Marie woke up in a cold sweat, sitting — it was a cliché, she knew immediately, but there it was — sitting bolt upright as she opened her eyes and looked around. It was her bedroom, everything was in its place and familiar. She had been dreaming again, about the redwood forest. Something was hidden there, or hiding there, from her. At least, that’s what she thought. In her dream, there was a dark presence nearby: like the cold from the open refrigerator door, it was there and then — poof, the door closed! — not. Was it waiting? Lurking? Emerging from its lair to observe her? Always, it was at that moment that she woke: damp, breathing hard, and unsure of her surroundings. It had been like this for five nights, and she was tired. Exhausted, in fact, and half-afraid to go to sleep. Another night or two of this, she thought, and she’d be a complete basket case: too tired to work, too wired to sleep. But it wasn’t the sense of looming danger that most disturbed Marie; what she found most troublesome, besides the interruptions in her normal sleep cycle, was that she always woke from these dreams terribly aroused, and in a way that she could not remember feeling before.

Stumbling into the bathroom, Marie splashed water on her face and almost shouted at the cold. She knew she ought to have run it for a moment, to let it warm up in the pipes, but she was impatient to start her day. It was too early, really, but now she was awake and she knew if she got back into bed she might easily oversleep, especially in her overtired state. She washed her face again, brushed her teeth, and made her way to her small kitchen. While the kettle heated, she opened the freezer and looked at the coffee: a single-estate varietal, which had cost her a small fortune; or the can of Martinson’s? She grabbed both, reckoning that she would need more than one cup but unwilling to use up her precious supply of the Panamanian. The electric kettle clicked off, and Marie poured the water over the just-ground beans. She used more coffee than she usually did, and sipped at the syrupy brew, eyes closed, a small smile spreading across her lips. She dumped several tablespoons of the Martinson’s into the cone and poured the rest of the water to brew herself a pot.

The newspaper, retrieved from the short walkway outside the bungalow, was much the same as yesterday: crisis in the Middle East, environmental disaster, frosty relations with old Cold War adversaries, and a looming government shutdown. The local news wasn’t any better. The strongly-brewed Panamanian tasted thick, good acid with slight sweet notes, and Marie almost regretted not brewing more of it for this morning. She savored the last few sips and refilled her cup, wincing as the thin, stale, watery drink insulted her palate and assaulted her stomach. She would treat herself again later, perhaps try something else from that new coffee bar in the central business district. She finished flipping through the newspaper, finished her second cup of coffee, and got on with her morning routine: a hot shower, dressing for work, applying her makeup, paying ever more attention to the dark circles under her eyes. She set her iPod in the stand, put on a playlist of standards. “Shine on, harvest moon,” croaked Leon Redbone. Marie smiled.

It was a beautiful day, Indian Summer, and Marie stepped outside and looked up, eyes closed, drinking in the sunshine and the warmth. She passed the bus stop and kept walking: it would do her good to get a little more exercise, it might even help her sleep tonight. Marie shook her head, wondering once more if she would ever sleep again. Six blocks on, she heard the bus approaching and turned to board it. She’d be early today, and she hoped she’d be able to leave a little early. The bus rocked gently, and Marie closed her eyes. The driver knew her, knew her stop, and anyway it was a good twenty minutes even in light traffic. When she woke, she could feel the sun on her face, still warm, but there was a breeze, too, and the clouds seemed to flit frequently in front of the sun. She opened her eyes but couldn’t see. That was when Marie realized she was on her back, on the ground, outside, blindfolded. It wasn’t the clouds that blocked the sunlight: it was trees. She was in some sort of clearing, in the woods. And she heard music. She was not alone.

The music grew gradually louder and Marie decided someone was coming. The volume wavered unevenly, and she could picture the boom box swinging back and forth while her captor walked towards the clearing. The song was familiar, and despite herself she smiled when she recognized the tune. This time it was the Glenn Miller Orchestra, a livelier, bouncier cover. It seemed at odds with the setting, but Marie didn’t mind it. She had a fleeting thought that she should be frightened, but for some reason she was more excited than unnerved. If nothing else, it was a break from her routine, from the quotidian monotony that came so close to crushing her soul.

There was a crunching noise — the boom box being set down on the ground — and then the sound of feet circling. Marie thought there was only one pair, but she couldn’t be sure. She felt someone nearby, a presence, heard his breathing, smelled his light after-shave mingled with his own scent, musk and sweat and skin: manly, pleasant, at once reassuring and edgy, and Marie was surprised at her reaction: curiosity, excitement, and even arousal. She realized she had been lying down, flat on her back, this entire time. She moved to sit up.

“Slowly, please,” said a voice. “You may sit up, but slowly. I wouldn’t want you to become dizzy.” Marie heard the words, and listened hard to try to place the accent. It was impossible: there was something off about it, but the diction was perfect, not a word or syllable out of place. It was just… off. Slightly, but enough for her to notice. She did as she was told, and again felt her sex tingle and slicken.

“Turn, please,” the voice intoned gently. “Slowly.” Again, she obeyed without question, and again her body stirred on its own and despite her predicament. “Thank you.” The voice was moving closer, only a few feet away now. “Hold out your hand.” Her hand touched his, and he grasped it gently, a reassuring gesture. She squeezed it back: I understand. Like the voice, there was something about the hands she couldn’t place. Rough, but not like a laborer’s. Calloused. Trimmed nails. An artisan’s hands, she decided.

“Disrobe.” The voice was gentle, but it was not a request. She let go his hand and began to unbutton her shirt-dress. She shrugged it off her shoulders and stepped out of the cotton puddle it made about her ankles. She felt his hand between her shoulders, just one hand, gripping and releasing her brassiere, a simple gesture that few seemed to really master. Another shrug and it fell, too. She kicked easily out of her flat shoes, peeled off her socks. She hooked her thumbs in the waistline of her panties, but the hand gripped her wrists and gently pulled them away, straight out from her body. This time, when her sex swelled on its own, she trembled with anticipation. She tried to focus on the clearing, on the sounds and scents around her: no birds, no wind to rustle anything. Dappled sunlight on her skin, and she was surprised at how warm it was: she wasn’t at all cold or uncomfortable, although her nipples were stiff and pointed, hard as ice. She smelled the man again, his skin and sweat, and the faint smell of woodsmoke coming from somewhere behind her left shoulder.

“Kneel, please.” Still it was gentle, but still not a request. Marie knelt on the soft ground, and instinctively moved her hands behind her back. She heard a small noise of approval from her host. “Are you thirsty? Hungry? It will be some time, so tell me now, please.” Marie shook her head. She was anxious: not for what was to happen, for she seemed to know; but for it to begin.
Even so, the feeling of the first length of rope against her skin made her suck in her breath, just a little. Her panties now were of little use, and did nothing to preserve any modesty. They were a tiny wet rag, clinging tight to her body and displaying every feature, every nuance of her flesh; and displaying, too, her intense arousal. Indeed, these feelings intensified with each soft command, with each brief touch, and with every breath she took. The rope was soft against her skin: the kind a magician might use for rope tricks, she thought, and fixed her mind on the imaginary conjurer’s hands while he tied impossible knots and blew on the rope to remove them. All the while she felt the cord wrapping around her wrists, binding her hands in prayer while the rope ends flailed and struck at her exposed legs, buttocks, and back.

The man worked quickly, sometimes slowing to make a knot before regaining his pace. From her bound arms the tails ran between her legs, over and around her shoulders and then around her torso, making a kind of corset that bound her tight, the rope expertly tied so that if she shifted slightly it would gently abrade and stimulate her nipples, her clitoris, her swollen labia. She had seen photographs in art books and on the Internet, and tried to recall the name. Shi-something, a Japanese word. She wondered, oddly, how she compared to the models in those photos. She heard a faint clicking noise, and felt herself suddenly yanked aloft.

Although Marie had a long acquaintance with acrophobia, she felt no fear. With her eyes covered, she could not judge the distance to the ground — and in truth, it was not a great height at all. She only knew the freedom of being suspended by the rope-harness, and felt the pressure build within her as her own weight tightened the ropes against her skin, gently bringing her closer to her orgasm. She tried to keep her breathing regular; but each breath caused her to swing, and swinging made the harness tighter, and she marveled at how she could, by this simple and necessary act, edge herself closer. She wondered how long she could hold out; the paradoxical freedom and restraint were like nothing in her experience. She wanted relief, and she wanted to cling to this feeling. Something pressed against her swollen pussy, something warm and rough; a calloused thumb, or perhaps a tongue. She couldn’t be sure. Despite the blindfold, she closed her eyes tightly, letting go of everything, finding liberation in her strange captivity. The dam burst, flooding her body with a long shudder, spasms that broke in waves over and through her. She cried out, repeatedly; afterwards, she couldn’t remember what she had said.

Marie opened her eyes, and blinked. Sunlight streamed through the unfamiliar windows. She was lying on a soft bed, one which seemed almost to fill the small room. She sat up, too quickly, and held her head until the dizziness passed. She looked around. Through the window to her right, she could see the redwoods and, she thought, the clearing. her clothes lay, neatly folded, on the single chair: a café chair and mismatched table. She slipped out from the warmth of the bed, and was surprised to find the room -was comfortable. She breathed deeply and caught the perfume of redwoods after a rain, and soap, and woodsmoke. She saw there was a wood stove at the other end of the cabin. She walked the length of the room, in nothing but her panties, and again was surprised that the floor felt warm against her bare feet. In the kitchen area, she turned on the tap and filled a glass, first rinsing her mouth and then drinking deeply. The water was clear, cold, pure. She washed the glass and put it in the draining rack, splashed water on her face and used a dishtowel to pat it dry. Then she returned to the bed, and sat atop the duvet cross-legged, back ramrod straight, waiting for her captor, or host.

“Put on the mask, please.” Marie turned her head, twisting this way and that, and could identify only the direction of the voice, not the source. “The mask, if you please.” Not impatient, exactly, but she knew she didn’t want to hear it a third time. She looked around and plucked the sleep mask off the bedside table. Odd, she thought. She hadn’t noticed it there before, nor had she noticed the drinking glass, nor the pitcher of ice-cold water. She did as she was told, and put on the mask.
“Lie down, on your back.” Softly commanding. “And spread your legs. Arms above your head.” Marie’s heart was racing with anticipation. She felt the same rough hands as before on her ankle, pulling her legs farther apart. Something encircled her ankle, a cuff of some kind, cloth, she thought. She heard the ripping noise as it was readjusted and knew it was Velcro. Another cuff was applied to her other ankle, and her legs were pulled far apart, exposing her completely but for the thin lace panty. The hand was on her shoulder now, pushing her to a half-seated position while a pillow was placed behind her. Cuffs wrapped her wrists and her arms were suddenly yanked upward and outward, fixing Marie in a kind of elevated spread-eagle. Her biggest concern was not her predicament, but how aroused she felt: it was the wet panties and stiff nipples that most embarrassed her, a feeling which actually fed her excitement.

The hands were on her breasts now, and her nipples stiffened further. The earlier treatment, and her climax, had made her crave more. She felt something close over her right nipple, warm and wet. She felt his tongue flick at the hard tip, now making small circles, now a vigorous up-and-down, and now circling again counterclockwise. Marie breathed in, and out. Long, deep breaths that she tried to synchronize with the sensations in her body. She felt teeth, biting gently and then harder, and she felt a deep connection within her that ran from her breast to her sex, a direct line. Rough fingers gently plied her open, her slickness inviting them in. She felt more complete, oddly, than in her own house among her own familiar things. She didn’t know exactly what was happening, but she knew she had to pursue and embrace it.

But when Marie tried to push her hips forward, to further engulf the fingers, they were suddenly withdrawn. A harsh voice in her ear told her to be still and not be greedy. And without warning, something hard and cold clamped on her left nipple. She could feel the little weight swinging, banging into her breast, and each time it did the clamp tightened. Her right nipple received the same treatment, and Marie cried out — not in pain, but in exquisite anguish. She felt something new press against her lips and reflexively opened her mouth wider to accept him, his entire length, stiff and smooth and thick. The thought of him, the idea of him, violating her in this way made her own juices flow more thickly. They found their rhythm, the little weights swinging with each new thrust, the clamps tightening, Marie feeling herself moving swiftly to another climax. He must have sensed it, too, because suddenly his fingers were inside her again, and then she felt him press his hands to her neck. He pulled his cock from her mouth, thrust into her willing pussy without warning, and pushed his fingers, still slick with her, into her mouth.

Marie thought she heard him, too, cry out, but she could not be sure. She was lost in herself, in the moment, in the intensity of pleasure that she hadn’t known possible and wasn’t sure she would ever feel again.

Marie opened her eyes and blinked. She was on the bus, well past her usual stop. She was approaching the end of the line, she would ride back for the return trip. Disoriented, she glanced at her watch. She had left quite early, and would not be terribly late after all.

That night, she slept as she hadn’t slept in weeks: a deep, satisfying sleep that restored her body and mind, the way sleep is meant to. When she woke early, as was now her custom, she knew that the dream, whatever it was, would not return. She stepped outside to retrieve the paper and caught the scent of redwoods after a rainstorm. Back inside, she brewed her coffee — a single cup today, treating herself to the estate beans. Mingled with the aroma of coffee was something else, something she wanted to remember: a faint mix of musk, and sweat, and skin.