“Put your hands on the bars, Tink.”
Because of course he bought a bed with a wrought iron headboard.
My fingers grip the cold metal, arms stretched out, head pressed between them.
“If you move them, you’ll be punished.”
I scratch my nose with one hand, then put it back on the bars.
And Alex draws in a breath. “I see,” he says. “It all becomes clear.”
His hand pushes between my legs, under my dress, tugging aside my lacy boy shorts. I gasp at the suddenness of it, then gasp again as his fingers find my pussy. He squeezes my labia together then pushes a finger between, and my gasp becomes a soft cry. His touchglidesinto me, so wet I am, and my hips rise of their own accord to grant him better access.
“Do you know how wet you are?”
I don’t think that question needs a response. It sounded rhetorical to me.
His hand slips away, then clenches in my hair, pulling it tight as he uses it to turn my face toward him. “I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” I squeak. Okay, it needed a response. My bad.
He gives my head a little shake, then releases me. No hand on my neck, no fingers between my legs. I’ve no idea where the knife has gone. There’s no contact at all.
Isthisthe punishment?
Itsucks.
He’s reaching for the bedside table drawer, which is still open. If he’s putting the knife back, I’m rethinking the whole ‘going for a drive’ thing, and leaving right now.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out a bundle of jute rope, the weave tight. He had that too?
For how long?
“Finished scratching your nose?” he asks casually as he unties the bundle and shakes it loose.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Good.” It doesn’t take him long to bind my wrists to the headboard. He’s using both hands this time, and I don’t resist.
Rope presses into my skin.
My wrists are healed, I know they are. Yet I still see raw marks, the skin stripped away. The rope is a fine quality, I know it is. But in my vision, it’s coarse hemp, tattered and frayed, burning when I pull at it.
I’m not on a bed, I’m in a chair. Bound.
I struggle.
Someone grabs my hair, forcing my head around. I fight him.
“Vicky.” My name. Sharp, urgent. “Vicky.Open your eyes.”
I shake my head, screw my eyes tighter. My wrists pull at the bindings, but they won’t come free. I know they won’t; I still fight.
“Tink,” he says, his voice different. It’s calm. “Look at me, Tinker Bell.”
Tinker Bell. Petulance, defiance, moodiness.
It’s a name that makes me feel safe. And angry, but mostly safe.
