In the Bedroom with the Rope: Tied in Knots

In the Bedroom with the Rope

Jenna McCormick

Part 1: Tied in Knots

Chapter One

T
hree days ago, Samantha had never seen a man masturbate. Though technically, she’d watched Alan, her ex-boyfriend, stroke himself right before they had sex, or the men in his porn videos show off their tools for the camera. But she’d never witnessed the kind of erotic show that had captured her attention.

The early morning desert air evaporated the sweat from her skin as she stood there, a jogger turned Peeping Tom. Her new neighbor hadn’t bothered to close his blinds again, almost as though he wanted her to witness his self-pleasuring. His bedroom appeared empty, save for the king-sized bed that supported his large body in a sensual dance. The common term was jerk-off, but it was too crude a phrase to apply to the way he thumbed the slit of his cock, eased the escaped fluid down over the head and gripped the fleshy rod as thick as her wrist.

From her vantage point on the nature trail that wound through their development, Sam couldn’t see his face, just the hard planes and angles of his torso. The cream colored sheet had been tossed aside, just like yesterday, and the day before. No clothes in sight, not even a pair of boxer shorts. Did he sleep naked? The thought made her shiver. His feet were poised flat on the mattress, knees bent up. His cock reached to his naval, seeming to preen under his easy strokes.

After two days of observing she knew his rhythm, and subconsciously her hips rocked as that tanned hand wrapped around his girth and gripped the flesh in one pull down. Her long dormant sex creamed to life, her nipples pebbled from more than just the chilly air as his hips rose up, shoving his dick through the tight grip of those masculine fingers, then lowering on his upstroke. More fluid beaded and he captured it with his thumb, massaging it into the purple crown. She licked her lips, craving a taste.

His grip tightened and one had disappeared between his legs. Images assailed her. Was he cupping his balls? Or maybe teasing his perineum. Hell, for all she knew he was fingering his own ass. Whatever he did, it excited him into picking up his pace. Her clit throbbed and she was tempted to rub the small bit of flesh, right there in the open.

She should go. Or at least look around and see if anyone saw her standing there, staring into the man’s bedroom like a fricking pervert. But her eyes were glued to the sexual display, just like they had been yesterday and the day before that. This was so wrong, she didn’t even know his name, wouldn’t recognize him if she passed by him fully clothed on the street. That hadn’t stopped her from obsessing about him though, a welcome distraction from the worries of her own life. 

As the sun gained altitude, the mystery man worked his body, faster, harder. She craved more information. What kind of expression was on his face? What did he think about? Did he have a lover whose image he fixed in his mind while pleasuring his greedy body?

That thought stopped her short. What would she do if she were his lover and rolled over that morning to find him in the throes of ecstasy? She’d love to swirl her tongue over the leaking crown, trace the pulsing vein before sucking that thick shaft between her lips. Would he cry out in pleasure? Grip her hair in his hands to hold her steady while he fucked her mouth? Or maybe he’d turn her around until she straddled his face, so he could tongue her saturated sex to orgasm.

Sam’s channel seized up tight, achingly empty, just as milky jets spurted across his chest and belly. Her mouth fell open as his body arched up in sweet culmination.

She’d never been more turned on in her life. As she stood there, watching his big body relax, her own tension coiled tighter. His hand came up, reaching for something out of her view and she scurried off before he sat up and caught her in the act. A niggling sense of guilt hissed that she should tell him she could see him. It was rude to invade his privacy this way. What if someone else saw? The thought left an uncomfortably tight feeling in her chest.

Letting herself in through the back gate, Sam wrestled with her conscience. How embarrassing to tell a man she’d never spoken to that she’d seen him masturbate.

Her face felt hot, flushed and not just from her two mile jog. Removing the pepper spray, stun gun and emergency whistle from her track pants, she stowed them back into her purse. Checking the doors to make sure they were all locked, she considered her options. Maybe an anonymous note was the way to go.
Please shut your blinds.
Thing was, she didn’t
want
him to close his blinds because then she wouldn’t have the welcome distraction of his beautiful body arched in release to savor like a delicate pastry for her libido.

Stripping out of her wind pants and tank top, she headed for the shower. He hadn’t signed up to be her entertainment. How would she like to be caught in the act by a stranger? As the warm spray hissed from the detachable showerhead, she made up her mind. She had to tell him. It was wrong not to, but was she brave enough to knock on his door and just speak her piece? He was probably in his own shower right now, washing the evidence of his release down the drain.

Her nipples pebbled as she imagined him sharing the hot water with her. Her mind’s eye conjured his semen-covered torso, and those hands skimming over her wet curves. In her fantasy he would like what he saw, didn’t care about the burn scars that covered her legs. He would worship her bare body with his fingers, his mouth.

Groaning she hefted her breasts, thumbing the nipples, imagined the wet friction came from his lips and tongue. Those blunt fingers would delve into her saturated folds, preparing her body to take his thick cock.

“Sam, I want you,” he’d whisper, guiding her foot to the edge of the tub and poising his erection at her opening. She’d look into his eyes, see the love there, real honest caring.

Her head thunked back in the wall as the desire trickled down the drain. Damn it, this was so ridiculous. She had no idea what the man even
looked
like and she pretended he loved her? If life experience had taught her one brutal truth , it was Samantha Jacobs wouldn’t know sincere emotion if it bit her on the ass.

She shut the water off and had just started drying when the phone rang. Swathing herself in a towel she hurried to the bedroom and fumbled the portable. “Hello?”

 “Hey baby, you miss me?” The deep voice slithered from the unit, chilling her to the core.

Click. Sam disconnected the call and replaced the receiver on the base unit with a trembling hand. Damn it, how had Alan found her number? She shivered. He wasn’t supposed to be able to contact her. Yet someone in the prison kept slipping him a cell phone along with her updated information. No one had been able to stop him and the chilling reality consumed her. Incarceration only slowed him down. Eventually, he would kill her.

All the sexual heat was pushed out of her system by the realistic cold front. Tears filled her eyes but she ruthlessly scrubbed them away. She would
not
be his victim anymore, damn it.

He could play his head games all day long but he only won if she cowered in a corner, and didn’t leave the house. That wasn’t an option, not for her. Taking precautions was one thing, but she wasn’t about to let Allen terrorize her or control her life for another second. She had her bar with Stella and she was going to live her life to the fullest.

Dressing in jeans and a red tank top, she marched downstairs and peered at the house across the street. Although tempting, writing the note would be cowardly. Sliding her feet into sandals and grabbing her keys and purse, she squared her shoulders and crossed the street.

****

“Damn it, what the hell is she doing?” Trevor Harrison swiveled away from his computer screen and peered out the window as Samantha Jacobs marched purposefully towards his front door. Closing the laptop that showed the interior of her house, he scanned the rental for any other signs of his purpose. A one-man operation and a pitiful budget didn’t lead to a large scale stakeout. Trevor was doing this gig on his own time, financing it on his own dime and about a million favors. The bugs had been planted, the two cameras in place, one in the foyer, feeding off her pedestrian security system, the other in her bedroom. Everything was routed to this laptop, so as long as she wasn’t coming over to check her email, she wouldn’t know.