Castor's storie(s)
“Hey! You hold back there, girlie. I ain’t doing this JUST for your pleasure, y’know!”
It is not really the way this is said but how that excites Sally more than she believes is possible because the speaker has their soft, warm, lips so close to her left ear that she can actually feel the moistness of them. Add the fact that after she says it she licks that ear very gently with an even more moist tongue and then breathes softly against it and it is not really surprising that she is now perilously close to orgasm.
Her situation has changed somewhat. She still cannot move, or speak, or see and she is still naked. she has also lost all track of time so, for what seems like hours, she has suffered an erotic torment of the type that even her, perhaps overactive, imagination could never even have dreamed of but prior to this she has been moved.
The first thing Sally remembers is trying to open her eyes, a normal part of the waking process. The problem is that she can’t and this triggers a rising feeling of panic that, under normal circumstances, would probably result in her thrashing around in the space where she is lying and trying desperately to get up but she simply cannot do it.
She takes a deep breath to try to calm herself.
She has feeling. She feels strange sensations around her ankles and wrists. Tight but somehow soft and silky. She makes her mind do something other than panic.
She has been restrained!
Her legs are wide apart, her arms comfortably at her sides but she cannot move any of them. An idle thought tells her that this is the stuff of her fantasies. Another thought tells her that this is neither the time nor the place. She tries to rise up out of what has to be the soft, warm and comfortable bed that she is laying in but nothing will work.
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It is shortly after midnight on the little ward that lays two floors below the main hospital. It is dark down here apart from the light from the computer that sits on the nurse’s station at the centre of the small, eight bedded room and, unusually for a hospital where patient care is uppermost, all the curtains that surround the beds are closed.
None of the patients are visible on Bond Ward and it is eerily quiet. The nurse sitting at the computer and studying it intensely is Sally Stephens. Sally is pale skinned and has long, fair, hair. She would be considered a typical English Rose type if it wasn’t for the fact that she weighs more than 200 pounds but the weight is evenly distributed, her soft brown eyes are sparkling and vaguely hypnotic and she has the smiling face of a chubby angel. Only the most dedicated Fatty Hater could possibly dislike Sally.
The anxiety building up in my stomach actually seemed to hurt as I watched Faith walk, almost as if mesmerised, towards Annabelle who stood with her legs slightly apart and one hand lightly resting on the off button of the machine that was keeping the restrained and unconscious Siobhan alive. She looked up for an instant.
“Don’t forget Paul,” her wild eyes were staring into mine, “that I’m watching both of you. If you so much as move, Siobhan dies!” she turned her gaze back to Faith, “You know the same goes for you, sweetie and that’s far enough now. Stay where you are and take your shoes off!” Faith looked up at her but Annabelle was not in the mood for a conversation. She sighed audibly,
The small, white and centrally lit room that served as a slightly makeshift operating theatre was quiet apart from the slight, regular, beep of a heart monitor and the constant but vital mechanical breathing of the old, but still effective, ventilator that had, from its appearance and its sound, seen slightly better days. That sound was, in itself, quite unmistakeable, if somewhat monotonous, to people of a certain age. Hiss, click, wheeze. Hiss, click, wheeze. A noise that would go on and on and on until the patient to whom it was connected either recovered sufficiently to recommence breathing on their own, or it was simply switched off for a number of possible reasons.
It had rained incessantly for several hours now . The winds had abated somewhat but there were already reports of flooding in the Home Counties. The sky was pregnant with thick, dark, storm clouds and the roads and the pavements glistened wetly in the dull street lighting.
I was in a part of London I didn’t know and didn’t particularly want to know either and I wasn’t there by choice. I was supposed to be meeting someone. Not a lover, or even a friend, but someone who just about registered as an acquaintance.
She had homed in on me the previous week at the hospital with tales of mutual friends and a request that we meet for dinner. I knew her, by reputation only, as one of the better Hospital Chief Administrators but for some reason, in a profession rife with gossip, no one ever seemed to talk, or know, very much about her. She knew me, however, as a recently promoted Consultant in Orthopaedic Surgery and I had a feeling that she knew a lot of other things about me too. More things than I might really want her to know. It was important we talk, she said. “How about next Tuesday?” she enquired hopefully and ,“What about The Ivy at eight thirty?” Slightly out of my league but flushed, both with promotion and by being asked out by a not unattractive woman for the first time in a very long while, I agreed.
