Sunrise Carpet Cleaners – (F/F M/F)

[lanadelgagged]

“All right. Ready? On the count of three.” – comes an eager female voice. – “One. Two. Three.”

Cheap wine drinkers Verónica and trusty roommate Ingrid hoist the brown couch with their collective strength, it dangles inches over the floor. They try to push it through the apartment door with little success.

“Easy, easy.” – warns Ingrid, with a strain in her voice.

“Okay. Stop, stop, stop!”

“Wha– what?”

“No, no, no. Twist it.” – Verónica’s voice is an echo in the hallway.

“I am twisting it…”

“No, no, no. You’re twisting it the wrong way, you gotta twist it counterclockwise.”

“What?”

“Counterclockwise.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Just look at me, look what I’m doing.” – commands Verónica.

“Yeah. What do you want me to do?”

“You see the way I’m twisting it?” – she pauses to catch her breath. – “Turn it that way from your end.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Verónica and Ingrid tilt the couch to its left side, and the cushions fall to the ground, further hampering their efforts, but finally, they manage to push it through. They drag it along the floor of the living room, past the carpet and into the void between them and the television. Their house only feels like home once the couch is in position, the living room no longer looks empty.

“Now this is starting to look like an apartment.” – says Verónica, satisfied.

Her face lights up at the mere sight of it, a gleam of optimism overcomes her. That awkward phase in every change of apartments seems to be far behind them already. Ingrid, not hesitating for a second, eased into the new couch, which isn’t new at all, but at least so it felt for her. As she scans her hands, Verónica notices black stains on the palms of her hands from all the effort, some soot on the lower, baggy sections of her white oversized ‘E.T. The Extraterrestrial T-shirt.

She disappears into the bathroom to wash her hands, Ingrid draws a newspaper from one of the cardboard she’s using as a makeshift ottoman and starts leafing through it. Her breathing is still shallow from all the effort, though not yet an asthma attack, she sneezes into her clenched fist from all the dust and particles. With her light blue mom jeans, white tube socks and black Vans, she looks as if she’s going to the skatepark later in the day, raven hair down to her shoulders splayed out on the couch cushions as her gaze gets lost in the pages. Verónica emerges from the bathroom and plops herself onto the couch beside her, hands and fingers covered in specks of water.


“We’ve got some time before the carpet cleaners drop by. Wanna watch McBane?” – she asks.

“Rerun?”

“No, I taped it last night.”

“Sure thing.” – exclaims Ingrid. – “I’m always up for that.”


The tennis shorts-donning auburn blonde ambles towards the television rack, she draws a blank tape which the VCR swallows between audible rattles and hums. Verónica turns her head to her roommate, whose eyes are lost within the confines of the newspaper’s pages.


“What are you reading?” – she inquires.

“Just this article about a crazy religious cult.” – comes Ingrid’s response, unfazed.

“Uh… People’s Temple? The Branch Davidians?”

“No. Weirder than that. Like, waaaay weirder.”

“Well, what is it?”

“It’s a cult that uses a carpet cleaning business as a front to break into people’s homes and brainwash them.”

“That’s ridiculous.” – a sceptic Verónica tilts her head to read the page, she wants to see for herself.

“No, this is serious. They’re called Sunrise Carpet Cleaners. There’s an interview here with one of their so-called recruits.”

“Sunrise Carpet Cleaners?”

“Yeah, didn’t you hear what I said?”

“That’s our guys.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those are the guys I hired, look. I saw their ad in the newspaper here.”

“Oh no. Verónica you have to call them and cancel, we can’t have these people come to our house.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because they’re a cult? Is that not reason enough?”

“It’s too impolite to cancel them this late. It’ll be fine, they’re probably very innocuous guys.” – Verónica shrugs. – “Besides, for twenty-five dollars it wouldn’t hurt us to listen to some pointless blabber.”

“I think I’m listening to pointless blabber right now. Is that what you paid them?”

“Yeah, for the whole house.”

“It’s dirt cheap, I’ll give you that.”

“You bet your ass it is. Two-in-one: they clean your carpets and wash your brain at no extra cost.”

“You gotta be shitting me…”

“Well, if it weren’t for you spilling all that cheap wine at the housewarming party I wouldn’t have had to call them… Here,” – Verónica pries the newspaper off Ingrid’s hands. – “Enough news for you today.”

“Verónica!” – Ingrid laments, musically.

“I wanna watch McBane… C’mon, I’ll fix us some popper.”

“That’s not a terrible idea.”


Verónica rises from the couch and walks to the kitchen, turning its puny yellow light on. Her socked feet tread lightly over the marbled tiles as her five-foot-four frame reaches for one of the cupboards. Her fingers feel inside the dark receptacle where there are two packets of popcorn. She takes out one of the yellow boxes and places it haphazardly on the edge of the kitchen.

But as she reaches for the second one, her fingers trace an unusual square shape. There’s soot and dust on her index finger, Verónica stretches herself once again and takes out the object. In her hands, a black leather wallet, the yellow light from the ceiling shows a thin layer of dust and particles over its flat lapel. The material is very stiff, stiff with the dryness of years of neglect, Verónica exhales into the wallet blowing a cloud of particles into the kitchen counter. She checks the black lapel, it reads ‘Hugo Boss’ engraved in the leather. A man’s wallet no doubt, and an old-fashioned one for that matter Verónica reckons.

She ambles back into the living room, where Ingrid’s gaze is glued to the television.


“Ingrid, is this yours?” – Verónica holds the wallet in the air.

“Uhm… no? Where did you find that?” – Ingrid tilts her body against the back of the couch.

“It was in the cupboard.”

“Well, it’s not mine.”

“It’s not mine either.”

“How did we miss that? It must belong to the last tenant.”


Verónica sits on the couch next to Ingrid, who grabs the remote to pause the videotape of McBane. All eyes are on this hunk of dry leather.


“Well,” – comes Verónica’s voice. – “We don’t know that, do we?”

“Open it, let’s see what’s inside.”


Verónica, with practised hands, starts slowly pulling the lapel apart. Somehow, by some wicked trickery, the leather is so stiff and solidified that Verónica finds that it’s almost glued together in place. She peels the leather apart, one by one. Small flecks of leather fall between the couch cushions, to the floor, some parts of the wallet are disintegrating in her very hands.


“Careful.” – exclaims Ingrid.

“Oh, thanks for the advice.” – comes Verónica’s stern, sardonic voice. – “I hadn’t thought of that.”


After seconds of fighting against the material, Verónica manages to separate the lapels, peeling the wallet open. As expected, they find an even thicker layer of dust and particles; there are about three cards stored in the leather slots and an internal coin pocket stitched in nylon, but no coins inside.

They turn their attention towards the bill compartment. Their faces light up in disbelief. Crumpled bank note after crumpled bank note, Verónica draws hundred dollar bills, slapping them down on the couch. One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. Four hundred. Until they lose count. At a loss for words, their gazes meet, Verónica pulls out the remaining bills and puts them with the others. She starts counting them.


“There’s enough here for like… months of rent…”


Wide-eyed and mouth agape, an incredulous Ingrid takes the wallet to inspect the cards in the slots. Inside, she finds an American Airlines Fidelity Card, which expired in August of ’91, some sort of food stamps, the Polaroid picture of a man and a small child riding a bike and a certain ID card with the name redacted from it.


“Verónica, look.”

“What is it?”

“Here.” – Ingrid points to the bold text on the top section of the card. – “Army vet.”

“Damn…”


There are a few seconds of awkward silence that they don’t seem to resolve.


“There’s no name in here though, nowhere in the wallet.”

“How strange…”

“Do you think they’ll be able to find the man with just the picture?”

“What do you mean by ‘they’?”

“The police.”


Verónica falls silent, deadpanned, gaze burning into Ingrid’s eyes.


“Wait.” – says Ingrid. – “You’re not suggesting… surely not.”

“Ingrid…”

“No. There’s no way we’re keeping this money.”

“Ingrid, just listen to me for a second okay?” – Verónica raises her voice over Ingrid’s. – “I’m just saying, we should sit with the money for a few days while we think about it. We’re talking months of rent here, this is a huge weight off our shoulders!”

“There’s nothing to think. Verónica, we have to take this to the police…”

“Now hold on a minute –“

“Verónica.” – Ingrid’s words are stern.

“You’re not even listening to me, I mean think of the implications. Besides, look at the picture. That man is probably six feet under now. Who leaves so much money casually lying around an apartment they’re gonna leave behind?”

“Someone, an honest man, who decides to stash away his hard-earned cash. The hard-earned cash of a lifetime perhaps.”

“You don’t know that. For all we know, this could be drug money.” – comes Verónica’s response.

“Then there’ll be trouble for us, so we might as well hand it to the police and let them take care of the situation.”

“Ingrid, you really are a drag you know…”

“It’s the right to do, Verónica, and that’s that. Besides, what are you gonna do with that? Put it in the bank?”

“That’s not a bad idea, yeah. I can go to a teller.”

“Have you ever heard of something called the IRS? They’ll be on your ass, they’re usually on the lookout for shit like these…”

“Shit like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” – says Ingrid with a histrionic burst of irony. – “A hundred thousand dollars randomly appearing in your bank account out of the blue perhaps?”

“I wouldn’t do it in one go, I’m not that stupid, geez…”

“I don’t care Verónica. We’re taking this to the police.”

“No, we’re not. Let’s just sit with the money for a few days.”

“You can’t expect me to be cool about this and pretend everything’s fine, I’m not comfortable having that much money lying around the house.”

“Look, this has been there for years, maybe even decades, and nothing happened to it. Why would something go wrong in a couple of days.”


Ingrid seems to be musing a thought, or perhaps measuring her words.


“Uhm… okay… But I’m not comfortable about this whole thing.”

“Trust me,” – Verónica flashes a smile. – “It’ll all be fine.”

“If you say so…”


In the few seconds of odd silence that follow, the girls turn to the McBane episode on the television. Ingrid tries hard to focus on the riveting action sequence unfolding on the screen, but her mind is absent. By this point of the afternoon, Verónica has put the bank notes back inside the wallet, which lies next to her. Ingrid is eyeing it, casting timid glances in its direction. Verónica catches her, and a sharp frown of reproach appears on her face.

Out of the blue, Ingrid lunges onto the wallet and the whole weight of her five-foot-five body tumbles to Verónica’s left.


“What are you – Ingrid!” – yells Verónica.


Ingrid grips the wallet tightly between the palms of her hands, she struggles to get back on her feet and rush to the door. She stumbles on the few inches that separate them, Verónica rises from the couch and gives chase. She runs past and blocks her path, standing between her and the doorway.


“Don’t be stupid, Ingrid, give me the wallet.”

“I don’t think so. Move.”

“Uh, uh.” – Verónica shakes her head. – “Give me that.”


With a firm step, Verónica charges into Ingrid, her hand enveloping her wrist. She tightens her grip, so eagerly that Ingrid drops the wallet to the floor. By now, the wallet is the least of her problems, she fights but it seems that the more she struggles, the less she can break free of Verónica’s grasp. “Ouch! What the hell?” – Verónica’s scream echoes across the living room after Ingrid bites down on her arm.

Having finally broken free of Verónica’s embrace, Ingrid throws herself to the ground reaching for the wallet. Verónica, however, is quick to grab her by the ankles, hoisting them into the air and dragging her body away from it. The wooden floorboards of the living room allow Verónica, who now has the upper hand, to drag Ingrid’s body effortlessly. She responds by kicking her legs in the air, flailing them violently. Ingrid manages to kick Verónica at waist height, her sneakers leaving a slight imprint of brown on her roommate’s t-shirt.


“Quit messing around, Ingrid. Enough.”

“I’m not messing around, let go of me.”

“Never.”


Verónica drags her to the opposite end of the room, with every pull, she puts more inches of distance between Ingrid and the wallet. They are now in the corner of the living room, Verónica’s knees scraping against the cardboard boxes laid on top of each other beside her. Ingrid keeps recklessly kicking into the air, even though she’s missing Verónica by a long shot. As a response, she grapples with her around the throat, a snaking arm encircling Ingrid just under her breasts.


“Stop it, Verónica, you’re hurting me…” – laments Ingrid.


But her pleas fall on deaf ears. Verónica tightens her grip and Ingrid fights to catch her breath, her energies significantly stifled. At such an advantageous position, Verónica can relieve her right arm and stretch it to reach inside one of the boxes. She feels inside, very intently indeed. Ingrid can hear her rummaging inside the cardboard box.


“What are you doing?”


From her perspective, Ingrid can’t see what her roommates are doing, but she seems to be taking her time. Finally, Verónica draws a coil of jute rope which she undoes. Ingrid feels her hands being pulled together at her back, by the wrists. She groans, either out of frustration or discomfort. As Verónica encircles Ingrid’s wrists with the rope, guiding them over themselves, Ingrid realises that the wallet might just be the least of her problems…

Verónica tugs on the ropes one last time before tying a knot, cinching Ingrid’s wrists together and putting a significant strain on her limbs. This time, she doesn’t take so long to find a second coil of rope, which she ties around her elbows, pulling them together. Ingrid’s arms form a triangular shape, it strains every muscle of her body. She arches backwards trying to find some relief, some slack on her restraints, to no avail. A third coil of rope forms a complex matrix around and across Ingrid’s breasts, her features accentuated by the relentless pull of the ropes clinging to her skin.


“What – Verónica, what have you done to me?”

“You leave me no alternative.”


Verónica assumes an upright position, then rises, leaving Ingrid to stir against her bonds on the floor. She reaches into the cardboard box, and a glance inside shows a few rolls of silver and packing tape. Verónica takes out one of the silver rolls, manicured nails scraping along the aluminium surface trying to find a tear in the tape. She kneels down, to Ingrid.


“Why are you taking my shoes off?” – Ingrid inquires, there’s a hint of defiance in her voice.

“I want you to be comfortable. Duh.”

“You could start by untying me then.” – there’s a hint of irony in her voice. – “Comfortable for what?”

“For what I'm about to do to you if you don't shut up.”

Verónica undoes the shoelaces of Ingrid’s black Vans and removes them, peeling her white tube socks. They reveal a worn-down black pedicure at the ends of her pale toes. She tears the tape, a length of silver unspools from the roll with a sharp, ripping sound that deafens Ingrid’s ears. Verónica brings Ingrid’s ankles together before taping them together, doing the same with her bare feet, her exposed calves, over and under the knees, and finally, at the thickest segment of her thighs. Her pale skin bulges around the tape, a testament to how tight Verónica is exacting her restraints.


“I can’t fucking move, what’s this?”

“That’s the whole point of it. Nobody’s going anywhere. No police, no shit.”

“Let me go, Verónica, this has gone too far.”


Again, Verónica ignores her roommate’s pleas. And for good reason. She’s in a position to do so. Verónica kneels next to Ingrid, their face mere inches apart. She flashes a smile that gradually turns into a sly grin. Ingrid averts her gaze from her, trying her best to ignore her. All of her efforts are invested into trying to break free of the rope’s cruel embrace, she fights against the complex tangle of rope and tape fettering her limbs.


“It’s a good thing I kept a few of these for repairs around the house.” – says Verónica, teasingly, glaring at the roll of tape in her hands. – “Turns out it’s very handy, who would have thought.”

“This is not funny Verónica, untie me. You take the wallet, it’s all yours. You win.”

“What did you say? I didn’t catch that…”

“You win Verónica. You win. Take the fucking wallet and untie me already.” – a burst of anger carries Ingrid’s voice across the whole apartment.

“That’s a bit better, now we’re seeing eye to eye.” – Verónica taunts. – “You see, I knew you’d end up understanding the whole thing.”


Ingrid struggles viciously against the stifling tangle of restraints. Verónica’s voice trails off… The doorbell is ringing, bringing both of them to a halt. Once. Twice, after a few seconds.


“What, what is it?” – enquires Ingrid, not ceasing in her efforts.

“I don’t know.” – Verónica seems confused at first, then realises… – “Oh fuck, the carpet cleaners.”

“Are they here already?”

“Well, yeah. That must be then.”

“HELP ME! HELP! IN HERE. LET ME OUT OF HERE PLEASE.”

“You… bitch.”


Ingrid’s piercing shrieks jolt Verónica into action, she grabs both her roommate’s socks from the floor and rolls them up into a ball. Her mouth agape, Ingrid sees her screams reduced to a faint muffled voice as Verónica, with a calculated motion of the hands, crams the pair of socks inside her mouth. It takes her mere seconds to reach for the roll of duct tape on the floor, right next to Ingrid. She tears a few strips, roughly six inches in length, and plasters them over Ingrid’s mouth, sealing her lips and further pushing the ball of rolled-up fabric inside her mouth. The doorbell ringing has now been replaced by eager knocks on the door, a sense of urgency overcomes Verónica, who needs to do a lot more than just keeping Ingrid quiet.


“Sunrise Carpet Cleaners,” – comes the playful, muffled voice of the man behind the door. – “Is everything all right in there?”

“Fucking hell.” – she mumbles to herself. – “In a minute!”


Verónica begins dragging Ingrid’s body across the living room as fast as she can, all manner of colourful profanity blurts out of Ingrid’s gagged mouth, but nothing coherent escapes her lips. She drags her into her bedroom, not even bothering to turn the lights on. Verónica opens up her small walk-in closet and drags Ingrid inside, against her will. Her silhouette, the shape of her bound body gets lots between a jungle of clothing. A bloodshot-eyed Ingrid yells into her gag with all her might, face red with anger.


“MMMMMMPHGHGHGHGH… HGHHHHGHGHGHMMM…”

“Now, you be a good girl. Stay nice and quiet while I sort this out, okay?”

“MMMMMPPHHHHH!”


Ingrid’s muffled voice trails off, becoming even more muffled as Verónica closes the door to her closet. She rushes to the front door, crossing the living room and picking up the wallet from the floor on the way there. She grips the doorknob and turns it, the door is ajar at first, but she finally opens it all the way through.

Behind the door, she finds three very respectable men of roughly the same stature, all clean-shaven, donning pale yellow overalls. On the crest of their uniforms, Verónica reads ‘Sunrise Carpet Cleaners’ in bold, red serif typography, inside a red square. One of them is bald, the other is of Afro-American descent, sporting an old-fashioned crew cut, and the other one has a toupée. The latter is nestling a small book and a folder between his left arm and chest. His idle stand is reminiscent of the collected demeanour of a door-to-door salesman, or perhaps a Jehovah’s Witness. He offers Verónica a polite hand, and they fuse into a handshake.


“Good afternoon, you must be…” – the man checks his notes. – “Verónica Robinson.”

“Yup, that’s me.”

“Pleased to meet you, I never thought I’d ever get to see Ms. Robinson with my own eyes… Will you seduce the three of us?”

“What?”

“You know… from ‘The Graduate’…. the Paul Simon song…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“Anyway,” – the smile fades from his lips. – “We’re here to clean the carpets.” – his voice adopts a solemn tone. – “Most of the world is carpeted, and one day, we will do the cleaning…”

“Yeah, all right. Come in.”

“My name is Lafayette. This is my comrade Lafayette, and behind him, Lafayette.” – says him, introducing the other men.

“You’re all called Lafayette…”

“Company policy.”

“Right…”

“Is everything all right back there? We heard some strange… sounds.”

“Oh, yeah everything’s fine. It’s just that… you know, my next-door neighbours are a bit – off the rails.”

“You’re sweating bullets, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“This won’t take long, after we’re done your carpets will be better than new. For the carpets, it will be like a new life, for you, it will be an epiphany, a revelation…” – the man looks around. – “Your taste in carpeting is immaculate if I dare say so myself, you are a natural.”

“A natural what?” – inquires a puzzled Verónica.

“Yes. Prophets would dream of this moment, of your choices.”

“Thanks, they came with the house. I guess they belong to the previous tenant.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah…” – they fall silent. – “Very well then, let’s get cracking! We’ve got work to do.”


The soft mechanical hum of the cleaner fills the air, with a sturdy resolve, the Lafayettes pour the cleaning solutions on the carpets and rub them with practised hands. Worn fabric yields to the touch as the machines pound at coffee stains long embedded, the remnants of cheap crimson wine and the dark, the muddy footprints of a pair of sneakers. As the vacuum turns on it echoes across the living room with a rhythmic whirring, blended with a faint bristling sound, and the soft patter of dirt and dust.

Inside the closet, an infuriated Ingrid hears the revelry from the living room and works on her restraints. At first, it seems as if they are giving way, but in reality, Ingrid is inadvertently making the bonds around her wrists tighter. She yells against the gag, off the top of her lungs. Her worn socks stifle her pleas into muffled blabber, made even less audible by the closet’s wooden door. The more she tries projecting her voice across the door, the more frustrated she grows. A deep resentment paints her cheeks cherry red behind the plastered strips of silver tape, resentment towards her roommate and the predicament she just put her into. At least, she knows that Verónica won’t go to the bank, not until the men are out of the apartment. It dawns on her that this might be her best chance to escape, thus her efforts become more intense, a frantic violence tugging at the knots.

Until the whirring stops. The deafening symphony of the cleaners grinds to a halt.


“We’re pretty much finished!” – says the man, notebook in hand.


Verónica emerges from her bedroom and surveys the living room, glancing at the gleaming carpets. They indeed look brand new. Better they’ve ever looked.


“There’s just… one more thing.”

“Of course, here we go…” – Verónica musters, vehemently.

“Modern life can be so confusing for the modern man, and especially for the modern woman. Have you ever found yourself uhm…” – the man rubs the back of his head, then taps the pen against his forehead.

“Looking for answers?”

“Yes!” – a broad smile sharpens the features of his face, which lights up. – “You read my mind. But maybe you can’t seem to find those answers anywhere. No matter how hard you try…”

“No, I don’t look for answers.”

“Excuse me?” – the man’s expression shifts.

“Once you learn there are no answers, you start looking for the right questions.”

“What?”

“Or… something like that.”


Verónica leads the man to the exit.


“Oh, and by the way.” – says the man.

“Yeah.”


He opens the folder and produces a rectangular piece of paper.


“You forgot to sign the check.” – says the man, offering her a pen.

“Oh, silly me.” – Verónica pries the check off his hand. – “Do you mind if I paid you in cash instead?”

“No problem at all.”

“I’ll be right back.”


Verónica rushes to her bedroom, when she reemerges from it she’s counting the bills and taking them out of the leather wallet, one by one.


“Ten, twenty,” – she mumbles to herself. – “and twenty-five. Here.”

“Thank you very much! That’s a nice wallet you got there, is it Hugo Boss?”

“The wallet, oh yes. It is! Good catch.”

“A bit too manly for such a pretty girl like you, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” – Verónica smiles, cheeks blushing. – “It’s my father’s, actually.”

“Is that him?”

“Who?”


The man points to the picture of the man, in the ID card.


“Oh, yeah. Yes, that’s him. Air Force veteran.”

“My father is an Air Force vet too, what’s his name?”

“Burt.. Har…vin…son. Burt Harvinson.”

“Harvin… son?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, I see. Did he see combat?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure did.”

“Which war…”

“Uhm…” – Verónica freezes, can’t seem to find the words. – “The uhm… the Falklands, 1982.”

“The Falkland Islands? We weren’t involved in that…” – comes the man’s vehement voice.

“Are you sure?”

“A hundred per cent.”

“Well, I – I guess I got my uhm… dates wrong.”

“This is not your wallet, is it…”


Accuses the man, his gaze falling into Veronica’s like a sack of spuds. She stands in perfect stillness, not knowing what to say. Aware that she’s lost all credibility, it dawns on her that perhaps there’s nothing she can say that would get her out of that prickle.


“I think you should go now.” – Verónica pushes the door closed.

“I don’t think so…” – the man drops the notebook and holds the door open, fighting Veronica’s grip.

“Fine. Want me to call the cops?”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to do that.”

“Why no?”

“All right. Do it. We’ll just stand here and watch you make a fool of yourself in front of the authorities.” – he crosses his arms. – “If you don’t give me that wallet, bad things will happen.”

“Try me then, poindexter.”

“With pleasure.” – he turns his head and beckons. – “Boys… you know the drill.” – both men storm inside.


Verónica and Ingrid are sitting next to each other on the couch, staring forward intently. But the television is off. Ingrid finds some relief in seeing Verónica wriggling beside her, in a predicament not too dissimilar to hers. Her gaze traces the complex tangle of rope fixing her limbs into a box tie position, with both arms crossed into each other. Perhaps she’s the lucky one, judging by the layers upon layers of tape wrapped around her roommate’s head, as she sees them clinging to her auburn hair, she starts picturing the pain Verónica will endure when they eventually remove their gags. But that image seems like a stray thought, a byproduct of wishful thinking. The more they struggle, the more helpless they look, adding to their captor’s joy.

The Lafayettes are scanning the apartment for valuables, but there’s only so much a pair of roommates fresh out of college can offer. It seems secondary to them, for Verónica and Ingrid are providing the best kind of entertainment. The man with the notebook stands idly between them and the television, there’s an aura of quiet dignity around him, solemn. He opens the notebook.


“The Book Of Carpeting, Chapter 1: In the day of reckoning, carpets will claim what the Gods took from them. The floors that they were deprived of. And I ask you, sisters and brothers, why should carpet cleaners be privy to the seeds that we’ve sown? Aren’t we all entitled to the sweat of our foreheads? Without carpets, there is no cleaning. Without cleaning, there are no carpets…” – his voice trails off, momentarily.


Verónica meets Ingrid’s gaze, their puzzled expression sharpens as they both roll their eyes at the impromptu sermon. It reminded them of dull, sweltering Sundays stuck in Bible Studies, the man’s voice pierced their ears like the sharp blade of a knife as it projected all across the living room. The rest of the Lafayettes listen to the sermon intently, rolls of silver duct tape in their hands as if they’re hearing it for the first time. Verónica and Ingrid groan into their gags, their eyes betray how disapproving of his words they are…


“…in a way, aren’t we all prophets? Think of this for a moment.” – he saunters, encircling the couch. – “We all roam this carpeted earth, aimlessly, begging for purpose, for a reason to get out of bed in the mornings. And what better reason is there than to spread the wise words of carpeting? Because, remember, most of the world is carpeted and one day…”

“We will do the cleaning.” – come the other Lafayettes, responding in unison.

“Now, I tell you. When I speak of reckoning, I speak of enlightenment. Let’s think of this for a second: enlightenment. What does it mean to you? To me, it means freedom from the shackles of banality, transcending all that binds us. In your case.” – he points to the helpless girls. – “It can mean your freedom from your much less figurative bonds. How does that sound? In fact, I’ll make you an offer.”


The girls look at each other in the eyes, confused, then back to the leader.


“As a rite of passage, we will untie you and leave you be, if you find it within you to join us. What I’m bringing you here are the words of eternal wisdom, a turning point in your lives. You’re still young, think of the long life ahead of you, a life that wouldn’t be the same without Sunrise Carpet Cleaners. Think of the day when you will do the cleaning. You can join us for free and get the uniforms for the modest price of five hundred dollars, spare cash if you consider the life-changing benefits. So, what do you gals think… Are you ready to make the step?” 





Verónica looks at Ingrid, and Ingrid looks at her. They turn to the man and shake their heads, almost in perfect synchrony. The leader stands disappointed.





“What a shame, a chance like this only comes once in a lifetime. But I understand, I once was a sceptical, naive youngster like you, and I never knew any better. You’ll find the light somewhere else, or… whatever.” – he turns to his fellows. – “Let’s beat it, comrades, our job here is done. Thank you girls for your time, oh, and for this wonderful wallet.”





Verónica groans and growls into her gag, she seems more pissed at the man for taking the wallet than for putting her in such a predicament. At least they were both sharing that helplessness, finding temporary solace in each other. Their gazes follow the three men as they step outside the apartment.


“Should you change your mind,” – the leader holds the door ajar. – “Just call the same number, we’ll be happy to attend to all of your… carpeting concerns.”


Ingrid flips the bird, showing the middle finger towards the men. From his perspective, he cannot see it, and even less when he slams the door to the apartment shut, with such strength it rattles the paper-thin walls. Now the girls are alone, but their predicament hasn’t got any better. They wriggle against the fierce embrace of the rope with aching limbs, only able to communicate with each other with their eyes, through hand gestures.

Ingrid seems to be making progress on her wrist restraints, the ones she’s been pulling and tugging at for the entire duration of her predicament. The same cannot be said, however, for Verónica, who seemed as if she didn’t have any faith in her struggles or any clue as to what she has to do whatsoever. Inexplicably, she throws herself to the floor, leaving the comfort of the couch cushions to meet a rough surface. She wriggles like a worm, with intense motions that put her in front of Ingrid.

The raven-haired girl seems deep in thought, but in reality, she’s focusing all her efforts – mental and physical – on working the ropes loose. She watches her friend stirring helplessly on the floor, flailing her arms about and voicing her distress through the gag. It occurs to Ingrid that perhaps she can help. She brings her bound feet to her roommate’s face, her bare toes scrape and tug at the pieces of silver tape plastered over Verónica’s lips trying to pry them off. A sharp frown defines her forehead as Verónica catches the pungent scent of her feet, her soles, but she finds no way of telling Ingrid that her efforts are not helping.


“MMMMMMPHGHGHHHHG…” – Comes a desperate Verónica.

“Mmmmmghghhg, mmghghh?” – utters Ingrid, as if trying to say something…

[lanadelgagged]

Let me know what you think of this little story, which I hope you find to your enjoyment. Who do you stand with, Verónica or Ingrid? Let me know your thoughts in the comments. ;)

[GwenGagged]

Well, I stand with Veronica. Take the money, girl. Also, loved everything about this. I love it when two women are bound and gagged together. Great job!

[DioA]

I think Ingrid is in the right, they should’ve returned the money. I think Veronica got what she deserved. Either way, I’m happy to see both of them tied up!

[TiedAndTaped3D]

I can understand Veronica's position and would probably be tempted to keep it myself. But Ingrid is ultimately right.

Either way, good story and glad they both got tied nice and tight.

[lanadelgagged]

Well, I stand with Veronica. Take the money, girl. Also, loved everything about this. I love it when two women are bound and gagged together. Great job!

Thank you very much! I'm glad you loved this story and I could make it worth your while.
(P.S. I must confess I'm on Verónica's side on this one...)

I think Ingrid is in the right, they should’ve returned the money. I think Veronica got what she deserved. Either way, I’m happy to see both of them tied up!

They make for cute roommates but an even cuter bondage couple... ;)

I can understand Veronica's position and would probably be tempted to keep it myself. But Ingrid is ultimately right.

Either way, good story and glad they both got tied nice and tight.

I'm so glad you liked the story! It seems that Ingrid is in the lead, which means that most of you guys would have done the right thing. What does that say about me? :p