Mark's the sort of man you can't help but want to tie down and gag. He's clean shaven, nicely dressed and well mannered with slight build and quick eyes—ah, but that Mr. Brady routine is just a front. The man is actually a tightly wound ball of futile energy and repressed urges. I think he only shaves his head to keep from tearing his hair out in frustration. After a while, his manic approach to life in general makes you want to push him down, sit on his legs and scream, "BE STILL!"
It makes it worse that he is a manager in a busy restaurant—a busy restaurant in a chain of busy restaurants geared towards cheap, picky people (Americans). A million things can go wrong in such a restaurant, and Mark seems to feel that it is his personal responsibility to address every one of those things, every day... whether they actually go wrong or not. "When you get a chance," in Mark-speak translates to: "Now! Now now now, right this very second or something terrible will happen!"
Yet, despite (or rather because of) his hyperactive quirkiness and frantic over-management, I want him. I want him the way certain straight women want gay men. A gay man, to some women, is a challenge: a chance to prove the phenomenal power of their own femininity. They want to convert him. And I want to convert Mark. I want to absorb his heartbreaking urgency, to quell his restlessness and soothe his anguish. I wanted to sate his need, once and for all. All right, I simply want to fuck the spastic twitches right out of his pale, tense little body... but that's essentially the same thing.
I would start by knocking him out. I haven't yet decided how; I don't want to hurt him or leave him with uncomfortable side effects from a drug—oh, if only he would sit still long enough to hypnotize! In any case, once he was unconscious I would take him somewhere—I don't know where, or how I'll get him there without anybody knowing. I do know, however, that in my mind's lusty eye, I see him coming slowly awake to find himself lying propped up more or less comfortably on a semi-soft surface, with limbs bound and eyes covered, unaware of where he was or how he got there.
He would yell at first, I think. Anyone would be fearful in such a position, let alone an obsessive compulsive tight-laced manager in his mid thirties. Gradually he would notice the music playing in the background; piano, soothing and unfamiliar. The temperature, he would find, is just high enough that struggling makes him sweat, but low enough to be pleasant when lying still. Perhaps he would even pick up the faint scent of lavender and eucalyptus in the warm air (my body lotion). In any case, after a while, his yells would cease and he would lie quietly, tugging experimentally at his restraints. And this is where my fantasy begins in earnest...
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"Hi there," I whispered, perching on a stool beside my helpless manager. I placed a finger delicately on his pale throat and lightly teased his Adam's apple, making him swallow involuntarily. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as his fear drained away. I knew what he was thinking: "Is it my ex? Or the ex before that-- It must be her. But I thought she moved to Delaware. Maybe she got somebody else to do this. Maybe it's co-manager Beth. Oh God, what if it is her? We can't socialize out of work! I was only flirting! But she wouldn't do this. Would she?" At any rate, he was beginning to sense that there is something special in store for him, though he still had no idea just how special it will be.
It was difficult for me to stay calm—finally having him under my control was even more of a thrill than I had expected. I hoped his body, strained with anxiety and achingly sensitive due to his inability to see, would react of its own accord to the hungry pheromones streaming from my pores. The bare beginnings of an erection lifted the crotch of his gray work pants just slightly, and the finger I was trailing against his gulping throat paused, sorely tempted by this tentative bulge. I drew a steadying breath and moved upwards instead.
"Oh, Mark," I whispered, my voice breathy and, to him, unidentifiable. He strained to hear, trying to know who had him held captive. "I just want you to relax."
I rested a hand lightly on his close-shaven head for a moment, willing him to surrender, then walked silently away. I nudged the heat and the music up a notch, glancing over to see him shift nervously against his restraints. I returned to my seat at his head and took from my pocket a small bottle of almond oil.
Mark stirred, craning his neck towards the sound of my movement. "Who are you?"
"Someone you know," I murmured, pouring some of the oil between my palms to warm it. "Don't be afraid."
Mark snorted but didn't speak further, resigning himself with a grin. Oh, he was tempting, that "Family Restaurant Fresh" front he always kept up crumbling right before my eyes—the man who ducks out of supermarkets and drug stores if he happens to see one of his workers ("Company policy, we can't socialize out of work!"), the man who flinches at words like "crap", the only man with a To Do List that actually gets done. He was metamorphosing effortlessly into a hungry wolf, and the transformation was utterly delicious to watch.
I took his head between my oiled palms, resting the fingertips just lightly on his stubbly scalp. A smile played on his lips, parted slightly below the blindfold. I had wanted to hold him like this for months, and I smiled contentedly as I began to massage. The pressure points at the back of the skull, right above the neck, the temples, the high curved dome, the sinus cavity in the forehead—all the millions of tingling nerves that rarely receive attention in the typical human, I teased them to distraction and left him luxuriously relaxed but sizzling with desire. I worshiped his head with my hands and slow, sure fingers, then bent close and pressed a sighing kiss against his crown.
Mark shifted against his restraints, murmuring something I didn't quite catch. The timid bulge in his pants became a powerful pressure, and a flush had crept up his neck. I drifted lower, kissing his ear and nudging against it teasingly; first with my nose and then with my soft, wet tongue. I could hear his breath catch, every sensation heightened by his lack of sight, and an electric thrill slid down my spine. My hands continued their sensuous dance over his pale skin, releasing the tension knots at the base of his neck and conjuring a surprised groan of relief from my captive manager.
"Who are you?" he whispered again, his tongue thick and throat dry.
"Shhh..." I hissed insidiously, tongue flicking snakelike against the throbbing pulse at his neck. With hands still caressing his scalp lightly, I bent down to kiss his thin lips—so often bent in disapproval, now they were smooth and soft beneath mine, and the all but silent gasp he left in my mouth tasted like sugared sin. I pressed closer, my left hand on his cheek and my right hand grasping his shoulder, and deepened the kiss. A low moan escaped him as he strained to meet me, and I could feel him shaking slightly. I suspected that it had been a long time since someone touched him like this. His strong reaction made me go weak at the knees, and I sighed softly with pleasure as I took the edge off my hunger for his mouth. When I sat up to take a steadying breath, he tossed his head from side to side, trying to remove the blindfold.
"Mark, Mark," I said soothingly, still holding his shoulder and disguising my voice. "Just relax, enjoy!"
He groaned with frustration, and a petulant frown darkened his face. He was used to being in control, the giver of such attentions, not the recipient—and he knew such firm hands and moist lips would not come from his skinny shrew of a co-manager, Beth. I suppressed a giggle of immoral delight (if any sound would give me away, that would), then stood up and stepped back. He turned his head to follow my movement, tensely flexing his hands beneath the binding. In the little kitchenette, I filled a glass with ice water and selected a straw from a drawer.
"Open your mouth." I commanded gently, returning to his side. He hesitated, but complied, and I used the straw to carefully drip some of the water onto his tongue. He relaxed with understanding, gratefully accepting several more straws full of the cooling drops to quench his thirst. His erection had relaxed somewhat, and I decided that couldn't be allowed. I set the glass down and without warning, slid a hand firmly onto his softening bulge; it springs instantly to life against my fingers. Mark gasped, his flesh springing instantly back to life against my fingers as he arched his back with surprise and pleasure. I allowed myself to linger there a while, painstakingly identifying the outline of his hardened cock, and, deeper, the turgid round softness of his sac.
"Oh..." he blurted suddenly, his face going beet red. "Oh my God!" He clenched his teeth, his muscles twitching in protest of the restraints and a bead of sweat collecting at the top of his scalp. He hadn't expected such a strong physical reaction, with the blindfold heightening anticipation and the inability to move forcing him to concentrate only on the sensations given to him. He had also not experienced physical release in some time and, as I continued to stroke him, his urgency built.
"You all right there, sexy?" I cooed innocently, gripping his now painfully hard cock tightly over his pants. He moaned in response, and continued to do so as my caresses quickened. His hips lifted despite himself, grinding against my touch in a trembling fever of lust. He was rushing towards an orgasm, but I wasn't aware of how close he was getting. I rubbed him firmly, my thumbnail gliding in torturous circles over his sensitive tip—he held his breath and tried to hold back a whimper as his balls began to tighten. Licking my lips, I bent and pressed them against the apex of his pants where I feel the head of his cock. My tongue prodded unmercifully against it, seeking the musty tang of desire leaking through his stifling garment—and Mark gave a small squeak of dismay a second before a throaty grunt.
