Unfinished

RJ struggled to move on the carpet in the living room, but he wasn’t having much luck. He wasn’t having much luck doing anything, and he supposed that it was mainly his fault.

Well, he had been the perpetrator of his current predicament, but it had been for her. She had asked him weeks earlier about fantasies that he had, and he had told her. Some in exquisite detail. Now remembering the adage about being careful what he wished for, he found himself stuck in the middle of one of those fantasies.

He had left work early that Friday afternoon, hoping to catch up on some rest. After this week he needed a little bit of rest. The ho-hum of the daily grind was grinding on him–grating on his nerves. Home seemed like a great place to be when he opened the door and noticed the letter taped to the asnwering machine and addressed to Myckie Jo. It was from her.

...

He had lost track of time. It seemed like such a long time ago that the lights had been shut off when he pulled the hood over his head.

...

Well, at least he looked the part.