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Granddaughter makes the rules.
..something or other. Looking for an "in," she asked what he did for a living.
Her mind had been skipping over the conversation so far, waiting for the right moment, but she suddenly rewound what she heard when his answer came back.
She had heard right. He wrote erotica films.
This was her chance. She immediately zeroed in on this aspect of the conversation. Got him to discuss details, where he got his inspiration, how "involved" he was in the process...more and more intimate, more and more hushed. Until finally, with another expert blush and perfectly executed shyness, she coyly asked if he could perhaps...demonstrate?
His eyes lit up.
She'd offered. But he'd insisted on his own lavish room. Could be a trap. She was ready. But when she knocked, it was unlocked, and there he was, in the middle of the room straightening the bed nervously.
Tosca glided inside, gently closing the door behind her. She was no more clothed than she was before.
He crossed the room in two steps and gently put his hands on her sides, softly promising things she'd heard many times before, before putting kisses on her shoulders and neck. He was hers. It was only a matter of time now.
Wait. That wasn't supposed to happen. She hadn't felt him handcuff her wrists...but there they were, shackled together in front of her, while her "victim" carried on trying to seduce her. The kisses had felt kind of nice, nothing to write home about, when had she lapsed?
He was either very skilled, or just that naiv. Either she was at a terrible disadvantage and in incredible danger, or was about to kill someone very interesting. Either way, she needed to go along with it for a little while. So she reluctantly allowed him to hang the chain off of some convenient protrusion from the ceiling.
Her arms held harmlessly above her head, things got out of hand as he slid behind her. She was going to kick him in the groin and fling him against the mantle with both legs, but what he did wasn't a lethal attack. It was, however, an assault.
The dress. It left nothing to the imagination. And it protected nothing. Tosca had been touched by men before. But something different happened this time. His hands were certainly skilled, but not the greatest in her memory. It was something else. She'd never allowed herself to be bound before, never felt helpless under the touch of another. But with just the addition of a pair of handcuffs, a garment that was designed to lure prey suddenly felt incredibly revealing and unproductive. The man behind her reached through her dress, through her layers of deceptions and cover identities, past her defenses, and found her.
His hand slid under her braless breasts, and he carefully dodged her head as it fell back, gasping and holding a quivering breath as his other hand crept up her thigh, pulling up the skirt the half-inch required to reveal everything.
She still squeezed her legs shut, but her body had already given in to feelings she'd never imagined before. One hand didn't crush or wad but gently caressed her breasts, and just the soft underside, supporting an lifting them. The other had begun to insinuate itself into her waist band. Her head was completely resting on his shoulder now, her body draped backwards over his as her legs stopped supporting her, and she could only breathe gasps of shock interspersed with surprised moans, both growing as his fingertips softly teased her shaved mound, and nothing more.
She was out of breath when he stopped, her whole body tingling, quivering and weak. She just watched as he excitedly slid her meager panties down her thighs, calves, and her stiletto heels, which he carefully lifted out for her. Then, her heart raced as he, kneeling in front of her, slowly slid and folded her skirt, inch by inch, up her pelvis, over her hips, and above her bellybutton. She watched herself exposed, vulnerable, obscenely open like that, as if seeing her own body for the first time. Her breath came more and more in rasps.
Her legs had parted slightly by now, and he was behind her agai