Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
My pleasure slips away quickly.
I hate being interrupted.
“Hello, Golden Locksmiths.” I attempt to sound professional, even though I’m a little out of breath.
“Hello.” The voice is deep and smooth, like the best kind of chocolate. “I’m sorry to disturb you. My house has been broken into. I need a new set of locks. Would you be able to come tonight?”
“Yes.” I sit up and fling the comforter off my legs. “Give me a second to find a pen.” I put the phone into speaker mode and fumble around in my bedside drawer, finding my notepad and pen set. “What’s your location?”
The man lists an unfamiliar address, tells me his name is Mr. Bjorn, and that I'll need to use GPS to find the house. He also specifies the locks he requires in detail, all of which I carry in stock. I provide him with a price and agree to be with him within the hour before I disconnect the call.
A small key rests on my nightstand, and I free my captured hand from it’s single cuff, sighing with frustration. Tonight’s fantasy is over. It’s back to reality with a thud.
I generally wear overalls for work. They’re comfortable and have pockets, and I don’t mind them getting dirty. The sexy gold satin camisole and shorts set that I’m currently wearing adds to the strength of my fantasies, making it easier to get into character. Mr. Bjorn’s urgency inspires me to throw my overalls over my pajamas for speed. I secure my curly blonde hair in a messy bun, rushing because it’ll take me a few minutes to make my way to my store where I keep the locks.
My mom has always joked about my choice of career, mostly accompanied by a derisive sneer, recalling the same tales of me locking myself into small places as a child. My favorite hiding place had been in the cupboard beneath the stairs. There was a key on the outside, that I used to take inside, and I can still recall the excitement I felt when I turned the tiny black key and the lock clicked into place. There was an old brown carpet inside that used to feel soft, like a bearskin rug. I could avoid Mom’s withering looks while I was locked away. I could pretend to be somewhere else.
When I was a child, I had a box of keys that I would play with, mostly vintage ones that my dad would get from the thrift store. Some were new and plain but others had intricate handles. I also had notebooks with padlocks that I would write secrets into, and even a child-sized police officer’s costume I left in the box, only eager to play with the handcuffs.
The root cause of my lock fascination is a mystery, but as I grew up, the interest became sexual in nature. My fantasies always involve metal cuffs or padlocks and chains, securing me into restrictive positions. The clink when keys are turned, makes my clit tingle and swell. It’s become a strange hazard of my work, getting turned on when replacing locks for customers.
I’ve been too embarrassed to admit my kink in any past relationships. My curly fair hair and wide, cerulean eyes give me an air of innocence, and the type of men who find that look appealing want a sweet girlfriend, not one with strange demands for complicated and dangerous-sounding kinky sex. So, my fantasies have remained a secret; a pleasure I only explore in my mind and by sometimes fastening a cuff to one of my hands just for a little physical enhancement.
The drive to Mr. Bjorn’s house is fast because of the late hour, but I’m watchful of my surroundings because it’s set in an area that I’ve never been to before. The property is surrounded by a section of private wood in the larger Blackwood Forest. The driveway is long and winding, with trees on either side that caress each other’s branches overhead, blocking any light from the moon above. My headlights cast a short, yellow arc of light that elongates with every bump. It takes ten minutes to reach the house, which appears amongst the trees, so suddenly that I have to swerve the car and slam my foot on the brakes.
The mansion is huge, dark, and imposing, as though the gray stone has accumulated years of soot, dust, and trapped memories. It rises ominously from the ground into the ink-black sky. Maybe fifteen tall windows face the front, but only one light glows above the front door. The trees surround it, leaning in like they’re reaching out arms in worship or protection. As I step from my vehicle into the cool night air and carry my toolbox and supplies to the front door, the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. I haven’t told anyone where I am. If something happens, how long would it take someone to find me? Could they find me?