Short Stories : The Candle Burns by Begin Again Kidnapped! writing prompt entry |
Outside, the sun spread it's warm, comforting rays across the garden, embracing the bobbing heads of the red tulips. The purple crocus and yellow daffodils enjoyed the sweet trill of a nearby robin. Inside, a thin layer of frost spread across my heart, bringing a chill to my soul. Okay, so maybe I was being a bit melodramatic. Viewed as a flaw, my husband, Mike, seldom missed a chance to remind me how easily I dramatized a situation. Considering writing was my prime objective in the world of work, I failed to see his point. This morning was no exception. While I'd hurried downstairs to prepare breakfast, his favorite - eggs, sausage, hash browns and freshly brewed coffee, he'd pulled the blanket over his head and snagged a few extra zees. Needless to say, as the aroma drifted upstairs and into the bedroom, Mike awoke, glared at the alarm clock, and was instantly propelled to a standing, no - running position. Realizing he'd overslept, he charged toward the shower, stubbing his toe on the way. The series of curse words that followed were loud enough to reach my ears. Ten minutes later, clean shaven and dressed, he stormed the kitchen. My smiling face greeted him as I awaited my morning kiss. Instead, he took two gulps of coffee, grabbed a piece of wheat toast in one hand and his jacket in the other, and announced, "I'm late," as he rushed out the door. My jaw dropped to the floor, and on it's way back up, a string of expletives exploded from my mouth, none of them part of the farewell I'd planned. I tossed his breakfast into the garbage with a flourish that would have put a maestro to shame. My arms flailed the air as I tossed pots and pans into the sink, banging each one for emphasis. That's where the melodramatic comes into the picture. I wasn't really impressing anyone since I was the only one there. Now I had a kitchen to clean. Fuming, I bundled up my excess energy and used it to clear away the debris. While I scrubbed the pans, I allowed my mind to drift, composing a murder story in my thoughts with Mike as the victim, of course. Lost in my treacherous thoughts, I didn't hear the footsteps behind me. My frantic scream gurgled in my throat as a man's hand clamped across my mouth. The author of too many thrillers, the worst possible scenarios flashed through my mind - beatings, rape, torture, even death by slow, meticulous, yet diabolical ways. Instead of the adrenaline surge my heroines always obtained, sweat trickled down my back, my body began to tremble, darkness enveloped me, and I fainted. When consciousness returned, I was lying on a bed, blindfolded. A faint breeze brushed across my skin. I sensed my nipples tightening at the sensation. I was naked, exposed. Dreamily, I thought of Mike's tongue playfully teasing me. Two seconds later, reality set in. I remembered this morning and realized this wasn't a game. I'd been kidnapped. Three seconds later, I realized my hands were tied to the bedpost. A muffled voice spoke, "Don't struggle. Lie still. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise." The tone of his voice was mellow, sincere, not threatening at all. I forced myself to lie still as he'd asked. I wondered how long I'd been unconscious. Was I still in our home or had he taken me some place else? My brain shifted into writer's mode and I catalogue the possibilities, imagining different scenarios. My abductor was moving around the room. I listened, trying to imagine my surroundings. Soft music was playing. Was my mind playing tricks or was that my favorite song? I inhaled and the smell of vanilla filled my senses. I hadn't heard him spray anything. Was he lighting candles, the vanilla votives that filled my own bedroom? A popping noise near the bed made me jump. I felt pressure on the bed and realized he was sitting next to me. I felt his breath against my skin and then his lips against mine. I tasted the sweet taste of Asti as his tongue skillfully parted my lips and pushed inside. His scent was familiar. Wasn't that the same cologne I'd bought Mike for Christmas? He withdrew his tongue from my mouth. Involuntarily, my tongue flickered across my lips. I could still taste the champagne. He kissed and nibbled his way down my body, stopping to tease my breasts with his tongue before continuing his journey. A bolt of unexpected pleasure shot through my body. Stopping only inches above my soft mound of womanhood, he chuckled, a low, soft rumble. "Hmmm ... if I remember right, this is where you got writer's block and didn't know which way to go with your story?" My latest writing attempt exploded in my mind and the difference of opinion I'd had with my husband. My blood soared to a boiling point. "Mike?" He removed the scarf from my eyes. Laughter and amusement greeted me. I shot daggers at him. "Now simmer down. I promised not to hurt you, didn't I?" "Untie me, you stupid ignoramus. I'm going to kill you when I get my hands on you." "Then, I guess, I'll just have to keep you tied to the bed while I pleasure myself. After all, Miss Drama Queen, it is our anniversary." "I don't care if it's- You didn't forget? I thought this morning. You didn't even kiss me goodbye." "You think too much." He leaned over and kissed me again, hot, sweet, and filled with passion. My body betrayed me and I returned the kiss. "What about work?" "I called in sick." "I'm still going to kill you." I threatened him, but not with as much venom as the last time. "I know ... but later." His tongue swirled around my nipples. He was so right. "Hmmmm." My back arched as I greeted his touch. "Yeah, later. "Happy Anniversary, Honey." "Shut up and kiss me ... you can talk some other time."
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