How I Got Rid of Writer's Block

[Dave2112]

One blank page after the other. That’s all it had been for months. Too many months. I thought that the ideas would never dry up, the drive never cease, the desire never dilute. But, alas, like every writer before me and every one that will come long after my demise, the ugly demon worked its way into my head.

Writer’s block.

I deal with words as a profession. I devote my life to them. Funny how those two particular words are the most frightening when put together. I could write about the most horrid tortures, the most insidious forms of torment, the terrible things that go through the mind of an unwilling victim…and the words do nothing for me. No fear, no pause for reflection…just words. But put those two little one-syllable words together and….you get the picture.

So why are you reading this now? Did I have an epiphany? Did the veil burn away from eyes, the wet cement loosen from my brain? I guess I could say that, it would be the most romantic way to explain how writer’s block goes away. I could bullshit you into believing that my highly advanced mind drove through the blockade through sheer force of will, I’m pretty good at stuff like that.

But that’s not it. Not even close. I’ll let you in on a little secret…

…if you promise not to tell, ok?

A few months back, I saw a movie on DVD that I’d rented. It was called “Cabin by the Lake”. I won’t go into the details, but it was basically about a horror writer who decides to live the old adage “write what you know”. Considering that he made a fortune off of books about murder, and his latest was about a maladjusted individual who drowned young girls in the local lake and kept them as a kind of “garden”…you can put two and two together and guess what he spent his time doing. “Write what you know”…that does have a certain ring to it, I thought. Now how could I apply that to my situation? I write about tickle-torture, not murder…but the themes are similar, right? Would it work? Would I really get away with it if I tried? Only one way to find out, I guess.

So I took some time off. I stopped creating altogether and cleared my head. I made up some crap to my fans about going through depression, something not uncommon amongst the artistic types. Then I started working on a plan. I had quite a lot to figure out, so I decided to make an outline, just like a writer would do for a major novel. I needed to know the “Who, How and When” of the whole thing.

The “Who” was the easy part. Erica. No question.

Erica had featured in a few of my fantasy stories, my way of doing to her what I’d wanted to for years without ever having to actually do it. We worked together, and nary a day went by that I didn’t imagine her tight little body strapped down in one type of restraint or another, forced laughter gushing out of her as I tormented her endlessly. If you’re gonna dream about kidnapping someone for this kind of activity, you couldn’t imagine a better victim. Long flowing hair, brown with blond highlights, doe-eyes, pretty in that heart-melting sort of way. A little short, but so am I. Smallish tits, but perfect for her frame. THE premiere ass on the planet, which she showed off at every opportunity with her collection of spray-on jeans. Her body was luscious, as I was able to tell on the occasions where she’d reach up, stretch or any other excuse to taunt me. The sight of her shirt rising up to expose the soft, smooth flesh of her midriff, the deep perfect oval of her navel, the symmetrical curve of her tiny waist was something that would stick with me for the rest of the day. She knew it, and used it constantly. It’s not that she was a really bitchy girl or a classic tease, she just knew I had a thing for her and was one of those women who liked having some control over guys. She’d flirt, but I always knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. How did I know this? Easy, she flirted with everyone like that, all the while having one dumb-ass muscle-freak for a boyfriend after another. Like I said, it’s not that she was a total bitch, but she used men like toys. It was just her nature.

Ok, so now that the “Who” was out of the way, I decided on “When”. Also easy. We had recently added a morning shift at work which Erica took. 3 am to 11 am. I knew her route, I knew when she left…and I knew that she left her car unlocked at night, like so many in my small, quiet area do. I was on my two-week vacation, so the time was upon me.

Now for the “How”. This would be the most difficult of the three points to plan. I read back over my past works of fiction, and those of a few of my colleagues and found the things that wouldn’t work first. One, I had to disguise myself. The threats that many of my fictional characters had used on their victims to keep them quiet afterwards made for great fiction, but none would work in the real world. If she knew for one second that it was me, I’d be in a cell within a day and “married” to Buford the Sodomizing Moonshiner within a week. On a side note, the thought made me wonder how many cartons of cigarettes my ass was really worth. Not satisfied with any result I came up with, I opted for a black pull-over mask. The voice was another thing altogether. I didn’t want to have to remain silent, although that was an option if all else failed. I thought about voice-synthesizers and even knew where to get one, but the cost was utterly prohibitive. Most of my spare money I’d spent on the chloroform, which is not as easy to get as you’d think after reading about its use so many times. I wound up settling on something I found at Toys-R-Us of all places. It was kind of like a microphone with a small box on it, and it effectively converted a voice into one of several “effect” voices. I played with it for a while and settled on the “Robotic” one. Tinny and metallic, but thick and loud enough to cover my own. The problem was that if I spoke too loudly, my own voice could be heard over that of the synthetic one. I took a gamble on this part, betting that Erica would be too concerned with her own overflow of stimuli to take much notice if I forgot myself and got too loud. I’d just have to watch it.

The rest was actually quite simple. Hide in the back of her car, wait for her to get in, wrap the drug-soaked cloth around her face and push her over after she passed out. No one lived within a mile of my house anyway, as I resided at the only house on a dead-end road that split two massive cornfields. Tons of privacy. Erica had never been to my house, and I wasn’t planning on her waking up until she was safely in the basement. Even if she described the place, it was just like every other basement in every other house in town. Hell, she didn’t even have to know she was still in town, did she? I could pretty much tell her anything…she’d have no idea how long she was out.

There. The planning was done. There was one thing I didn’t think about as I finally slid into the back seat of the red Grand Prix, the one intangible that had never crossed my mind until then.

The nerve.

I had written (and read) tons of stories about kidnapping, but do you have any idea how hard it is to really get up the nerve to do something like this? To take someone against their will, to scare the living shit out of them, to start to doubt if you can really overpower them? Would she manage to scream? Would she recognize me right away, regardless of all my careful planning? My organs decided to spontaneously rearrange themselves as these thoughts flew about my brain. My heart was in my throat, my stomach was somewhere in my crotch and my hands had apparently traded places with my feet for all the good they were doing me in trying to pour the chloroform onto the shaking rag. I’d like to say that I was the epitome of the cool, collected kidnapper…but I was scared shitless. Almost literally at one point, but we needn’t get into that.

I almost let a out a small yelp when Erica entered her car. The urge to bolt out of the back door and give her nothing more than a scary story to tell was so strong that it almost happened. But with a slow deep breath I somehow managed to get my nerves somewhat settled. As she nestled that perfect ass onto the front seat, the anxiety slowly started to become excitement, something I never saw coming. Before I had even done it, I could feel the warmth of her frightened breath seeping through the rag, the feel of her face against my palm and the desperate muffled cries of that voice that had reverberated through my mind on many a sleepless night.

And then it happened. Instinct took over, somehow knowing that I couldn’t let her reach the end of her driveway or I might not have a chance to control the car. All that I had thought about took place as the rag hit her nose and mouth. Her muffled screams were strangely satisfying and the struggling was sadly brief. I was actually getting into the feeling of overpowering her when she went slack. I dove over the seat and slammed the brake with my hand while dropping the stick into “Park”. Not as smooth as I would have liked, but effective nonetheless. In hindsight, I probably should have drugged her before she even started the car, but I’m not a professional at this, ok? So give me a break. I quickly got out, opened the driver’s door, shoved Erica’s limp form to the other side and got in.

Driving away, I glanced at her. She looked like a doll. Innocent, adorable and with no clue as to how she was going to be waking up. My heart was pounding in my chest, but I was starting to come to grips with this. I convinced myself that she deserved it, and I told myself over and over that it was all for the good of my failing craft. To tell the truth, I was extremely turned-on by the idea of being able to do whatever I wanted with her.

I pulled her car into my garage. Taking Erica in my arms, I let the door down, concealing her car from anybody else. I was alone at the end of my road, but there was a stretch of road that went past it and my house was visible from it. No sense going to all this trouble just to have someone see her car in my driveway, now was there?

I took her down to the basement. I felt a little weird, taking her clothes off with her unconscious like that, but I reminded myself that this wasn’t about rape, just “skin-access”. It was a different feeling than I imagined, and I’d imagined myself undressing Erica many times. Of course, she was usually willing and awake in these fantasies, but that’s neither here nor there.

I laid her light jacket in the corner and sat her up, with me behind her for support. I pulled her shirt over her head. She was wearing a light blue bra that even had one of those little bows in the front. I fought the urge to fondle her right then and there, having waited so long to feel those breasts beneath my fingers. I knew she’d wake up soon, and I had to get moving here. I unhooked the bra and the twin objects of my desire were finally bared to me. They were perfect. Small, but perfect. I wasn’t even sure why she bothered wearing a bra, as her tits didn’t seem to move at all upon the bra’s sudden departure.

Hurrying, both out of knowledge of the drugs temporary effect and knowledge of my own desires, I laid her back, removed her sneakers and socks (something I spent way too much time doing) and unzipped her tight jeans. They were “painted on” and it took some effort to get them off. What remained was a powder blue pair of panties that was close to being a thong. Just a wisp of satiny material held in place by frilly elastic string.

Fighting every impulse to start early, I worked on getting Erica in position. I had written about some pretty fantastic bondage devices, ridiculous “tickling machines” and any other form of restraint you could imagine, but settled on something I’d seen in a series of videos by a popular tickle-flick company. I built it in an hour, as it consisted of nothing more than a thick piece of plywood, sanded down smooth of course, and thick Velcro straps at strategic places. A few long pieces of foam helped support her head. I wondered if the Velcro would hold, but with straps at wrists, elbows, thighs, calves and ankles, the victim really had no leverage at all.

Successfully strapped down, Erica continued her even breathing as I gazed upon her gorgeous form. She was more heavenly than I’d ever imagined, and twice what I thought she’d be all those times I put her into one of my stories. Her arms were immobile, ending in a pair of deep smooth armpits. They curved nicely into her breasts, flattened a bit by the position, but still perky with the pinkish areolae and tiny nipples already started to pucker in the slight cold. Her ribs poked slightly through the tight skin of her ribcage, and underneath that was the most perfect belly for this sort of thing I’d ever laid eyes upon. Tight without being over thin, the curve of her waist flared lightly into the width of her hips, the bones there also protruding against the creamy flesh. Her thighs were immobile, pinned against the board, as were her sleek calves. And the feet that hung over the edge? Perfection in every sense of the word. Smooth arches, tiny globes for heels, ten evenly spaced and wonderfully proportioned toes that were tipped in nail polish of the same powder-blue as her tiny panties. I placed a thick piece of tape over her mouth, as I’d need her to be quiet and listen to me when she awoke. Well, that and I just wanted to see my lovely Erica helplessly gagged, sue me.

My nerves had calmed, quite surprisingly. I felt safer now that she was helpless and tucked away. The capture went smoothly, and that was the real sticking point. I had a feeling that I never tried to describe in any of my stories, because I’d never really felt it. It was like power tempered with anxiety. A fear that was somehow pleasant, if that makes any sense. As she slept, I stroked my hands over the parts of her body I planned to torment, imagining the screams and shrieks that would accompany them very shortly. I hated to admit it at the time, but just touching her was better than I ever imagined. Erica’s skin had a texture somewhere between silk and warm, solid cream. The small goosebumps that were forming on her body only added to the luxurious feel of the warm female flesh.

Then she started to come around. I felt my heart start to pound again. I knew she couldn’t break free, but I was anxious to get past the “calming stage”, the part where I filled her in to my plans. That came quickly. It only took about a minute for Erica to take stock of her predicament and start hurling screams at the grey barrier that sealed her supple mouth. Her eyes spoke of great fear and tears had started to form. I came into her line of sight, welcomed by another sudden shriek and the sight of her pulling hopelessly and desperately at her bonds. Thoroughly and a little guiltily enjoying the fear I was causing her, I let it hang for a moment. I let her see the black-clad figure of every woman’s nightmare stand over her. I allowed all the horror stories of kidnapped women to fill her brain with terrible possibilities. I could see in her eyes that she was thinking of exceedingly unpleasant things and to be honest, I enjoyed it. Then I held my breath, hoping that the last intangible in my plan worked, and spoke to her for the first time.

“My dear”, I said, quietly surprised at the twisted sound of my own altered voice, “You must calm down.”

Erica screamed again into the gag.

“If you stop for a moment, I will tell you why you are here, and what I have in store for you.” I said calmly, but the small device removed any inflection of tenderness I tried to muster.

After a few moments, she did relax a bit, but her breathing was still rapid and her arms still tugged at the black straps, so starkly evil against the light, tender skin.

“Now, I promise you that no one can here you where you are,” I began, “So if I take off the gag, you must understand that you will only succeed in irritating me if you begin that ungodly screaming again. Do you understand?” The words felt more natural than I’d thought coming out of me. Erica slowly shook her head Yes.

Gently removing the tape, I got a quick shiver that corresponded to her sharp intake of breath. The sound reduced her to a quivering little girl in my mind, removing any grrl-power attitude she ever tried to pull off.

“P-Please let me go,” she panted. “I’m scared, why am I-”

“Shhhh,” I said as I placed a finger against her moist lips, “Let me assure of two things that will not happen today. You will not be hurt and you will not be sexually violated, this I promise. Do you understand that much?”

Confused, as I’m sure that those were the very two things she first imagined happening, Erica slowly nodded her head again.

“Let me explain why you are here, then, ok?” I said, the voice-toy adding a sinister tone to the words. A sinister tone that I found I really enjoyed for some reason. Another lesson about myself learned.

“I don’t have any money,” she started in a rush, “I can’t give you anyth-”

“Money has no place in this. I am merely going to toy with you and amuse myself with your helpless body for a few hours, and then I will let you go. This I also promise.”

“Wh-what do you mean? You said you weren’t going to rape me! What the hell are you--”

“I’m only going to tickle you.”

Those six little words had a profound impact on the both of us, albeit in differing ways. To me, it was the last thing I thought I’d say, and they actually came as quite a surprise. In all of my fiction, my protagonists made long-winded, taunting speeches about their intentions, as the victim grew more and more frightened as those intentions dawned upon her. That those six words just spilled out proved how wrong I was about how this would really go down. It was a simple statement of fact, as I has no intention of playing around. Six words that had more power when spoken than a thousand did written.

The effect on Erica was something else I didn’t expect, and the reason I didn’t expect it was because I’d never actually seen it happen, I only wrote about it. She didn’t look at me with confusion, she didn’t laugh it off, she didn’t put on a false bravado in hopes of making me lose interest. In fact, she didn’t say anything at all. Three things happened at once. Her eyes became wide as saucers (I still swear I saw the pupils open up more), her mouth opened but no sound came out, and she began frantically pulling at the cruel straps. Her entire body thrashed as much as it could in a pitifully desperate attempt at escape. I could see that the notion of this kind of torment was worse than the two I’d previously eliminated.

“Does that bother you?” I asked, somehow amused, to be honest.

“Don’t! Please Don’t! Are you out of your mind?!?!?” she spat out between thrashes of her tiny body, “You sick fuck, you better not! I mean it, you can’t! You don’t know…you don’t-”

“I don’t know what?” I asked, trying to appear very aloof.

“I can’t stand it! You’ll kill me, really! I HATE being tickled! Why the hell are you doing this?”

“For my own amusement, that’s all that need concern you.” I said flatly. I had my heroines say many things at the moment of realization, so I was sure that Erica would bump into one of them, the “You-really-don’t-know-how-ticklish-I-am” speech being the one I least expected, actually.

I couldn’t help myself. I leaned in close to her head and spoke softly and slowly.

“I was hoping you’d react this way. I am going to tickle you everywhere, and for a long time. Every inch of your little body will be tormented and you will remain strapped down and helpless the whole time, do you understand?” The feeling of actually saying those words was better than even I had thought. I was taking great pride in setting up her fear. I now knew how horrible anticipation can be.

“Perhaps we should start here.” I said as I wriggled one of my fingers in front of her face and made a show of bringing it closer to her taut right armpit.

“Nooooo,” Erica moaned as she pulled against the bonds with everything she had.

When my finger first brushed against the tight skin, I knew in an instant why my writing had gone dry. There are no words that can accurately relate the feel of using this torment on an unwilling victim. My finger drew slowly down the length of the deep hollow and back up a gain, stroke after tender stroke against the unwilling flesh. It was almost cute how Erica tried to pull away from that side. She must have been telling the truth about her ticklishness from the bellowing reaction I got from even this light touch. Her giggles came hard and fast, like a staccato of bullets out of a machine gun. They only intensified as I put another finger into play in her other armpit. Stroking the single fingers up and down endlessly, her laughs were short, quick and many.

“Noplease!…HaaHaaHaaHaa…ohshit…Haahaaahaahaa…p-please!PLEASE!!!..HAAHAAHAA!”

I loved the sound of her helpless laughter more than I thought possible. Just knowing that she had no desire to laugh in her current situation made it even better. As I added more wriggling fingers to the torment of her ticklish armpits, I realized that there was another flaw in the stories I’d written. I always wrote in stages, tickling one part of the body at a time. I knew now that I was going to be all over this girl, everywhere and anywhere, over and over. I couldn’t stay in one place too long, first because her getting used to an area was not fiction, and second because I simply wanted to go apeshit on her. Wriggling the fingers faster, I tickled the sides of those cute little breasts. I ran my fingers softly over her hardening nipples, made circles around the areola, tickled the sides again, went back into her armpits and down the sides of her ribs. I continued this pace for quite some time as I watched Erica grow more and more frustrated with her inability to move and ever more frightened at the realization that I really wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

Her laughter was growing more forced and louder, if possible. As my fingers drifted over the taut skin again and again and I paid more attention to her protruding ribs, she would take a deep breath, bellow out a few successive laughs and draw another deep breath. Again and again she screamed and laughed.

I stopped for a moment to let her catch a little breath. I was using both hands, so I’d laid the voice-mangler aside. I was having more fun without speaking to her, anyway. I looked into her eyes as I clawed my hands and hovered them over her ribs, thin bones pushing against soft, tight skin. She started pleading when she realized my target.

“OHGODNO! PLEASENOTTHERE!!!! This is INSANE!!!! PLE-HEE-HEE-HEEEEZE?!?!”

The mask over my face hid my evil grin, but I knew she saw the thin squint of my eyes as I brought my hands to her ribs in a quick attack. The screaming began again immediately as each rib found itself tickled. It was like a cross between a massage and a poke-fest as I assaulted the small ribcage with hard torment and light fluttery tickles. The light ones drifted again into the territory of her heavenly underarms, only to drop back to the rib-assault. Erica’s eyes squeezed shut and she resumed her habit of deep breath and bellow. The laughter was starting to mix in with a few sobs.

The feel of her skin rubbing against the thin ribs was something I wondered if I’d even be able to write about. I tickled, she reacted…I poked, she jumped…I had the cause, she embodied the effect.

I was starting to get taken away in the moment. After one particularly vicious attack on her ribs, tits and underarms, I surprised her by raking my clawed fingers down her sides. The effect was astounding. When I touched her waist, she let out a long scream followed by a burst of quick laughs. I pulled the stiff fingers down her flanks, only to go back up the length of her body again and flutter under her arms. This pattern repeated more times that I’d planned, simply because I loved the reaction I was getting. It was like playing an instrument. Different touches to different places produced a myriad of hellishly tormented notes that came together in a symphony of torture.

That’s when I went nuts.

My fingers were pumping and wriggling at light speed when I started at the tops of her forearms and slowly worked my way down her body…into her pits, down her ribs, over her tits, down her sides, over the flat surface of her sexy belly, on either side of her cute little navel, down the helplessly parted thighs, stopping to pinch her knees and wriggling at her ankles. It was there that I stopped and gave Erica that squinty-eyes look again. She tried to catch her breath and look at me at the same time. The sight of her craning her neck to see me wriggling my fingers a few inches away from her bare feet was priceless to say the least.

“N--NO!….ha ha ha haa haa…” she panted as the breath refused to catch up with the girl, “pleasenoplease!!! Not my FEET!!! NOT MY FEEEAAAIIIGGHHH!!!!!!!”

The scream came fast as the two soft arches fell victim to ten merciless fingers stroking the tender nerves into hysterics. As I tickled Erica’s trapped feet, I noticed things that I never described in my previous stories. Things that only now were coming into focus. The way her feet wriggled from side to side. The look of the thick, unmoving straps wrapped tightly against the thin ankles. Knowing that there was no pull against the ankle-straps due to the thigh and shin straps keeping her from putting any real strength into it. As I stroked each sole up and down in a lazy motion, I took notice of the clenching leg muscles, the curling and wiggling toes, the rise and fall of her ribcage and the flattening and expanding of her belly. I grabbed one foot and pulled back her tiny toes, rubbing my fingernails lightly over skin I’m sure had never been touched by another hand before, and certainly not like this. Erica’s laughter gave way to a long scream. In all my imaginings, I never thought a small girl could make such a horrible (but somehow pleasing) sound. It was like she was being skinned or boiled. Quickly grabbing her other foot in the same manner, I tickled the tender skin there and continued raking her immobile sole. I wanted to see what sound she’d come up with next. I backed away a bit and extended both hands to tickle both helpless feet. Wriggling fingers gave way to single finger strokes, which in turn made room for more nail-raking and back to all-out assault.

Erica’s voice was growing hoarse, and forced laughter was quickly giving way to open crying. Actually, it was more like a hitching cry, broken up by what I’m sure was supposed to be laughter. She managed a few words in between, lovely little gems like “why me?”, “please lemme go”, “I’m gonna die”….wonderful things like that. I wasn’t sure which I liked more…the actual tickling or knowing that Erica was in utter agony.

I moved back up her legs and tickled inside her thighs, for which I was rewarded with a real dose of “Silent laughter”. I then knew why I never tried to describe this phenomenon before, it simply defies description. Hitching breath mixed with a sound too weak to pass out of lungs paralyzed with sensation. I stroked the area just above her panty-line over and over again. I traced a line along the thin straps, digging in when I got to her hipbones. The horrid crying resumed (as best it could over the drawing of breath) when the tender spot right above the bones was tickled. Then the “pincer move”. This was what finally and utterly broke Erica. I took each side, a few inches above the hips, and grabbed the warm, sexy flesh between thumbs and forefingers. Then, without mercy, I squeezed in and out…over and over. The feel of the skin rubbing against the tight muscle underneath, fully knowing what it was doing to the poor girl, was something that I’d taken for granted every time I wrote about it. Erica had the sexiest middle of any girl I knew, and my tickle-lust (another thing that I only now knew the real meaning of) took over. Pity was gone. Guilt had packed up and left for a long holiday in the Hamptons. Mercy was nowhere to be found. I realized that I was just as much a captive as Erica was. I was caught in the grip of physical excitement, of total domination…and I was loving it.

The torture of Erica’s belly soon became the torture of her entire body. Lost as I was in my blind lust, I was roaming around the board that pinned my captive down like a classroom butterfly. Every angle presented a new spot to tickle, a different reaction and a change in technique. I fluttered my fingers in her right armpit, poked into the right side of her ribcage, wriggled ten fingers over her waist. Walking farther down, I pinched inside her thighs, stroked her legs and once again held back the toes of her right foot to torture the helpless sole. Standing in between her feet, I tickled them both evenly before isolating the left one for a ten-fingered assault. Walking back up the other side of the board, I stroked her legs, took a chance and lightly tickled her pussy (which got a stronger reaction than I’d thought, her giggles returning for the first time in a while). The screams and crying returned as I dug both hands into her left side, tickling her harder than I’d ever allowed myself to do to anyone before. The left side of Erica’s ribcage became a soft piano upon which I played a macabre tune, which ended with the finishing trill of begging sobs as her left armpit and breast were tickled simultaneously.

After the trip around the bondage-table, I stood back and looked at what was once a strong-willed young woman. What I saw now was a shuddering, convulsing wreck, broken beyond comprehension, no longer laughing. Tears flowed down her reddened cheeks, sobs spilled out like a five-year-old who got lost in the mall.

And I knew I needed to finish her off for good. There was one more threshold to cross. The point where the victim thinks it’s over, only to have that small respite snatched away. As I slowly approached the table again, Erica simply started crying in convulsions. I grasped her waist in both hands and dug in. For ten solid minutes I tickled the middle of her body, caressing the tender stomach muscles, poking a finger into her navel, stroking the flat surface of the reddening tummy and back to the pinching torture of her extremely ticklish sides. Erica’s body squirming and writhing was a lovelier sight to behold than any fantasy I’d ever had about making love to her. The sound of her gasping cries and bellowing screams were more pleasing than any whispered eroticism I dreamed of hearing time and time again.

Finally finished, for fear of actually harming her, I backed away. I waited for her to finish crying and convulsing before I picked up the voice changing device and spoke to her again.

“You are finished….for now.” I said quite simply. That was the other thing I’d written about that I truly needed to experience for myself. A victim waiting for the inevitable, watching time have no meaning to her anymore.

“P-P-…Please…..n-n-no more….I…I c-can’t…t-take….it….” she managed to eek out between ragged breaths.

“You will, regardless. Several more times today, all at my discretion. I’m afraid it’s going to be quite…horrible. Then you will be returned.”

This was the last thing I said to her. Over the course of the rest of the day, I watched her. I placed a blindfold over her eyes while I was not torturing her. There were times that she didn’t even know I was in the room. I would reach out and give her a quick tickle, only to stop and remain silent for a long time. There were other times that I tore off the blindfold and made my intentions clear. I kept her on the edge, both physically and emotionally all day long. I was recording every action, every nuance and every sound in my head for future use.

When the time came to end the day, I drugged Erica again, dressed her and placed her in her car. Knowing it would be stupid to drive her back to her own place (they’d assume that her captor was someone she knew rather than a random snatching), I left her on a side road and walked back to my house, about a three mile jaunt. No biggie. It gave me time to “drop” a matching black mask onto the road, one with several hairs discreetly snatched from my barber-shop’s floor. It gave me time to get home and burn the remaining clothing.

And it gave me time to think.

Armed with a refreshed mind and an encyclopedia of new experience, I sat down to write again. No blank pages this time. The block was gone, the words flowed and the memory will forever stay locked in my mind. There is always a solution to any problem, I was once told, and I guess some methods are more extreme than others. Sure, I felt guilty for a while, and more than a little nervous that I’d pointed the finger at myself in some unforeseen way, but soon that all calmed. The guilt disappeared as I simply accepted what I’d done. Erica seemed none the worse for wear when I saw her at work again. Being on two different shifts now, I only crossed paths with her for a few moments each day. I knew that she missed a few days, but I never heard anything about an “incident”, so if she reported it, I don’t know about it, and I’m sure as hell not going to ask.

Would you?