldn’t quite understand you.”<br/><br/>Audrey glares back up at the men, acutely aware that her eyes are forced to look up the line of his body to reach his eyes. Even so, she happily repeats herself.<br/><br/>He chuckles again, as he crouches down beside her. Reaching out, his hand begins to roam her body. It is not like before, he is no longer searching for anything. This time, it is purely for his pleasure and enjoyment. She shakes her head and makes noises of protest, but it does nothing to stop him. He squeezes each breast firmly until she squirms, and then slowly his hand glides down across her belly until his fingers take hold of that infernal rope and he tugs on it lightly. Audrey squeals and writhes, and she can’t hide her reaction. Against her will, her hips move against his touch. If he pulls on that rope even one more time….<br/><br/>But he doesn’t. He lets her go with a knowing chuckle, and simply rolls her back onto her stomach. She can hear him moving behind her, and she is surprised when the scarf is suddenly—surprisingly—wrapped across her eyes and secured snuggly around her head. Her world goes dark, and even as she tries to shake the scarf off her head, it doesn’t go anywhere. Of course, even as she tries to protest, she simply hears the man chuckle.<br/><br/>He toys with her some more, his hands roaming down her arms, checking and tugging at her bindings as if he needs to be sure that she is secure. Then his hands roam her backside, caressing her, groping her, before planting a firm slap on each cheek. The sensation sends hot shivers along her spine and she writhes anew. It stings, and warms her at the same time. It is Pain that isn’t painful. Audrey moans, and is once again at the mercy of the man’s touch.