I smile. "I want to tie you up."
His eyes go even wider. "Tie me—"
"The book said it heightens sensation. Makes everything more… intense. And if the pleasure is more intense for you, maybe..." I let the implication hang as I walk my fingers up his chest.
"Maybe it will help you conceive," he finishes, nodding eagerly. "Yes. Yes, that makes sense. Mother always said—"
"Let's not talk about your mother right now," I interrupt, guiding him toward the bed. "Let's focus on us." I smile coyly.
He's practically vibrating with excitement as he tears his clothes off and lies down on the bed. I pull the rope from my robe, and he watches with hungry eyes.
"You're sure about this?" he asks, but he's already positioning his arms above his head.
"Completely sure."
I tie his right wrist first, looping the rope around the bedpost. I make sure my breasts sway and touch his cheek. He moans.
The knot is secure. I've practiced this as well. As I move to his left wrist, I slip the knife from my undergarments and slide it under his pillow in one smooth motion. He’s so preoccupied with my breasts wrapped in sheer silk that he doesn’t notice.
"This is incredible," he murmurs as I tie his left wrist. "You're incredible. Mother would be so proud of you for finally—"
"Your ankles too," I say, moving to the foot of the bed.
He spreads his legs willingly, and I tie each ankle to its respective bedpost. He's completely vulnerable now. Completely at my mercy.
He has no idea.
"You look so beautiful like this," he says, his voice taking on that whiny, childish quality. "So perfect. Mother always said a woman's purpose is to nurture, to provide, and you're finally understanding that, aren't you? You're finally going to be my good wife."
I'm undressing now, letting the nightgown pool at my feet. His eyes devour me, and I feel nothing. No desire. No shame. Nothing but the cold, clear purpose burning in my veins.
"Tell me what you want," I say, climbing onto the bed.
"I want you to… to let me—" He's panting now. "Your breasts. I want to taste them. Want to suckle until you make milk for me. Mother said that's what they're for, that's their whole purpose—"
I straddle him, positioning myself over his pathetic erection. I lean forward, letting my breast brush against his mouth.
"Not yet," I whisper. "Don't come yet."
"You're such a tease," he whines. "Such a… little… brat. You know that's not how wives are supposed to behave. You're supposed to be grateful, supposed tosubmit—" He’s scrunching his brows together as he tries and fails repeatedly to get one of my nipples into his mouth.
And there it is.
The rage that's been building for four months, for a hundred years, for my entire existence, finally reaches its breaking point.
I sit up, the burning in my throat is an inferno.
I open my mouth to speak, and a flame shoots out. Large and hot and golden. I smile as I look down at him. His eyes are huge as he stares at me. He’s scared. Good.
"Submit?" My voice is quiet. Deadly. "You want me to… submit?"
"That's… that’s… that’s what wives do," he says, oblivious to the danger he’s in. "That's what Mother—"
"I am NOT your wife," I snarl. "I am not your property. I am not a prize you won or an object you own or a womb you can fill and forget."
His eyes widen. “Adelaide, what’s happening? You’re being emotional. This isn’t appropriate—”
“Appropriate?” I laugh, sharp and humorless. “You stole my body in my sleep when you raped me and called itmarriage. You bartered my future like livestock. You measured my worth in heirs and obedience and how quietly I could endure you. Yet you want to speak about what’s appropriate?” I take a breath to regulate myself. I still have work to do, and if I spin out now, my plan won’t work.
