It hasn't been a very long time since I took Nadine in hand properly. The gentle conversationalist made for a fine friend, always making herself available for me even if it meant juggling arms loads of books. I had spoken at length with her in hushed tones for nearly two years after she'd accepted the position of head librarian in Roxeth Metropolitan Library. I'd always been a fixture there, in my spare time, my nose deep in the pages of one or another book.
Our acquaintance—it all started with a faux-pas. I gave her a smile, and indeed: I flashed that toothy smile in her direction without even thinking to hide my teeth. Understand, that's when I noticed Nadine's fatal flaw. Her ears perked up and her tail straightened out when I gave her that friendly look (as it had been intended as just that—a friendly look), like she'd just seen a tiger escape from its cage.
It was that fear, that very same hesitation, that brought me to apologize to her later, amidst all the clamor of a busy library. I was relieved—she had not been offended, but still, I felt badly. It hit off our friendship, really. A simple greeting on the next visit unfolded by the next one into a few jokes, then we shared our mutual commentary on the weather, on traffic, then on business and soon everything became a good excuse to chit-chat with my favorite little mouse.
There was just one problem, however. I simply could not forget that expression she gave me when I smiled at her. The way her breath hitched, like everything about her had been caught up in her throat and she returned a nervous little smirk.
I truly thought that she was going to run away.
Oh how little I had known.
It was an agonizingly slow development, culminating over a series of subversive little events. Even I had not known known my intentions early on. She had made the grand mistake, eventually, of becoming comfortable with my person—reaching out to touch my sleeves or straighten my lapel. The little touches, the cursory outreach for social and interpersonal (dare I say, intimate?) contact drove my curiosity onward. Soon she was more than a friend.
She was a necessity in the marching on of my days.
The confrontation happened at an unremarkable moment on an otherwise unremarkable day. My employer had started cutting back on mandatory office hours: so long as our work was finished, our time belonged to us again. It was an arrangement that suited my tastes just fine. I came to her, one day, as I had been wont to do, just for a chat. I suggested tea, and soon we found ourselves in a breakroom. Her small, slender and dainty figure which had been the fixation for my fantasies as late was dressed in a pullover and a skirt with little boots on.
Somehow—almost without my own volition—I was holding her against a cabinet and I took everything I'd ever wanted from her. The pleasure of dominating her, of calling her my 'pet,' was wholly intoxicating. I lost myself in it. I'd even growled, as foolish as that sounded.
She protested, at first. Then the only thing I heard from her was squeaking and gasping.
After my senses came back to me, we did finally talk. I thought she'd be angry at me. I'd raped her, after all, but in my desperation I told her that I loved her. And her? She managed to say, "Love you too, I think." Always nervous. Always uncertain.
From then on, we started sneaking time at the library. Soon enough, we spent so much time together that it was absurd to spend time apart. It was absurd to pay for separate living arrangements. While I was staying with colleagues in a shared house we rented, she had inherited a home from her grandmother. She invited me to live there on the condition that we continue our indecent interludes.
At any rate, with that little exposition out of the way, I'm brought back to the current hour. Having just finished my commute home after one of my infamously short work days, I had a mouse to see to. She was taking a brief vacation from her work, and so we had agreed that there would be fun involved in our little 'stay-at-home' vacation.
As I shifted the car into gear and engaged the parking brake, I considered what I was about to see inside, my manhood swelling in my slacks.
I looked at my watch and considered—had she waited long enough? Probably not, but... could I wait any longer? I thought about the 'pet' which awaited me and realized the answer.
No, no I didn't think I could wait a single moment longer.
I nearly flew out of the car, kicking the door closed behind me. My strides ate the walkway to our home's front door in three paces. I flung that open and nearly tore my jacket off as I entered before throwing it on a couch haphazardly and pulled hard at my own tie to toss it at the coat-rack in the corner.
I kicked my shoes off as I made my way back to the bedroom where I knew she waited. I opened the door and entered gruffly. A loud squeal of terror met me as I laid eyes upon my mouse, her slender form bound in silken rope, arms and legs splayed wide. Her mouth was gagged with a red ball and a blindfold covered her eyes.
She was expecting some certain... attitudes from me, I knew. You see, my darling little one, she had always had a fixation. Ever since she was in middle school, she'd known that she was stringently well-disposed to the (of all things) a predator's charms. Nadine had once confided to me that it was this which she had found attractive at first, though as I proved more and more 'safe' a companion, her interest had declined. Until that fateful day.
Now, my precious rodenticidal lover was anticipating being a predator's plaything. A game of "cat-and-mouse," if you will.
But by now, her excitement from combined neglect and the immediacy of her aggressive lover's ravishing had her nearly hyperventilating. She'd been waiting for only a few hours, unaware if it would be two or eight, and in truth: she had no way of knowing if I was truly who I was.
She was perfectly helpless. Exactly where I wanted her.