Caroline breathed in the clean, warm breeze as her bare feet luxuriated atop a thick carpet of green, green grass. The noon sun was shining reassuringly against her pretty face. It was good to be alive. The only thorn in Caroline’s reverie was her not knowing why she was sunbathing in a public space in only her black silk bra and panties. Until she heard the boots. My boots. It was a series of footsteps that belied not haste or boredom. Caroline drew her face away from the brilliant sunshine and pulled her knees up against her chest so that her bare feet could kiss the grass one last time. Caroline knew. The sound of those boots exuded confidence. So the blonde girl in her risque lingerie jumped up to run away. Far, far away from the sound of the boots. Their hellish boom, boom, boom seemed to Caroline to be coming from a dell near that copse of trees. But no walkway - no tarmac - existed in the young girl’s vision to create the ominous sound of confident boots approaching. So Caroline turned to flee…and saw that four stout walls and a low ceiling imprisoned her completely. The sun, the breeze, the green grass existed light years away. Caroline was trapped…as the sound of my boots drew closer. So proud defiant Caroline prepared to fight. To resist like her older brothers had taught her. Heel of the hand, knee to the groin, tooth and jowl to defend herself. But as the lady of Valencia raised her fists in valiant defense the rope bindings at her back - and those at her ankles - made resistance a fantasy. A non-starter. Caroline was trapped. Caroline was bound tight. So as the symphony of the boots neared the single door that led inside (and out of) Caroline’s cell the intrepid female told herself to scream. To SCREAM the moment that door opened a crack so that someone somewhere might hear her anguished plea for rescue. Until Caroline realized her roommate’s panties were still shoved inside her mouth. Halfway down her throat. And that her own kissable lips were swathed in silver duct tape. Trapped. Bound. Silenced. So as my boots finally reached their destination upon the side of the door opposite from where Caroline Alonso was being held in thrall it struck my victim that perhaps the one option - the SINGLE option - that remained to her in this dungeon was prayer. But the whore was mistaken. Because I did in fact deign Caroline one luxury. A single freebie. She could wait. Wait for the inevitable. Wait for the unbearable. I was on the other side of the door from poor Caroline. And she wouldn’t have to wait much longer.
