Escape from Bondage Read online

  Escape from Bondage

  Dusty Miller

  This Smashwords edition copyright 2014 Dusty Miller and Long Cool One Books

  Design: J. Thornton

  ISBN 978-0-9918999-7-5

  The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. The author’s moral right has been asserted.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Scene One

  Scene Two

  Scene Three

  About the Author

  Escape from Bondage

  Dusty Miller

  Scene One

  The night was restless and warm for early December. Huddled under the blankets, she thought she heard a faint rumble. A winter thunderstorm was not unheard of, but hardly welcome right now. She’d only been at St. Marie for a week, but finally her spiritual and physical exhaustion had worn off. All of a sudden she was up again, almost manic in her mood. Today, all day, her nerves were completely jangled. It wasn’t just the move and the transfer, or the thoughts of seeing Braden from time to time. Not after the terrible last three months, where they didn’t see each other at all, ultimately leading up to her transfer. The reality of what she had done was catching up, and she had to start teaching a new class Monday morning at eight-forty-five sharp.

  Now she couldn’t sleep. The room was too hot. The blankets were too thick, but to take them off meant a draft and a chill. Air whistled around the window and much of it came in. She was on one side, and then the other, with her upper knee drawn up and supported by the balled-up blankets. Her brain just wouldn’t switch off.

  Rain lashed the rooftop, less than ten feet away in her third-floor bedroom, way up under the eaves, a bit bigger than her room for all those years back home. That was one way of describing it. It wasn’t home. She wondered if it ever would be.

  She was in a semi-aware state, not unpleasant in itself. If only she could drop off into real slumber. Heather would be ever so grateful. Sleep was the last refuge. She’d read that somewhere.

  The place had its own atmosphere, and in the long hours of the night when quiet reigned, the big old house had a set of obscure noises all of its own. Most of them were unidentifiable, but the pish-pish-pish of the heating pipes and the sound of someone in another room flushing a toilet or getting a drink of water were familiar enough. The occasional loud crack or pop could be put down to the age of the building, or the settling of the ground it was built on. It was the expansion and contraction of the maple hardwood floors, when the sun crossed it during daylight hours. The house had a life of its own by now, being over a hundred years old.

  The distant crawling whine of transport trucks on the highway, or cars in the street out front weren’t threatening. Voices of people going by were clearly outside and down there, respectively. Branches scraping at the weathered brick wall outside made her hair stand on end, at least until she figured out what it was.

  Her eyes opened and she looked at the clock. It was only a little after one a.m. She still had time to get a good night’s sleep. God, please.

  She had just closed her eyes and rolled over when a solid clunk came against the wall under her window. Upon first looking out, she thought how pleasant it would be to look out into the treetops in summer…

  “Ah.” She turned her head and neck against the resistance of the pillow, which was a lot softer than she was used to. “Um.”

  It felt good, but it wasn’t sleep.

  There were more small sounds, little bumps and a rasping sound. She thought it was the tree branches again, the wind must be really picking up out there. Her eyes flickered. It wasn’t working…it was like she just couldn’t drop off. Every so often she had a night like that, of course. It was never welcome.

  A strong thud came right at the window, looming a couple of metres away from the foot of her bed. Panes rattled and the curtains trembled.

  “Argh.” She thought for a moment and whispered a single expletive. “Shit.”

  There was quiet now except for the sound of light rain on the glass. She was just turning from her right side to the left yet again. The sound of tapping on the window made her growl in frustration. She snapped on the light and sat up, strongly tempted to go over and reassure herself it was just branches in the wind. She glared in the general direction of the offending window.

  “Eek!”

  There was a dim red shape in the glass, visible through a narrow gap in the dark patterned curtains, down low just over the sash. It took recognizable form in her consciousness.

  Her jaw dropped.

  Braden! What instinct for self-preservation stopped her from shouting his name, or anything at all for that matter, was a blessing of the first magnitude.

  Oh, my God.

  His hand beckoned, and he mouthed words silently. His face was wet from the downpour as she swung her legs out of bed. She went to the window, putting her toes down first and making a minimum of sound. She pulled the curtains away and tried to lift the window.

  The thing was sticky in the guides. She bent low, put her back into it and got a good grip.

  She bit her lip. It made a groaning sound. She shoved the thing up as high as she could get and then stood back, keeping the window up with her left hand as Braden clambered up and over, dripping a trail of water and grinning like a drunken idiot who has just won the lottery after a lifetime of total mediocrity.

  Her eyes slid to the window. Braden nodded, and took over. He eased it down until it was up just enough to get his fingers out from under it. She looked around, and settled on a rolled-up magazine to keep the window from dropping the last bit. He stuck it under and gave a small push on the top of the frame. He pulled the curtains tightly closed. They billowed slightly in place from the remaining air flow.

  Putting a finger to his lips for silence, he pointed at the bed and so Heather gratefully retreated someplace warm.

  Sitting with knees up and a blanket over her legs, she watched as Braden took off his ball cap and opened his jacket. The silence of the room was all too loud now. What in the hell was he thinking?

  Yet the thoughts of having sex silently, which perhaps might not be truly impossible, stirred her and she wondered if Braden was some kind of a genius. The last three months had been sheer hell. Her groin throbbed at the thought of sex. The first week here, had brought on a kind of desolation of the spirit. She had been struggling with it. He stood at the end of her bed, looking down in total seriousness. His initial smile had vanished.

  She licked her lips and watched his eyes, breathing deeply in anticipation.

  He came over and sat down on a small chair she used for dressing. He reached into his side jacket pocket and pulled out what looked like a sandwich bag. She wondered if he had condoms in there. The notion of a snack or something seemed out of odds with what was happening…

  He opened the top and proffered a note in her direction.

  “Read it.” The words were barely perceptible, but she flinched from the unthinkable possibility that one of the other sisters might wake up in the next room or across the hall.

  His eyes traveled the walls and the layout. He held a small flashlight, with his elbow propped up by the night table, as sh
e opened it up and began to read.

  #

  Heather folded the note as Braden unscrewed the cap from a silver flask. Their eyes met and they smiled. His light lay on the table, pointed at the interior wall, throwing rings of light and shadow from its lens. He raised the flask and had a quick nip, and saluted her with a gesture. She put the note down and took the brandy. Tipping it back, she sucked back an ounce or two, trying not to cough and gag. It was strong stuff. The fumes burnt in her nostrils. She blinked, waving them away. She would need a little courage for this.

  Braden leaned in close.

  “Heather. My darling Heather. I love you so very much. Please trust me, and try not to make any noise.”

  The same as in the note more or less, but the shock of his words shot through her. Her eyes darted left and right, listening intently. The big place was as quiet as it was before…the rain, of course, and the wind. The odds were that no one could have heard, as low and quiet as his tone was. The thumping in her chest was the worst noise in the room.

  “It’s okay.” She bit her lip and offered the flask, but he waved it away, indicating that she should take another drink.

  Repressing a giggle, she complied, this time downing a half a mouthful and then firmly screwing the top back on. She set it aside on the small night table between beside the note and baggie.

  Braden rose. He took out the small remainder of a roll of grey duct tape from a side pocket. Her eyes followed him as he pulled the blanket away and then bending over, pulled her pajamas and her legs out straight. He smoothed the fabric and wrapped it around her legs. He gave an inquiring look, and she nodded happily. She licked her lips and watched him, totally calm and prepared for whatever came next.

  She put a hand over her mouth to stifle her snicker.

  This was so exciting…how daring of Braden to come here in the night…he must have used the fire escape. God, the guts it must have taken. What nerve the man had. Delicious warmth spread out from her stomach, and all through her middle. Something mysterious smoldered, bursting forth into flames deep inside of her. He gave a jerk of the head. With her elbows, she worked her way down and out flat. He gave another tug on her long cotton pajama top. Curiosity built inside her. He wasn’t stripping her off. She’d just caught on.

  He took her wrists in his big left hand and thoughtfully pulled a bandanna from his pocket. Putting it around her wrists, he taped them firmly together and now she was well and truly in for it. Her heart pounded in anticipation as Braden came in for a long and sweltering kiss, their breath the only sound. His aftershave was tangy and sharp in her nostrils.

  Tearing off one final short piece of tape, Braden rubbed the tip of his nose on hers.

  “I love you, Heather.”

  “I love you too, Braden.” Her voice was surprisingly strong and loud, yet she felt all warm and comfortable, even sleepy now that the initial shock had worn off.

  His eyes shifted and they both listened again, hearts palpitating.

  He gently put the tape over her mouth, as her eyes blazed into his.

  Imagine him climbing up those old iron rungs in the rain, in the middle of the night, just to be with her.

  A tear welled up in her eye as he stood looking at her for a moment. Tearing himself away, still steaming from the rain, he turned and got busy.

  With her head tilted slightly to the left, she was breathing calmly through her nose as he pulled out a couple of drawers on her dresser. Her pulse began to rise at this mystery. Taking a green plastic garbage bag out of another pocket, he began packing some of her things. A bolt of pure terror hit Heather. Her pulse shot up and she twitched against the restraints. She mustn’t fall off the bed. It was too much for her, and she slumped in physical resignation, drained by the fear and the knowledge of her predicament. She struggled with the panic. She had no idea of what came next, but they loved each other. She loved Braden so much…he was putting her things in the bag. Anything she could do would make noise…she couldn’t make any noise.

  Whatever it was, they mustn’t be caught. It was a test of her trust, that had to be it…but it was so unnecessary. They could be quiet…they could do it right here. He could fuck her silently in the night, right in the convent…she was so tempted to make some sound and try to get his attention. He seemed so intent on something.

  Heather made a few pitiful noises and he turned, their eyes met, and she stopped. She had her answer. The look on his face was so unreadable, yet tension ripped the air, his own nervousness written all over in his body language.

  The fear was the worst she’d ever known. She raved inwardly. What a fool. A cold hard knot of nausea gripped her midriff and she fought for breath and control of her body, now trembling at the extremities.

  Water glazed her vision and ran hot and wet down her face. His disjointed shape was between her and light over the bureau, the only thing that gave her any hint as to his activities. She thought about the giveaway light under the door…

  He wasn’t doing sexual things to her…that much was clear. She hoped she could stay awake for it, and smiled abruptly. Just as abruptly, she began crying again. She fought for lucid thought, but it was no good. She lay more calmly and let the brandy work on her. She breathed deeply, from the bottom on up. Crying was a good way to choke. She knew that.

  Totally helpless, slowly blinking over and over again in a determined effort to stay in the room with him, she watched in dull passivity. There was nothing else to look at, but his shape moving back and forth. The beating of her heart almost overwhelmed her with its pure strength, yet it seemed slower than normal. Its pulse was strong in her inner ears…her eyelids were so warm and heavy.

  The tip of her nose buzzed almost, and the rims of her ears, and she recognized with a spurt of adrenal juices that her fingers, her toes, and her lips, even under the tape, were going numb. A curious, electric tingling sensation, a sinking feeling washed over her, and as the blackness closed in, she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake in trusting Mister Braden Mitchell with her heart, her body and her soul.

  #

  Heather was right out of it. Braden picked up the flask and gave it a shake. She’d taken in at least an ounce and a half of brandy and a good dose of melatonin—he’d put six or eight tabs in there just to make sure. It had worked perfectly. He put his tongue over the hole when he pretended to drink. She really was too trusting.

  He put it in the top of bag, along with the note, and the plastic zip-lock baggie he’d brought to keep it from getting soaked. He considered the light. He found his cap and put that on.

  Braden squished out the air. He put a pair of electrical tie-wrap fasteners on the top of the bag, turned off the lamp and then went to the window. He pulled back the curtains, as the sky flashed with silent lightning. It must be one hell of a long ways off, for there was no sound and no actual bolt. It was the sky and the overcast flickering. He slid his fingers under the window, feeling cold wet rain on them.

  He shivered involuntarily, and pulled up the window with one smooth motion. To his eternal gratitude, just then a thin low suggestion of sound came over the dark western horizon. The grumble built and went on for a while. The house was quiet as cold winds whipped in. Going back, he picked up the garbage bag and brought it over. Bracing himself, he carefully leaned out and chucked it in the general vicinity of a red dumpster bucket that stood near the kitchen entrance. It landed three feet to the right of it. It was a two and half story Victorian monster in warm buff brick, encompassing twenty or thirty rooms. The place had front, back, side and cellar doors. The lot was well treed and it was set back from the street. His vehicle couldn’t be more than fifty metres from this very spot. It all went through his head again.

  He lowered the window after seeing another bright flash through the low-lying cloud deck.

  There was no reaction from the house. The rumble of thunder seemed to rattle on for a while and he stood with his heart-rate elevated enough to be uncomfortable. The tough part was ye
t to come. Some of them old broads must awake he reckoned, but what were they going to do about it? They would lie in bed and think about things.

  Heather must weight in at a hundred-fifteen, maybe a hundred twenty-five pounds or thereabouts. Now was the time to turn off the flashlight. He stuck it firmly into his back pocket. After one last visual sweep of the room, looking for any tell-tale clue, he fiddled with the curtains, leaving them ten or twelve inches open for a bit of illumination. He prayed not to trip on anything or run into the end of the bed.

  Braden stood and allowed his eyes to adjust, waiting and listening to the sounds of the night. He would have sworn no one was moving about in the place. Whether anyone was awake and within hearing range was another question.

  Braden pulled a thin nylon stocking out of his shirt pocket and carefully worked it onto his head and down onto his face. He lined up the eye slots. He had an option for any contingency.

  Going over to the door, he rotated the knob, trying not to make the door rattle against the frame.

  He pulled it all the way open and waited to see if the wind took it. The breeze going out was disconcerting. His heart pounded. The hallway outside was dead quiet otherwise. Taking a look, the stairs were to the right. There was a faint green rechargeable nightlight plugged into a wall outlet right at the top of the stairs, a wise precaution, and a ruddy glow in the stairwell came from the room down below.

  Picking up Heather, he slugged her inert form out into the hallway. Setting her down, up against the wall and out of the way, he carefully pulled her door closed, not allowing the spring-loaded knob to go on its own but carefully releasing it into position.