The young couple smiled at their real estate agent. Jack Simmons signed and then handed the pen to his wife.
“Thank you so much,’ the young man said, getting up and shaking Carrie’s hand.
“I’m sorry we were so picky,” his wife, Laine said.
“Nonsense. You can’t be too picky when buying a house. And you are happy with this one? For sure this time?”
They laughed. “Yes, for sure this time. We love what we’re getting.”
Carrie loved being able to put up that great big sold sign under her picture in the front yard. Another flag proclaiming her success to the world, or at least the neighborhood. And that bitch Marsha Farmer. She’d show her who was the best realtor in town.
Carrie bent over her sign, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping away a smudge of dirt on her smiling portrait. She couldn’t have that. The realtor stood back up, looking at her sign approvingly. Her brunette hair was cut in a professional but fun bob. She flashed the perfect amount of perfectly straight, pearly white teeth in her confident smile. She’s earned that smile, a painful year of adult braces and professional teeth whitening, but now that smile said she could sell you your dream home. She wore her typical red blazer. She didn’t need any gimmicks like Marsha’s ridiculous assortment of colorful scarves ‘from the east.’ The classics were classics for a reason, and when she looked at her picture, everything about it screamed professional realtor.
She went back inside, packing up the last of her decorations she’d spruced the place up with during the open houses. Autumn was always her favorite time of year, and she might have gone a little overboard with the decorations, but she’d found that the majority of the prospective homebuyers appreciated her festive touch. If they didn’t, well, this wasn’t the neighborhood for them.
Carrie stopped by her office to file the paperwork on her way home.
“You close the deal?” Trish, another realtor asked.
“I don’t know, did I?” Carrie asked, holding up the signed papers.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Carrie said, stepping into her office.
“Oh, by the way,” Trish said, sticking her head in the door. “I was on Fifth, someone vandalized your bench.”
“Already?” Twice a year, the company paid for them to put up fresh advertising, and she’d just gotten them replaced.
“Do you want the purple stuff?”
“No, I’ve still got some in my car. I’ll clean it up on my way home. What was it this time?”
“I didn’t get a good look; I was in a hurry. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s probably just a mustache and unibrow again.”
“I thought when they gave you a Fu Manchu, it was very flattering. Not many women can pull that off.”
Carrie gave her an icy stare.
“Kidding, sheesh. I thought you’d be in a better mood after making that sale.”
Carrie softened. “I am, I was just hoping to go home and celebrate rather than drive into town to clean up after some punk kids.”
“Part of the job,” Trish said. “Send me a pic, now I’m curious.”
“Har har,” Carrie replied.
Carrie pulled over on the street across from her bench. It was already starting to get dark, and she couldn’t make out what had been done until she walked over. Her cleaning supplies were in her trunk, an industrial strength cleaning solution, a sturdy brush, and rubber gloves. She grabbed her things and marched across the street to survey the damage, pulling her phone out of her pocket as she went. Might as well show Trish, she thought.
Carrie stopped short as she saw her sign up close. It wasn’t the usual horns or facial hair or lewd profanity scrawled across her picture. Someone had drawn in thick black spray paint lines across her body, and an even wider swatch over her mouth. It took her a second to realize it, but clearly someone had drawn over her to make it look like she was tied up and gagged.
“Well at least it’s new,” she said with a sneer of disgust. She held up her phone to take a picture and snapped a picture. She hesitated before sending it to Trish. She could imagine dozens of copies of it plastered up around the office. She hit send anyways; dumb graffiti was part of the business.
“OMG, thats new! Is there something I should know
” Trish texted back.Carrie didn’t respond to the text. She shook her head, immediately regretting sending the text, but what she had sent was probably better than whatever Trish would have imagined had she not sent the photo. She dropped her phone back into her purse and donned her gloves, and got to work scrubbing.
Trish didn’t make copies and post them around as Carrie had half expected her to do. That would have been preferable. Her bench on fifth hadn’t been the only victim of vandals. She got word that some of her “For Sale” signs had been hit as well. And by some, it was all. She went on a drive as soon as she heard, hitting up every place her face was plastered. She learned three things very quickly. First, they had gotten to ALL of her signs, even “For Sale” signs put up in nice neighborhoods. Second, she had been specifically targeted. Competitors’ signs across the street from hers had been left untouched. And third, there was a definite theme, a disturbing one at that. While the vandalism varied in quality from one sign to another, they all featured her tied up and gagged in some form or another.
Some was simple like the park bench, sloppily drawn spray paint lines depicting crude ropes and gags. Others, were more detailed, realistic paint jobs of ropes and tape and chains wrapped around her. She had to pull them all, her trunk and backseat filled with pictures of her in bondage.
She drove back on Fifth at the end of her clean up tour, slamming on her breaks in disbelief as she saw her freshly cleaned bench sign had been hit again. She stopped in the middle of the street, staring open mouthed in disbelief. She left her car running as she got out. There were other people staring, snapping photos.
“Look, it’s her, the chick from the bench,” someone said.
It was her alright, though she’d never be caught in such a position. After cleaning the sign off, the perpetrator had returned and instead of the hasty spray paint job, they had portrayed the most realistic depiction yet. Whoever had done it had actually drilled through the bench to allow real ropes to be wrapped around her picture. As she reached out and touched them, she found they’d been glued down, made to look like they’d actually been wrapped around her physical curves, above, below, and between her breasts. Likewise, real duct tape had been plastered over her lips, bent and angled to look like it had been wrapped around her head.
She barely noticed the growing crowd of spectators, pointing and talking hushed whispers as the realtor examined her sign. Carrie wasn’t a prude, she knew what bondage was; she’d had a pair of fuzzy cuffs that had led to a very exciting Valentine’s with an ex, but nothing like this.
Carrie finally noticed the throng of people bustling in around her. They were pointing and gawking and whispering, none too quietly, judging her. She frantically tried to remove the ropes, but they were glued too securely. She couldn’t even get her nails under the tape to remove the gag, her attempts getting more and more flustered as she got frustrated. She shielded her face as the flash of a camera went off, and she stormed off to her car, leaving the park bench as is.
Her coworkers whispered as she came into the office. They’d all seen it. Everyone had seen. She went straight to her office, not making eye contact. Carrie told herself she was being foolish, she had nothing to be ashamed of. She hadn’t done this.
As she thought about it, the question of who actually had done this, who had put so much time and effort into the prank surfaced in her mind. This wasn’t random vandalism. She had been specifically and maliciously targeted. But who? Who would want to do this to her?
She turned on her computer, dreading the emails that were sure to be filling her mailbox. She typed in her password and froze, staring at the screen.
Her desktop wallpaper, normally a photo of the beach she took a few years ago on vacation, was now one of her personal pictures, one from a few weeks ago when she was at a wedding. She was wearing a lavender strapless dress, and now, wearing ropes and a gag as well.
Carrie jammed her finger into her power button, as if that might somehow make it go away. Someone had been in her office. On her computer. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest, her breath coming in short gasps. She stood up slowly, making her way to her window from the side. She peered through the blinds. She thought she saw a shadow against the building that wasn’t normally there, but as she looked closer, she couldn’t see anything.
She closed the blinds and went back to her computer, turning it back on. She drummed her fingers nervously while she waited for machine to boot back up. She scrutinized the picture. It was a photoshopped image, clearly, she’d never been tied up like that, but like the park bench, the attention to detail was impressive. It looked real, the ropes looking like they were actually tied so tight they were digging into her skin. Her smile was hidden behind duct tape plastered over her mouth. It was amazing, even though her eyes were still smiling, without her mouth smiling too, it totally changed her expression. Maybe her own current emotions were bleeding into her perception, but she looked scared.
The realtor took a deep breath, taking one last look at the image before she turned off her monitor and exited her office.
“Very funny guys,” she said. It was a prank. It had to be. Her coworkers stared at her blankly. “You all had a good laugh, but this needs to stop. There’s no place for this kind of thing in the professional workplace.”
Still, no one said anything. They looked around at each other, and back at her.
“Fine, no one come forward. I’ll give a free pass for what’s been done, but if it continues, I will press charges.” She stormed back into her office, slamming her door behind her.
The desktop wallpaper had just been a preview. Her entire photo collection on her computer at work, every single one with her in it had been replaced with one of her in bondage. She’d filed a police report, though the cops had not been nearly as helpful as she hoped.
“Someone broke into my office and hacked into my personal pictures,” she said, exasperated. “Can’t you like, I don’t know, dust for prints, see if there’s some sort of digital trace? Someone is stalking me!”
“We’ll take your computer in, have our techs look at it,” one of the officers said. He didn’t sound optimistic.
“And what about my signs? Someone has to have seen something. Aren’t there street cameras or something?”
The other cop gave a derisive snort. Carrie glared at him.
“Look, we’ll do everything we can. Are you sure you don’t have any idea who might have done this?”
“For the last time, no! I don’t have any enemies; I’m certainly not into this sort of thing. It’s your job as the police to find the sicko who’s targeting me.”
“We’ll get right on it, ma’am. You call us if anything else happens.”
“I will,” she said. She watched them leave, taking her computer with them. All her signs were down, and now she’d lost her work computer. She hadn’t had time to call all her current clients yet, but her phone hadn’t been ringing either, and she’d been expecting some calls. She had a pretty good idea why. She was glad she’d made that sale to the Simmons, because there was a very real chance it would be her only sale this quarter.
She had an open house the next day. She’d have to put up her signs in the morning instead of risking leaving them up overnight. Her signs in her office had of course been given the same treatment and the cops had taken as “evidence,” but she still had some at her house.
Carrie took one more look out the window before locking up her office for the night. Most everyone else was gone, but Trish was still there.
“Hey, this will all blow over,” Trish assured her.
“It had better, soon,” Carrie said.
She turned her lights as she entered her kitchen. There they were. All the pictures on her fridge, someone had taken a marker to draw ropes and gags on her in all her pictures. Her friends in the group photos had remained untouched, but in every single one, someone had taken the time and care to draw little ropes and chains and tape holding her captive.
“Who is doing this to me!” she screamed, swiping the pictures off the fridge. The fluttered to the floor, images of her bound and gagged looking up at her as they landed around her. “Why?!” she screamed.
She wasn’t expecting an answer, but the creak in the floorboards caught her off guard. It never occurred to her that whoever was responsible, who had broken into her house, might still be there. Carrie slammed her purse on the counter and began digging through it, looking for her phone.
She dug and dug, but she couldn’t find it. She flipped her purse over, dumping its contents. There it was. She snatched up her phone, trying unsuccessfully to enter her password. She looked up to see a shadow move through her living room. She spun on her heels and ran back towards her door running smack into a figure standing in front of her door. Carrie stumbled backwards, looking up the black clad figure, her eyes widening as she saw the cheap rubber clown mask over the figure’s face. She screamed, and turned, only to see another figure, shorter, also in all black and another clown mask.
Before she could scream again, the intruder behind her grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth and nose with a sweet smelling cloth.
“MMMMMMPH!!!” Her phone fell from her hand as she tried the pull the hand away from her face, but the second intruder grabbed her hands, holding them in front of her.
“No no no. None of that,” the clown in front of her chided. The voice was female, muffled and distorted by the rubber mask. “You’re going to breathe in that chloroform and take a nice nap. And then, we’re going to tie you up.”
Carrie sucked in another huge lungful of the dizzying fumes before she screamed. Her head swam, and her cry for help was weak even before it got lost in the soporific cloth held over her mouth. The realtor tried to move her head to the side, but the drug sapped her strength, and the hands holding her were so strong, keeping helpless while she was forced to inhale the chloroform.
“That’s it, deep breaths,” the intruder said, letting go of Carrie’s hands. They flopped to her sides, weak, limp, useless. She struggled to keep her eyes open, taking longer and longer to open them between blinks. It created a strobe effect the clown jumping to a different place each time she opened her eyes as the intruder stooped to the floor and stood back up. Carrie opened her eyes to see one of the fallen photos from the fridge held before her unfocused eyes. Her drug-addled mind couldn’t even place the picture, where and when it had been taken lost to her. All she could see where the crude black lines drawn all over her body, sloppy cartoonish ropes wrapped around her. It was the last thing she saw before her eyes closed one last time, and she slumped into unconsciousness, hanging limply in her abductor’s arms, the cloth still pressed tightly over her face, ensuring she was out.
Pumpkins and gourds were arrayed invitingly on the front porch, just the right amount of seasonal touch. Balloons, red and yellow and white, were tied to the bannisters, bobbing gently in the soft breeze. More balloons floated above the open house sign and the mailbox. Inside, the smell of fresh baked cookies wafted from the kitchen. The house was mostly empty, only a few pieces of furniture were left, carefully positioned to both highlight the space in the rooms and still make it look cozy and lived in. A couch and love seat in the living room, a glass top table and stools in the breakfast nook, the king sized canopy bed in the master bedroom. Said Kingsized bed wasn’t like the rest of the furniture. Unmade, the sheets a mess from the bed’s current occupant. Carrie Morris thrashed about, kicking her tightly bound legs.
“It’s getting late, people might start showing up for the open house soon,” Jack Simmons said.
“Aw, one more round,” Laine said. She was stark naked, as was her husband and their tightly bound captive. She was sitting at the head of the bed, Carrie’s head held between her thighs, her smooth flesh wet and glistening from sweat and the couple’s activities.
Jack watched his wife play with their helpless toy. He felt himself getting hard again. They’d been playing with the realtor all night, tying her in different positions as they raped and tormented her. Jack stroked his member, his penis quickly standing to attention as Laine pulled and twisted the nipple clamps digging into the realtor’s nipples. “Alright, I’m good to go again. But we’ll have to make it quick.” They only played their game once a year; they deserved to spend as much time as they could.
“You hear that?” Laine asked her captive. Carrie could not in fact hear because of the earplugs. Those, combined with the leather blindfold strapped tightly over her eyes, she’d been blind and deaf since waking up, her sense of touch heightened as her captors played with her body, awash in the smell of sweat and arousal, forced to taste the various gags they’d forced on her to keep her quiet while they had their way with her. The current gag was a painfully tight leather panel gag, a stale bung of leather protruding into her mouth, muzzling her protests. “One more time and then we leave you. I bet you’re sad to hear about that.”
If Carrie could hear and speak, she would have said she wasn’t sad. Instead she was rolled over, her captives never ending supply of ropes used to secure her bent over on her knees. Jack unstrapped the gag, letting Carrie plead momentarily for release while his wife fitted herself with her big black strap on. Those pleas turned into muffled screams as the pair took the helpless realtor from both sides.
A half an hour later, Jack and Laine Simmons were gone. The funds they had used to buy their house would disappear, as would they, until the next year, when they’d surface again to go house, and realtor, hunting again. If Carrie remembered her captors, it would do her no good. She had much bigger problems anyways. People would be showing up to the open house any moment, and she’d been left in the master bedroom, bound spread-eagle to the bed, completely naked, hers and Laine’s panties stuffed in her mouth with an entire roll of duct tape wound tightly around her head, the leather blindfold and earplugs still in place. She was too exhausted to struggle, lying on the bed as she breathed heavily through her nose, waiting. Nearly the entire town had seen her signs depicting her in various states of bondage. They were quite curious to see what she had in store for her open house.