Thread: Saving Elizabeth {The Gothic Temptress and Alan23}

While the men had been having their fun, Tris had not been entirely idle. There were limits to what even as resourceful a man as he could do with his hands expertly tied, in an empty room with nothing to use as a weapon, against three big, streetwise men with guns. And yet, without seeming to move much, he had been moving closer and closer to Elizabeth, insinuating his body gently, so that as the three men circled, talking, with many a glance at Elizabeth's legs or up her skirt, Tris finally contrived to scooch across to rest in the perfect place, casually interposing himself between her and the men. They could, of course, simply have heaved him out of the way, or ordered him at gunpoint to move. And yet, somehow, they didn't. To do so would have meant to lose face, to admit they wished to continue perving up her skirt, for such things must be done with a seeming casualness or not at all. He had spoiled their fun - a small triumph. Right now, if psychological victories were all he could get, he'd take them. It wasn't the first time in his long and chequered career he'd used such as a platform for a later turning of the tables. To complete his victory, he reached out with his leg and using his feet managed to get hold of her skirt and flip it at least part way down, hiding her panties and crotch, though since it was caught under her and her legs were tied, it would not come down any more and a considerable portion of her long legs were still on show. It was, he saw, too late to achieve overmuch. Elizabeth Dwight, the Ice Queen, the woman who could freeze underlings with a single glance, was so close to breaking she was approaching the point of no return. The armpits of the formerly immaculate blouse were stained with heavy sweat, and the garment itself was now so creased it might have done duty as a disc-cloth. The skirt, despite his efforts to correct it, was still up around her upper thighs, her hair was a mess, and her makeup smudged with her crying. Her hose were sagging, and ripped in several places. Looks a bit different from what she does in them business magazines, don't she? laughed Charley, as if reading Tris' thoughts. Who'd ha' thought she'd blub, like some little school girl who lost her hockey stick? Yeah, does make you kind of lose faith in your betters, don't it? added Psycho. What's the betting she pisses herself next? Or starts screaming, said the Welshie. Not that anyone'll hear, look you. Boss chose this place well, isn't it? I reckon she'd already thinking about when we're gonna do to her, chuckled Psycho. He turned to Tris. Well, little flunkey. You still standing by what you said, down in the little cellar? Oh yeah? What's that then? asked Charley. I asked him how he felt working under such a bitch, said Psycho. And he said he mimicked Tris' accent 'Bitch? She's one of the most beautiful women I ever saw.' If his plan had been to embarrass Tris, it didn't appear to have worked. The slim man appeared as unfazed as he had when the pair had first been captured. Yeah, I do, actually, he said, calmly, as if confirming he preferred turkey to chicken, or soccer to cricket. Prettiest eyes I've ever seen. Anyway, he seemed to dismiss the subject from his thoughts Since this Boss of yours doesnt seem too keen to meet us... rather rude I call it... I repeat my earlier question. Are you planning to feed us any time soon? And... He was interrupted by the sudden ring of Charley's phone. The thug spoke into it, his voice adopting a respectful, almost sycophantic, tone. Boss won't be here until late tomorrow, he told the others, to a stereophonic reply of oh fuck! So what are we going to do then? asked Welshie. I don't half relish sitting here all night, not in this cold, boyo. Nah, don't need to, do we? laughed Charley. Take 'em down to the little cellar. Leave 'em there for the night. He pointed at Tris. Unless motormouth here can talk the ropes we're gonna truss 'em with into untying themselves, then chat the lock open, they'll be safe enough I reckon. We can spend the night upstairs. Can't have 'em dying of exposure, bach! replied Welshie. No need. He left, and while he was gone, Psycho and Welshie exchanged small talk about people they knew. There was an obvious tension in the air, as if their smooth plans had somehow struck a small hitch. Even Tris was silent, and all that could be heard was the gentle sound of Elizabeth's hitching breathe and occasional sobbing. About ten minutes later he returned, his arms full of filthy, moth-eaten blankets that smelt of something nameless, with which he loaded up Psycho, together with a plastic bucket, a roll of toilet paper and a small hold all. There's food for you pair in there, he said. And that's all the blankets we've got, so you'll have to huddle together if you want to keep warm. But what about - like, pissing and stuff? Tris asked, though he knew the answer, and showed it by looking at the bucket. But Ms Dwight can't - She'll have to hold it then, won't she? laughed Welshie. He stared at her crotch again. If it isn't too late, that is, look you! The cellar was pitch dark, and when the footsteps of the three men echoed up the stone steps and the door slammed behind them, followed by the turn of the key in the lock, even Tris felt slightly forlorn. They had retied them, so that they were hobbled rather than trussed, and could have walked a few paces if they took it slow, but their hands were again tied together in front of them. Tris immediately began to go through the supplies the men had left. There's a flask of coffee, he said. Bet it's the cheap shit, though. Sandwiches. Some of those pressed ham slices - hope you're not Jewish or Mus - nah, you wouldn't be, would you? And it's not Friday so you should be OK. A bit of fruit. Not exactly up to the standards of Gordon Oliver or whatever the guy's name is. Still, a true epicure learns to adapt, I guess. He sat his hand a few inches from where hers was. He doubted she'd take it - she would cling to whatever illusion she had of strength she could - but it was there if she wanted it. Carefully, he pushed three of the blankets across to her, retaining the fourth, most threadbare, for himself. OK, what shall we do tonight? he asked. Dinner, then a club? Or do you fancy the theatre? Or maybe we could go to the movies, then a cruise up - nah. Tell you what. How about a nice quiet night in, eh?