In the heart of my neighborhood, I've been silently observing from the shadows, and it's impossible to overlook the sultry allure of my Italian neighbor, Alba Zevon. Alba isn't just beautiful; she's a living, breathing painting, always draped in the latest haute couture, and she purrs through the streets in her exotic, foreign sports car, a sleek of polished metal and humming power. The decision to make her home my next target is as easy as stealing candy from a bambino.


As she speeds away, her car a growling tearing through the quietude, I slip into her house, a silent invader in her private sanctum. I slide under her bed, a sprawling king-size affair draped in plush, luxurious linens, their scent a heady mix of perfume and Alba's own wonderful aroma.


When Alba returns, she unwittingly walks into my web. She stretches out on her bed, her lithe form silhouetted against the soft glow of her computer screen. I rise from the shadows, a phantom materializing from the darkness, and pounce. Her arms are pinned behind her back in a flash, her wrists and ankles secured with duct tape, the silver strips a stark contrast against her sun-kissed skin. She protests, her voice a melodic dance of Italian curses and pleas.

I flip her onto her back, her eyes wide with surprise and fear. Three swift strips of tape over her mouth silence her cries for help. Though she's helpless, I wind more tape around her arms and knees, my fingers tracing the curves of her body as I secure her further. The sight of her, bound and vulnerable, is mesmerizing. I can't resist the urge to administer a few sharp spankings to her firm, round backside, now a silver-clad masterpiece in duct tape.