Games Boys Play (12 page)

A hot thrill of fear surfaced from deep within him. Heat sprang to his face, making it itch. Another choked-off sob came from his throat as the intruder’s hand took hold of the back of his head to keep him steady. He blinked quickly as the sticky side of a rough square of tape approached one of his eyes, and then his eyelashes caught against the adhesive, and half his vision was blocked. As the intruder ripped a second short strip of tape from the roll, he blinked his eyelashes free, but he could feel them flutter against the tape, like the wings of panicked moths, with every quick blink.

As the intruder set down the roll and took hold of Brian’s head again, another plea pulled free of Brian’s throat. The intruder gripped the back of his skull. The square of tape blurred as it hovered in front of his remaining eye—and then there was a soft darkness and the pressure of the intruder’s fingers smoothing the tape on his skin. The sticking flutter of his lashes.

He searched behind the tape, but he could see nothing, nothing but gray.

Quick breaths pattered against the tape over his mouth.

He twisted his wrists, trying to pull free so he could remove the tape, but he already knew from his own experimentation how well the belt held.

He was fucked.

A sound broke free, muffled against the foam.

His nostrils worked overtime—duct tape and cigarette smoke, aftershave, fresh sweat, the yarn of the ski mask, the black costume makeup Dylan had smeared around his eyes. The knit mask brushed the side of his face, making him jerk from the shock of it. Then the intruder’s voice was at his ear: “Do you remember ‘The Imperial March,’ from
Star Wars
?”

The what?

“Do you remember it?”

He closed his eyes behind the tape and tried to grab hold of the song’s tail.
It went… It went… Right
. He nodded.

The intruder squeezed his shoulder. “Let’s hear a little of it.”

Jesus—now?

He heard the pop of a knee as the intruder stood, and then the compressing of couch cushions under the weight of a body.

“Come on,” the intruder said. The toe of a boot nudged Brian’s foot. “‘The Imperial March.’”

He dragged a breath in through his nose, filling his chest. Trying not to feel ridiculous. Quietly, he pushed the opening bars through his nostrils: “Dun dun dun—”

“Louder.”

“—
dah
da-dun
dah
da-dun.”

“Good. Remember that. That’s the safe word of the day.”

And then came…nothing.

He wondered if the intruder—if
Dylan
—was watching him, observing him like a lab rat, curious about what he would do, blind and mute and on his knees on his living-room floor. The skin on his arm prickled, and then his ear, aware that Dylan’s gaze could be crawling over them.

He bit down on the foam ball so he could swallow. It wasn’t unbearable, just…inescapable.

His dick throbbed.

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t shout. He couldn’t
see.

The thin area rug in front of the couch felt thinner by the moment, the hard flooring underneath making itself known. He wished he hadn’t been too cheap—too much of a
guy
—to buy a pad to go under it.

The worst was the fleeting feeling that he was losing his balance. He’d catch himself with a hitch, then realize he probably hadn’t been going anywhere, actually. It was just hard to tell, up on his knees the way he was, the backs of his thighs tense, his upper body almost free-floating.

The couch creaked.

He turned his head slightly, following the sounds of footsteps from couch to wall and back.

His skin warmed at the feeling that eyes were on him.

The footsteps started up again, Dylan’s familiar gait; Brian had never thought about that before, but it was completely recognizable. His intruder seemed to be wandering: living room, dining area. The back of his neck tingled as he tracked Dylan around the other side of the couch, hearing and feeling Dylan coming up behind him. Stopping.

A delicate shiver of electricity ran through his spine at the feel of fingers in his hair.

“Guess it’s time to pack you up for delivery.”

The fingers were gone, just that quick. His scalp prickled. His brain ran a hundred miles an hour:
Delivery? Where? For what?

Would he be shut in the trunk of a car? His heart thudded. He’d always wanted to be shut in the trunk of a car—shut in so he couldn’t get out. Once when he was with a bunch of guys, there had been too many of them to fit in the one car they had, so he’d jumped in the trunk. Someone had closed it on him, and he’d about come in his jeans with excitement—a feeling that lasted only till the second stoplight, when, in the illumination leaking in from the brake lights, he saw the yellow tag of the emergency trunk release. He’d shifted around to face the other way so he couldn’t see it, but the illusion had already been ruined.

Something thunked by his knees.

“On the floor with you.” And the intruder carefully started laying him down, first on his side, then onto his stomach.

Shr-rripp.

His heartbeat was amplified against the floor. It was almost uncomfortable to lie against: a physical, throbbing thing. Like his cock, also trapped underneath him.

The intruder grabbed his ankles together in the crook of one arm, bending his knees so his heels pointed toward the ceiling.

He squeezed his eyes closed behind the tape, trying not to feel the sparks of pleasure shooting through his cock as the intruder rearranged him.

The low moan in his throat as the tape began to pull around his ankles took him by surprise. He bit it back and focused on breathing. Focused on the scratchiness of the rug against the side of his forehead. Focused on biting the ball in his mouth so he could swallow again.

Shrrrrip. Shrrrrip.

The tape worked its way higher and higher, fusing his lower legs together, hugging them in its grip, making them into a single, heavy, useless blunt object.

He’d reached the point where everything was just right, everything should stay just this way forever, or at least for a while, at least until discomfort took too much away from the perfection of it all. Or until he came, helplessly.

The intruder rolled him onto his side, propping Brian’s lower legs on one of his own so he could continue wrapping, higher, taping Brian’s knees together and then his lower thighs.

He shifted on his shoulder, looking for a comfortable position for his arms behind him.

The ringtone from the other night went off near his face, making him jump. He caught his breath while the intruder said, “Yeah,” into the phone.

And after a second: “I’m just about ready to— You’re fucking kidding me. What do you mean, ‘canceled’? I thought this late in the— Yeah. Okay. Okay. Yep. Let me know when you have another job ready.”

Then there was quiet.

The quiet went on and on.

Saliva pooled in the corner of his mouth closest to the floor. The other side was the opposite: dry to the point that the skin at the corner of his lips would probably be cracking tomorrow. Carefully he bit down and swallowed, then shifted a little so he could tilt his face somewhat toward the ceiling, maybe keep his spit from pooling against the tape.

Finally he heard the intruder moving, gathering stuff.

Not again.

A toe prodded him.

“Good news, bad news.”

He waited.

“Good news is, you’re off the pickup list.”

Which meant…? Which meant…?

“Bad news is, I really don’t give a fuck.”

The boot pressed against his chest, turning him half onto his back, onto his bound arms, trapped behind him.

“But the good news for you—tonight—is, I’ve got to get back, so I won’t be sticking around to have fun with you.”

A knee, possibly, bumped against his hip as the intruder crouched beside him. There was a tickling at the edge of his jaw, then the smarting of adhesive being torn from skin. His lower face stung, but the cool air caressing it felt good enough to make up for the pain.

He wanted to rub his face against the rug.

Two fingers worked themselves into his mouth—he was surprised there was room. Leather, tobacco, and the salty brine of sweat kicked his saliva glands into high gear. The fingers grasped the foam ball, squeezing and then pulling it out of his mouth.
Oh thank God
—except, at the same time, he wanted the intruder to keep his fingers in there, to push them deeper until they hit the back of his throat and he had no choice but to gag on them. Instead, all he had was an empty mouth.

He closed and opened his jaw, noticing for the first time the soreness that had set into those muscles.

The taste of foam, sweat, and tobacco lingered on his tongue.

A thumb slid across the strip of tape covering his right eye, then the other, flattening any edges that might have been coming unstuck.

“Well,” the intruder said. “Since you were so good at getting free last time, I guess you’ll have no problem this time either.”

Mm. How
did
I get free last time?
He searched his brain but kept coming up against “out of order” and “closed for repair” signs. He slid his tongue across his lower lip, tasting more of the intruder’s glove.

The intruder pushed his fingers into Brian’s hair and said, “Say something.”

“Something.”

With a sigh, the intruder hauled him over until his chest was propped against the intruder’s knee so he could check the belt around Brian’s wrists, tugging, adjusting. He pushed Brian back onto his side. A pat on the cheek left a little sting as the intruder got to his feet. He stepped over Brian, and Brian heard the backpack shift, the zipper rasp shut.

The intruder stepped over him again, and then the heels of his boots were crossing the apartment.

The door opened. Boots scuffed the floor. The door closed, the latch clicking into place.

Brian let his weight take him forward, onto his stomach, rubbing his face against the rug, scratching at the itch from the adhesive and sweat.

Fifteen minutes
. It almost seemed too short.

Chapter Seventeen

An insect pelted a wall somewhere over his head. The balcony door was still open, judging from the outside noises.

His shirt had come up a little during the taping of his legs. The rug fibers tickled his bare skin.

He had a full bladder. He’d forgotten about his full bladder.

“Shit,” he breathed. He struggled back onto his side, then onto his back, his wrists trapped behind him. He thumped his head lightly against the floor. When his hands started to tingle, he shifted to his side again.

Surely it had been fifteen minutes by now.

Something brushed the side of his hand.

Exploring with his fingers, he realized it was the tongue of the belt. It had come loose. Or had been loosened when Dylan was “checking it.” Rolling a bit more, he started working it up between his wrists, then around, and in another half a moment it was loose enough to twist his wrists out of.

He laughed, rolling onto his back to peel the tape from his eyes, wincing as the adhesive pulled at his eyelids.

Blinking at the light in his living room, he laughed again.

He still had a shitload of tape to deal with around his legs, but that was cake. That was fucking nothing.

He sat up, his legs stretched in front of him, his arms stretching overhead, enjoying their renewed freedom. The tape that had covered his mouth lay in a half-crumpled wad nearby, but there was no spit-soaked foam ball. Maybe that would make another appearance in the future.

That would be okay.

He recalled the gloved fingers shoving into his mouth. He could almost feel them again, the leather smooth and slickening against his tongue.

“Fuck.”

Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, he let himself fall back, the duct tape hugging his legs. He wasn’t quite ready to get out of this. Grabbing the floor, he rolled onto his side, then all the way over, onto his dick, his shoulder bumping the front of the couch. He laid his cheek on the rug as he ground his hips against the floor. He dug the toes of his boots against the rug, tensing his muscles, rocking a little, side to side, hitting a sweet spot that made his breath hitch with each pass. He focused on his legs, how they were bound together, how every little movement reminded him of that fact. What if it wasn’t duct tape? What if it was something he couldn’t remove—forced to spend the rest of his life with his legs fused together?

He dug his fingers against the rug, his mouth opening, his breath quickening.

A noise from the front of the apartment stopped him midbreath.

He listened, wondering if it was the intruder again, or if it was time for Dylan to make his appearance. His heart thumped, the floor pressed against his chest making it that much easier to feel.

“Bri?”

He pushed up onto his elbows. “Over here.”

“Did you know your door was open?”

With a deep, chest-expanding breath, he dropped to the floor again. And then Dylan was standing behind the couch, looking down at him.

“Not again,” Dylan said, seeing him.

“Yeah, well. Once a victim of a home invasion, always a victim of a home invasion.”

Without asking if he needed help, Dylan came around and started pulling at the tape on his legs.

He was still lying facedown. Soon he’d have to roll over. That was a slightly uncomfortable thought, given his condition.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you given any thought to installing an alarm?”

“It’s an idea. But I have a feeling this guy would figure out a way around it.”

Dylan gave a pull at his knees—the signal to turn over. Reluctantly, Brian did, throwing an arm over his face, bending his knees as much as the tape allowed, in order to block Dylan’s view.

“Maybe he’s not even real,” he said from behind his arm.

“What?” Dylan asked.

“Maybe I’m just making him up.”

His legs shifted this way and that as Dylan tugged on the tape. “You’ve got quite the imagination, then.”

When his legs were free, he lay there still, under the crook of his elbow. The tightness in the front of his jeans had abated, but there was still a sluggish caramel warmth inside him that made him reluctant to move.