Mission Impossible 7

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Thinking and planning was one thing, illegally entering someone else’s home was a fish of a different species. I felt nauseous – my mouth dried out – my jaw tightened and the back of my neck was stiff as an iron bar?

Turning the key, I pushed open the door and stepped into the semi-darkness; shut it quietly then leaned against it, my ears straining for the slightest sound.
Marco wasn’t due back from the academy for several hours, and his man was doing what ever he did every Monday and Wednesday afternoon.

I knew exactly how many steps I hand to climb; how many along the hall; how many to the bedroom. I just had to find a way to make my suddenly disobedient legs carry me up the stairs.

What would I do if someone came home unexpectedly? Where would I hide? I hadn’t planned for that.

I’d planned to be in and out inside ten minutes, but two minutes into the job I was clinging to the front door unable to move.
I had to force myself to breathe slowly; I was panting like a hot puppy, my heart racing, pounding against my chest, my brain suddenly cloudy.
Taking a few deep breaths, as if I was about to dive under water, I let them out slowly, feeling my heart slowing to a more regular pace.
The first step was the hardest.

All the doors on the upper level were open, the rooms neat and tidy. Only the bedroom at the end had its door shut. Carefully I turned the handle, pushing it open a crack, cringing as the hinge protested softly.

The bed was made, a patterned Turkish silk throw covering the duvet. The camera stood on the nightstand. Picking it up I flipped back he screen, flicked the on switch and selected the library folder. I’d been through the procedure with Christian, who fortunately owned a similar model. There were several hundred images, all of women, some tied up, shackled or just posing naked for the camera. Mine I knew would be the latest – the last.
They weren’t.
The most recent pictures were of a very beautiful, pale skinned red-head with large breasts, huge saucer shaped aureole and ginger pubic hair, posing with her legs apart, tied up with Japanese bondage knots or spread eagled face down, her wrists and ankles tied to the bed frame.

In a matter of moments I’d deleted the thirty-four pictures of me. Don’t forget to delete the photos from the ‘recently deleted images file’ Christian had told me.

I replaced the camera on the nightstand, making sure it was exactly where it’d been when I picked it up.

The hard copies were where Christian had said they were. Marco hadn’t yet made copies of the ones he took of the red-head, so mine were on the top. I put them in my pocket, then had a quick look through  the rest; blondes, blacks, brunettes, oriental – he didn’t seem to have a preference; I’d just been another women he’d fucked, tied up, and photographed for his scrap-book.

Next I searched the room for his lap-top. It wasn’t there. My heart almost stopped. What if he’d taken it with him? It would have all been for nothing.

Closing the bedroom door I entered the next room; expensive period furniture, huge curved screen TV, a writing desk, the five paintings that Christian lusted after on the walls; but no computer.

A connecting doorway led to the dining room with its dark wood table, large enough to seat eighteen people. The slim laptop was at the far end, the screen lid open. I’d asked Christian how he came to know the password, but he refused to say.

My search of the files yielded only pictures of his wife and children and a few of his home in Sicily. There were no deleted images in the computers waste bin.
I breathed a sigh of relief, closed it down and headed for the door, turned, walked back across the room and pulled up the screen.

The bathroom was my next stop – I had to pee.

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