Frozen Assets Ch. 1

NOT long now.

I check my Rolex again, the small in-built light illuminating the watch face. It's dark in the closet, the wooden slats of the door providing only a little natural light. The small stool is hard, my buttocks are numb and my back aches. I'm not claustrophobic, but I've had enough of this enclosed space, with all its cleaning implements, packing cases and a box of garish Christmas decorations. There's even a doll, with plaited woollen hair – one of hers, naturally – peeking out at me from the top of one of the packing cases. Not her favourite toy, but one with enough sentimental value to be kept, although packed away until there are more spacious quarters for it to adorn some shelf or wardrobe top. The doll's fabric smile leers at me, and I can't help but feel a little uncomfortable under its felt-eyed gaze. Despite my essential calmness and patience, I reach out, more for want of something to do than anything else and adjust the doll's position in the box so that it stares at the dark closet ceiling instead.

Not too long until we move to a new flat, or, better still a house. True, property prices are booming – 'rocketing' is the current parlance - but we should make a steal on this place. Who'd have thought a grotty East End tenement could one day be desirable property?

I stifle a yawn and peer through the slats again. She's late, that's for sure, but the traffic over to the East of the City can be pretty horrendous this time of day. It'll be okay once they finish that light railway link they're working on. I stand up in the cramped confines of the closet and stretch – got to keep the muscles toned for what's coming soon. If you play The Game you have to be fit.

She's fit, that's for sure. In the odd hours when she's not working, she's down the gym, toning, honing and making herself look even more attractive than she already is. In fact, in the past eighteen months that we've been together, since our memorable meeting, she's bloomed – physically, professionally and, crucially – sexually. The Game has been good for both of us, our natural affection and love for each other not stifled by the strictures of our amusement, but enhanced by it. It seems that the more we play out the fantasy, the stronger the 'real life' love becomes.

See, I'd failed to understand that part of The Game, even though I had a good teacher myself, many years before. It's not just about total dominance and submission between the two players. Sure, anyone can play at that, and there's plenty of women I've known who have played. The crucial, underlying trick, the very essence of the fun is that the players really abide by it. We both play hard – she plays hard to lose by resistance, thus enhancing her pleasure at the point of total submission a hundredfold. I play to win, the struggle to make her capitulate enhancing my own enjoyment. We grow with it. We become closer with it. The trick, as I may have mentioned before, is to play it with style.

A metallic clicking sound draws my attention back to the matters at hand. A key in the front door lock – her key. She's home! I poise myself at the closet door, but keeping far enough back not to betray my presence by breathing too heavily or jogging the door open. Timing is crucial, all part of the approach. Style again, you see?

I adjust the ring modulator on my throat. Neat little device this, pretty high-tech. A small part-payment in lieu of owed cash by a grateful client. Apparently they use these in big Hollywood films. This guy – decent enough New Yorker – has some contacts in the movie world. Must be a pretty good judge of character if he thought I'd want to disguise my voice for any occasion. He's probably thinking in terms of business deals over the phone. I'm thinking in terms of seizure.

The front door opens onto the darkened hall, light from the landing illuminating the passageway. She's silhouetted against the light, the outline of her hair, her long coat, and briefcase in hand clearly visible. By her very posture – even though it's upright and business-like as she always is, betrays her fatigue at the end of a long day. I fancy it also betrays her sexual frustration, making her keyed-up, receptive to what I have planned. I never actually let on to her, of course, but my bouts of 'tiredness' due to overwork are all part of the preparation for the next game. I'm just as frustrated as she is, but I need that keen edge to perpetrate the whole thing. She needs the edge to fully appreciate it and to even resist it. Two weeks can be a bloody long time without making love or just plain old raw sex. Thing is, you have to suffer for your art if you want to play The Game.

She steps inside, putting her briefcase down and fumbles for the light switch. I hear her audible curse as she realises – or thinks anyway – that the hall light has blown. I've jut simply loosened the bulb. She shrugs her tan coat off and hangs it up, leaving the hall door open to illuminate the passageway. She adjusts her tight dark jacket, but leaves it on, so we'll have to do something about that quite quickly. As she turns to close the hall door, the landing light illuminates her face into pure alabaster, her hair, tied back in a neat arrangement, with little wisps down her cheeks almost golden, despite its natural reddish-brown hue. Her white open necked blouse stands out starkly, combining with the tight jacket to show her shapely breasts, her two slim gold necklaces glinting above her cleavage. She is every inch the efficient businesswoman, but she betrays enough of her natural sexuality to give her that commanding edge in negotiations with clients and in meetings with fellow employees. In fact, she can use this sexuality to intimidate and disarm both males and females alike, without losing sight of the fact that she has a sharp business mind and a real killer instinct for business. The other women are either bimbos or too male in their approach. They haven't learnt the strength of female vulnerability and the strength that it imbues. That's because they don't play, and they don't have her style.

She slips off her heeled shoes, obviously grateful for the cool, soft relief of the wooden flooring. I smile to myself. You want cool? She picks up her briefcase – more work to check at home, no doubt, but not tonight, although she doesn't know that yet – and she pads down the hallway towards the living room. Timing, timing…. She passes the closet. I swiftly, but quietly swing the door open and pull it back… she's almost at the living room door now, free hand outstretched for the handle, not able to see because of the dark passageway and only a small sliver of light from under the door. She won't think I'm in there – I'm at a late meeting, or so she thinks. The light is simply the timer having switched one of the living room lights on to deter burglars.

I launch myself forward, moving lightly on my feet, but even so a floorboard squeaks in protest. She's quick – she hears me approaching, but she's not quick enough to prevent me grabbing her in an arm lock around her throat and yanking her free arm behind her and pinning it up her back. She tries to scream, but her breath is choked off, she drops the briefcase and tries to struggle ineffectually. The voice modulator does its nifty business – and even surprises me – as a guttural voice issues from my lips and growls into her ear: "Don't move, bitch!"

Oh, she's feisty, she's strong. She struggles, she tries to elbow me with her free arm, lashes out behind with her feet, trying to catch me a high back-heel into the gonads, but I have my legs spread apart and I'm slightly sideways on to her. Her elbow does connect with me, but not in my stomach, instead jarring painfully for her – and me – on my hip. I increase my grip round her throat – not to hurt her particularly, but to reduce the oxygen to her brain, slow her down. It seems to work and I growl again: "Don't move or I'll break your fucking neck! You understand? Don't move!"

Whether she knows it's me, I'm not sure. If she does, she's playing hard and fast, resisting me like she always does. If not, she's still putting up a hell of a fight, but she's not stupid. She knows she can only resist effectively if she's conscious. She grabs onto my gripping arm and tries to pull it away from her throat a little. The urgency of her movement and the fact that her hand is slipping off the sleeve of my leather jacket indicates that she's finding it hard to focus and co-ordinate. I relax my grip a little and she gasps, gulping in air, and nodding vigorously. "Y-Yes," she wheezes, "I understand. I understand."

No pleading, no protestation at her treatment. A lesser assailant, someone with no finesse or foresight would think that she was giving up, a frightened female who'll comply. You want money? Take it. You want my body? Please don't hurt me. Not this one. Not my one. She is still resisting and she's still playing hardball. Don't let your guard slip, I tell myself. We've played often enough to know.

Probably my voice is confusing her, but I'm sure she knows the feel of my grip, even if I am wearing an unfamiliar leather jacket, bought second hand and suitably distressed earlier this very afternoon. Even an unfamiliar, cheap aftershave splashed liberally over my uncharacteristically rough, stubbly cheeks - which are now scratching her own soft cheeks and neck with as I hiss in her ear - might not fully fool and disorientate her. A real woman knows intimately the feel and even presence of her partner. That's The Game for you – it really does bring you closer together. I could have refined the seizure better, but I'd spent more time and trouble on the preparations for the main event after she'd left for work that morning. So my key element of advantage here is speed.

I slam her against the living room door, swiftly yank the door handle down and kick the door open, the sudden light from the room dazzling her. And no wonder – never mind the timer switch and the usual lamp, I'd changed all the bulbs in the main ceiling arrangement and the spots around the room for stronger wattage earlier on. The effect is quite dazzling. The difference is, I'm prepared for it, she isn't. Using my shoulder I push her into the room, which is also causing her some disorientation, because I've shifted all the furniture away from the centre of the polished wooden floor, leaving a large, bare area. Bare that is, save for one dining chair, dead centre, ready for its special occupant.

I release my grip on her throat fully and reach round her quickly, whilst she is still slightly groggy, dazzled and disorientated and grab the lapels of her tight jacket. It takes two savage wrenches to rip it open fully, the buttons clattering loudly across the wooden floor, wrenching it down her shoulders and arms before she can react. Her arms now freed, she tries to flail out at me, almost turns, almost sees my face. That would spoil the illusion totally. I had been wearing a balaclava helmet with an eye-slit cut out, but it was far too warm to wear whilst lying in wait and anyway, it's a bit passé to say the least. No, my disguise is speed and a trusty blindfold, which will soon come into play.

I grab her arms and pinion them tightly behind her back, causing her to grunt with pain – no screams though – and I catch sight of her blouse tightening across her full breasts, the outline of her lacy bra clearly visible and, I smile as I notice this – her rapidly hardening nipples. Oh yes, fear may play a part, but she's excited already. I manhandle her across to the chair and slam her down into it, wrenching her arms painfully around the chair. Now she yelps and swears at me. I yank her hair hard, jerking her head up, but stepping away enough so that she cannot see my face. The hair clip falls away, releasing her long hair to fall around her shoulders. First the jacket, now the hair – her badges of authority, her essential barriers to femininity are being stripped away again. Aware of this she bucks and flails, Should I reach for the knife in my pocket to hold it across her throat to quieten her, to warn her? Or should this just be strength – of body, voice and surprise?

The ropes are already there, looped onto the chair. I push her delicate wrists into the loops and pull the ropes tight, pinning her arms in place. This is where preparation comes to the fore again. Another rope attached to the loops reinforces their grip as I pull it tight, her arms now completely immobile. She tries to buck the chair backwards as I bend down to grab first one ankle and then the other, to force her legs down into the prepared rope loops on the chair legs. What she hasn't banked on is a clever little addition to the chair legs themselves – footplates that are now securely fastened to the floor by thick screws, thus holding the chair fast in place. Oh yes, I've been busy all right today – and it's been worth the time and money. After all, as I might have said before, if you're going to play, you've got to play with style.

Now she's held firmly in place and she still can't see me behind her, it's time for the blindfold. I reach into my pocket and pull out the long piece of black velvet. Totally impossible to see through – tested it myself. Possibly some sort of adhesive tape would be even better but today's game is all about the pain caused by pleasure, not pain for its own sake, and adhesive tape would surely cause her pain. It might also lose its adhesive glue later on. I slip the blindfold over her head and tie it tightly, holding her long hair in place. She's breathing heavily, her breasts rising and falling, but she's trying had to keep a lid on it all, to keep control. I'm certain she's playing, rather than panicking – if this was for real, her assailant would have a real task on his hands, but then again, he'd not have got this far. Nor would I if I hadn't planned and played to win.

So now she's sitting there, held fast, her only real freedom of movement being her head. Now I can cross round in front of her and attend to the other 'props' that need to come into play. I watch her forehead wrinkling in concentration as she hears me moving the four portable heaters into place. Two electric bar fires, two fan heaters, all brought within a few feet of her and angled up to provide the maximum output of heat in her direction. She may be grateful for the blindfold now that it's cut out the harsh glare of the lights overhead, but she's already noticed the extra heat they throw off, and already I can see pinpoints of perspiration on her forehead and upper chest, visible through her open-necked blouse. I smile and switch the fires and fan heaters on. She hears the light whirr of the fan heaters, feels the hot air being blown in her direction, as well as the more prickly, insidious heat from the electric bar fires.

"What's going on? What are you doing?" she demands, managing with admirable control to keep her voice steady and firm. Years of practice at business meetings, honed by game playing – a steady and firm resolve, but she'll soon crack as easily as her voice will. Those barriers will come crumbling down in no time. In fact – I chuckle as I think this – they'll not so much crumble as melt.

"Never you mind, Sweetie," I murmur, still in the harsh, modulated voice. "Don't go anywhere – I'll be back soon." I chuckle and pat her cheek lightly, causing her to flinch her head away.

There's far more packed into that flinch than words will ever say. Body language is a powerful thing. Yes, there's the element of fear, but that's possibly tempered by the fact that she's pretty certain it's me doing this to her. Who'd bother with all the props and paraphernalia otherwise? But no, the essential emotions contained in that small movement are anger, hatred and – yes – lust. Anger because she's been caught so easily, hatred mainly directed towards herself because she's willing herself to be strong, not a shrinking little girlie (even if she is in her mid-20s now). As for the lust – just a hint of that at the moment – because of the ropes securely binding her, the loss of part of her protective barriers and even the thrill and anticipation of what's to come – but she's not going to let it come just like that. I've got to fight her for it, wear her down, and unlock her raw femininity.

But that's okay, I've got time. I can wait.

I saunter off across the wide, open floor towards the kitchen, checking that all the vertical blinds at the big apartment windows are firmly secured against the blackness of the night and the twinkle of lights from the city and other apartments. Privacy is most certainly valued by this yuppie couple. I pull the kitchen door ajar behind me, so I can still see her, sat in the spotlights, with the heaters blasting their fiery breath towards her. Personally, I'm grateful for the cool of the kitchen and the bottle of fizzy mineral water I take from the well-stocked fridge. I pull off the tight voice modulator and gulp down the cool, refreshing liquid, soothing my parched throat.

Boy, it's hot in that room!

I mean, it may be a chilly November day outside, but no one likes to get too hot when they come home out of the crisp air. And what with the central heating being switched on too….

I sit at the pine table, sipping my mineral water, poring over some business papers I'd left in the kitchen as essential reading matter. What's that? How can I concentrate on something else – especially so boringly non-sexual – when I'm in the middle of a powerful sexual game? That's the whole thing, you see – to be a player, you have to know how to pace yourself, get the timing right, maintain the edge. She's cooking nicely out there, I notice, wriggling a bit now, trying to find some cool spot of air out of the relentless heat, but she won't find one.

I make a few notations on the documents, reflecting that things are, at last, beginning to look up. The stock market crash a while back forced us to amend some of our plans. To start with, her company didn't have enough capital back up, so went to the wall. Luckily, she was able to walk out of one job and straight into another, purely on the strength of her efficiency and presence, how she'd caught the eye of a more successful business operator – one who knew what a brilliant businesswoman she was, rather than just a pretty face, like the last idiot boss who employed her. When it comes to business, you need to utilise people's strengths, not just their looks, or misguided sentimentality about keeping the company like it was in the 'good old days'. Even though she's earning better now, we're still formulating new plans; no-one wants to be working for someone else forever and one day, we'll be working for ourselves. Luckily we didn't lose too much personally in the crash – we'd invested most of our joint collateral in this apartment. What was that old saying about 'bricks and mortar being the best investment'? Well, it certainly has been in this case.

I finish the necessary paperwork, slip the files into my briefcase and drain the last of my mineral water. I check my watch – half an hour has elapsed. I look through the door – she's moving her head from side to side now, obviously in some distress, moaning ever so slightly. But I have to admire her for not crying out or panicking. Now I cross to the fridge and open the freezer compartment. There's very little food in it – I've made sure that the week's shopping has been deferred this week, so we were able to run the food stocks down – I needed the space in the freezer to be honest. I smile as I take out the four large ice cube trays and the bag of ice cubes at the back – "Here's some I prepared earlier," I chuckle to myself. I close the freezer and then tip the contents of the bag and the trays into a large cocktail icebox, purchased specially with this seduction in mind. I stir the ice cubes round with my finger, wincing at the burn from the cold mass. Oh yes, these little rocks are just right. And to think I got the idea when I was discussing a late and not entirely lamented business rival who dodgy dealings finally caused him to go bust and to have his assets frozen by the courts. Frozen Assets. That's got a certain style.