Scarves

Special thanks to editors DaneW and kasmith05.

*****

It was a peculiar dilemma. I wanted so badly to see and move, but all I could do was sit and wait. My hands were bound behind me around the back of a wooden dining chair. The restraints were smooth and sheer: a feminine scarf made to keep hair, not wrists, in place. A thicker black scarf looped around my head and served as a blindfold.

Though my eyes were covered, I could peek out if I tilted my head back. Only the warm glow of burning candles highlighted shadows in the room. Bubblegum pop played softly to my right, mostly forgotten at this stage of the night. My captors towered over me, two silhouettes moving as one.

Sitting there, heart pounding and helpless, I wondered, not for the first time, how the hell I had gotten myself into this situation.

--

The night had begun, like most Saturday nights, with drinking. More specifically, it began with good food and cheap wine. You might call Megan a foodie. Exotic and complex dishes were the norm around her place.

We had only been dating for a few months and I had already been treated to what seemed like a tour of the culinary world. Sage-Brined Pork Chops? Check. Penne à la Vodka? Check. Prosciutto and Arugula Pizza? Check. Tonight's main dish of Coq au Vin would turn out to be a particular treat. Consisting of chicken stewed in red wine with porcini mushrooms, red onions, and pancetta, Coq au Vin is a meal worth fawning over. Which is exactly how I found Megan when I arrived at her apartment.

She was standing next to the stove adding some final touches to the meal. As usual, she looked amazing. Under her cooking apron, she wore a light, charcoal sweater and a pair of snug blue jeans that hugged her figure just right. Like a vixen straight off the pages of a 1950s pin-up magazine, Megan was curvy in the way a real woman should be, with full, large breasts, a narrow waist, and an ass that demanded notice. As I approached her from behind, my mind wandered, remembering the feel of her smooth legs wrapped around my body.

"Hey, you," she said as I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a peck on the nape of her neck. "Dinner should be ready soon." I caught a hint of her perfume: something fruity with just the right amount of spice. She turned around in my arms and I leaned down to kiss her. She stood a full head shorter than me, which suited me just fine. Forget the tall models; I always preferred short girls. They just felt more natural wrapped in your arms. As she pulled away, I had a clear view of her hazel eyes. They, like her lips, were always smiling.

"What?" she asked, chuckling at me as I stared down at her beautiful face.

"Admiring the girl of my dreams."

"Oh, is that all? I guess that makes sense. I am pretty awesome, after all."

I playfully kissed her again, running my fingers through her long, wavy auburn hair. "And modest."

"Modesty is one of my best qualities. Along with my big boobs. And my ass, can't forget about that. And—"

"And too bad you don't have a sense of humor."

"Yeah, too bad. Then I would be the perfect girl," she said, breaking our embrace in order to return to her pot of fragrant stew. Taking a peek over her shoulder, I could see she had prepared a massive amount of food. "Are you expecting to feed an army?"

"I'll blame that one on genes. My family always fixes way too much food. Besides, there is no easy way to make a small amount of this. With all this extra food, I invited Bridget to join us this evening." She glanced back at me. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." And honestly, I didn't. Bridget and I got along well. Megan's next door neighbor had a crude sense of humor that more often than not led to funny and exciting conversations about very inappropriate things.

At first blush, Bridget and Megan were an odd pairing. Bridget liked to live life on the wild side. She was passionate about music, and in college, her band had apparently been a big deal on campus. She enjoyed the night scene and thought nothing of partying until dawn. To hear her tell it, her rock and roll ways led to some pretty risqué times in college. She has always been purposely vague about the details, but from what I've gather, her idea of fun pushed beyond the normal college curiosities.

Most of that seemed to be behind her now. Currently "between bands," she made a living as a private music tutor. I envied the puberty-age boys she taught. At that age, I rarely encountered someone in real life who automatically jumped to the top of the spank-bank list. Along with her killer voice, Bridget had the lean body of a runner and flowing, mid-back blond hair that belonged in a Pantene commercial. The way she dressed only added to her allure. Obsessed with the music and style of the '60s, Bridget almost always wore short dresses and high platform boots of the era. Between the two, her legs seemed to go on forever.

Being a musician, she was naturally loud and boisterous and loved to be the center of attention. This contrasted starkly with Megan. At a crowded party, Megan was always the quiet one who stuck close to a small group of friends. Though stunningly attractive, she didn't draw attention to herself with skintight clothes and a ton of makeup. Her style might be best described as nerd chic. Bold retro glasses adorned her face and bangs covered her forehead. She normally pulled her hair back into a ponytail or tied it up into a bun. At night and on weekends, her wardrobe consisted of tank tops, loose sweaters, and either jeans or a casual skirt. The look was driven by the workday requirement that she wear the informal uniform of her profession: the pantsuit.

Megan was a first-year associate at a pretty big law firm downtown. She got there by being the best and putting in the time associated with being the best. During college, Megan, like Bridget, often stared the sunrise full in the face with sleep-deprived eyes. Only for Megan, the nights had been spent memorizing case law.

That's not to say that Megan never let her hair down. For Megan, working hard went hand in hand with playing hard. Only, when Megan let loose, it was in the bedroom. From light bondage to role-playing, the bedroom was Megan's playground. After particularly frustrating days at the office, Megan would invite me over, not for a gentle word or a shoulder to cry on, but for a good, hard fuck instead. She would meet me at the door, pull me into her bedroom, throw me on the bed, climb on top, and ride me until she had her fill. Not that I minded being used. I gave as willingly and as often as she wanted. I always got mine and then some.

A few weeks ago, near our six-month anniversary, she had called one weekday night and told me she had a surprise waiting at her place. The only catch was that I had to wear my suit in order to get this mysterious treat. When I arrived, the door was unlocked and a sign on the counter told me to head to the bedroom. As I entered, Megan shoved me down into a waiting chair. I was informed that my role for the evening would be that of a hostile witness to Megan's opposing counsel. She wore the most titillating version of her lawyerly uniform. A tight, much-too-short-for-the-office skirt replaced her normal trousers. The white blouse was everyday work attire, but three too many buttons were undone, revealing the center clasp of a lacy black bra. To finish the look, a pair of black thigh-high stockings was held in place by a garter belt that trailed back under her skirt.

By the end of that evening's proceedings, I gladly accepted the punishment Megan's court handed out. We were so loud I had to wonder, with only a thin wall separating us, if Bridget could hear our moans. And, if she could, what did she think about that? Afterward, it occurred to me that maybe that was part of the fun for Megan. Maybe she enjoyed knowing that someone might be listening.

And therein lied the point of Megan and Bridget's friendship. Megan enjoyed Bridget's torrid stories of all-night party escapades. And Bridget saw Megan as a steady, grounding force against all the fly-by-night party people in her life. Of course, it helped that they were both transplants who arrived in the city, and their apartment complex, at about the same time. After meeting on the landing outside their doors, Megan invited Bridget over for a home-cooked meal and the rest, as they say, was history.

While Megan finished dinner, I set out three bowls and sets of silverware. The table was normally placed against the wall to save space, but tonight I pulled it back into the middle of the room to better accommodate the three of us. The cozy apartment lacked a true dining room, so part of the living room had taken over that duty. This worked out well as we usually watched the nearby TV while eating. Unlike our normal side dish of Netflix, tonight's entertainment called for a little more class. Frank Sinatra crooned about love and luck from a set of cheap speakers placed strategically as bookends on a shelf over the TV. From the kitchen, Megan softly sang along.

The living room, like the rest of the apartment, was a mishmash of IKEA, Goodwill, and hand-me-downs. Still, the overall effect was quite charming. It always amazed me how girls could pull together a bunch of seemingly unrelated junk and make it into a home. A lamp here, a basket there, some candles to finish, and voila: the perfect style for twentysomethings stuck between college life and real adulthood.

Before Bridget arrived and our dinner commenced, I excused myself to the bathroom. After finishing my business, I gave myself a good once-over in the mirror. I was dressed casually in a white Oxford shirt, untucked and sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, and a pair of dark bootcut jeans. My golden-brown hair was disheveled in a way that took way too much time to accomplish, and stubble spotted my jawline for that rugged look that was in these days. Overall, I looked pretty good.

My time at college had made me soft around the middle, but two years back at the family business had hardened my body in a way that only manual labor could achieve. Unlike the two ladies, I was born and raised in the city. My family owned a custom furniture business that catered to the elite. I wouldn't say my family was wealthy, but we lived a comfortable life.

From a young age, I knew that I would one day take over the business. I took great pride in the knowledge that I would continue my father's legacy. My time in college had been spent in search of new ideas and techniques for making better furniture. They actually offer degrees in furniture design, if you can believe that. And I would like to think that time was well spent. Since my return, our business has seen a steady increase in demand. Though I spend too much of the day in meetings and at design boards, I've always made time for my true love: actually crafting the furniture. Every piece we sell is handmade and I get my hands dirty as often as possible. If I was lucky, these nimble fingers would come in handy later tonight.

As I finished up in the guest bathroom, someone knocked lightly on the apartment door.

"That'll be Bridget," Megan said from the kitchen.

"I'll get it." A cold blast of winter air greeted me as I opened the door.

"Hey, sexy," Bridget said, giving Megan a small hug and kiss on the cheek. She wore a sapphire-blue wrap dress and a pair of knee-high leather boots. A box of wine perched precariously in the crook of her arm. "Something smells delicious."

"That would be the Coq au Vin," Megan said in her best, albeit not very good, French accent.

"A woman after my own heart. Thomas, I may just have to steal your girlfriend away. We can move to Europe and start a small restaurant together. Megan will cook; I'll provide the entertainment. At night, we will make sweet, but passionate love. We'll live scandalously and be the talk of the town. What do you say, Megan?"

"Sounds like heaven to me," Megan replied, shooting a grin in my direction. "We might have to keep him around, though. He can be our waiter and busboy. And occasionally he can join us in the sack. Sometimes, you just need to get fucked by a man."

"So true," Bridget said, nodding her head in agreement. "Well, Thomas, do you agree to work long hours for minimum wage on the promise of joining in some hot lesbian action?"

A no-brainer. "Of course," I said.

"It's settled, then. Now all we need to do is raise the money for our adventure."

"In the meantime," Megan said, "dinner is almost ready. It should be done about the same time you finish pouring us a glass of that wine."

"Straight from the bottom shelf to you, my dear." She placed the box of wine on the counter and retrieved two glasses from the cabinet. Wine, whether top shelf or bottom, did nothing for me, so I grabbed a tumbler, some ice, a Coke, and a bottle of Jack I had stashed above the fridge. With drinks prepared, we converged on the feast waiting for us at the dining table.

Like good adults, we dutifully consumed our salads first, all the while eyeing the main course. With the rabbit food out of the way, we were finally able to dig into our culinary treat. The stew, as expected, was superb. Megan had really outdone herself.

While we ate, the conversation veered from topic to topic, becoming more jovial as the food and alcohol warmed our bodies. Bridget shared a story of a student who thought she was destined, despite no real discernible talent, to be the next great pop diva. We concluded that, by and large, kids were little assholes. Following the same theme, Megan unleashed an expletive-filled rant about the firm's newest, and biggest, client. He apparently thought 3 percent was too high a tax rate for his company to pay. Unfortunately, these types of clients would be the norm for Megan in her budding career. Corporate law had its advantages—very little time in the actual courtroom and lots (and lots) of money—but the downside included long hours working for clients who were used to getting everything they wanted. We concluded that clients were, with no exceptions, big assholes.

As the meal drew to a close and we scraped the bottom of our bowls clean, the night's plans came into focus. On a normal Saturday night with Bridget, we would end up in some hole-in-the-wall bar listening to an up-and-coming band, but that was not an option tonight. What had begun as a light snowfall had turned into a curtain of white, so the idea of leaving our toasty hideaway was never really even considered. Instead, we decided on a night of board games. Up first: Sorry!

Alliances were made and quickly broken. Cheerfully vulgar names were called. Groans were issued at bad luck of the draw. After an hour, Megan was the clear winner, handily beating Bridget's and my win totals combined. Years of strategy building in the study and practice of law had the incidental consequence of making Megan a master board game player.

"I feel used and abused," Bridget said, shooting Megan a pretend evil look. "I always thought that if you had your way with me, I would feel better afterward."

"Trust me, if I really had my way with you, you would be flying high right about now," Megan replied, giving Bridget her best sultry look in return.

"And exhausted," I chipped in.

"Promises, promises," Bridget said.

"Well, since you guys can't take me at Sorry!, I think it's time for a different game," Megan said, shaking her glass, "and another drink." By that point, the girls were three drinks in while I was just about to finish my second Jack and Coke. We were loopy with alcohol and the fun that can only be had with good friends. The night seemed perfect.

"I've got the perfect game!" Bridget squealed, hopping up from her chair. "It's back at my place. Megan, will you grab some scarves while I go get it? And Thomas, will you make me a Jack and Coke, too?"

"Scarves?" Megan asked. "Does this game also involve whips and a safe word?"

"Ha! You wish," Bridget said, already heading out the door. "Maybe if you get me really drunk." I went to the kitchen to fix a new round of drinks. As I poured out a measure of Jack, Megan slipped her hands around my waist from behind. I thought she was going to hug me, but instead her hands kept moving downward, sliding over the front of my pants and fondling my hardening dick through the fabric of my jeans.

"This next game better not last too long," she purred into my ear. "You see, I have a problem."

"Maybe I can help," I said, trying not to groan. "What kind of problem do you have?"

"Well, I am so very horny tonight," she said, now nibbling on my ear. "And there is only one thing that can satisfy me. I need a big, hard dick inside me." My pants bulged as she continued to stroke me. "But before I let that dick inside, I need someone to get me nice and wet. I need someone to take extra-special care of my pussy tonight. Do you think you can handle that?"

"Yes," I said, finally letting the moan out.

"Good. Because if you don't, I might have to let Bridget do it instead. Would you like that? Would you like to watch Bridget get me all wet?"

"More than anything," I said. This was not the first time she had teased me about her being with another girl. When she was tipsy, and in the right mood, she would work the idea of a threesome into our foreplay. Afterward, the sex was always phenomenal. This thought nearly put me over the edge. I spun around to face Megan, eager to kiss her, to pull her against me. Instead, she pulled away, placing a finger over my lips.

"Not yet," she said, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "Bridget will be back any second now. Besides, it's time for a pee break before our next game. Now fix me that drink like a good boy." With that, she smacked me on the ass and left me to my bartending.

Bridget burst through the door a few minutes later.

"Fuck, it is freezing out there!" she screamed, the door slamming behind her. I looked over in surprise at the noise and immediately noticed she had slightly changed her clothes. Her boots and leggings were gone, replaced by bedroom slippers and bare legs. As my eyes traveled up, I could clearly see she had also removed her bra. If her chest was any indication, it was indeed very cold outside.

"Yeah, it gets a little cold out when you start taking off your clothes."

"True, but it's very warm in here and I wanted to be comfortable."

"Oh," Megan said from her bedroom door. "Is it comfy time?"

Bridget smiled over at me. "See, she gets it."

Megan retreated back into her bedroom to change. Ever the exhibitionist, she left the door open behind her. Carrying our drinks to the living room, I just glimpsed a pair of small shorts slip over her perfect ass. For a man, there is something inherently sexy about watching a woman change clothes.

"Aren't you going to change, too?" Bridget asked as she began rearranging some of the dining room chairs.

"I would, but I didn't t bring any extra clothes with me." The plan had been, and still was, to end the evening wrapped in nothing but a sheet and beautiful, naked woman.

"What are you wearing under there: boxers and a T-shirt? That should cover up enough." I thought this over as Bridget took her drink from my hand, her fingers lightly grazing mine in the process. I am not normally shy about my body, but my boxers lacked a button-up front and the thought of gapage kept running through my head.

"Do it, big boy," Megan said, surprising me from behind with another smack on the ass. "Don't be bashful." I turned to see Megan was down to her tank top and pair of short shorts. The apartment was warm from the cooking and heater, but still cool enough that I could see the outline of Megan's hard nipples through her tank top. Apparently, I was not the only one to notice.