He was a bastard, she had decided. It wasn’t that he had her how he had her, with her arms

He was a bastard, she had decided. It wasn’t that he had her how he had her, with her arms spread like some sort of perverted messiah, chained to the wall while the rest of her just hung, the slightest tension on her limbs. It wasn’t even that he had walked into the other room for a moment, no doubt just to make her sweat. He was the kind to stand there, ten feet away with a foot of brickwork between them, and just stare at the wall, imagining her. 

It was that he had had her dress up for dinner before he took her here. It was that she’d spent an hour getting everything just perfect, and her expectations had been very much aimed at the delicious looking menu that she’d fantasised over at that new French place in the South End. They weren’t, and still couldn’t quite accept, that this was not going to take place, that she was, in fact, going to be his slut for the evenings. He was a bastard because, despite all of this, she still rather liked him for it. 

She was always one for understatement. 

His footsteps preceded him, the heel of his smart leather shoes clipping against the hard wood of the floor with far too much of a meander to be anything approaching militaristic. But still, there was something of that control in the sound, and as he came into view, with his hands behind his back, it came into sharp relief. 

“You’re a bastard.” She flung it at him like a paper airplane in class. Whimsy, meaningless, but nonetheless true. 

“I know. But I couldn’t resist.” The shrug rolled off his shoulders like an aquittal, but she didn’t buy it.

“I’m serious. You’re a bastard. And you don’t deserve to do the things you’re about to do to me.” He let out a burst of air from his lungs, something approaching the beginnings of a chuckle. Another shrug.

“Maybe. But you let me tie you up, and you keep rolling your hips…” He grinning, pointing at her mid section. “Just like that. I think you’ll enjoy it." 

She glared. But she was smiling.

"You’re still a bastard. And just because my body is a slutty little bitch that doesn’t mean that I’m happy with you." 

He walked up to her, his hands coming from behind his back, flogger in hand. The smile on his face was amused, and inventive. Never a good sign. 

The flogger came up, and pressed against her lips. She mused with the idea of resisting, as she always played with it, but it was a moment before she opened her mouth and took it in.

"Then we’ll just have to forget about the rest of you, for now. You get to be the body, and you get to enjoy it. Because I definitely am.” His hand trailed down the delicious curve the dress made of her, and she closed her eyes, shivers running down her spine in medley.

There was a word that tried to get clear of the thick leather handle in her mouth, but it didn’t see the light of day. He didn’t listen, and she couldn’t manage it again. It might have been ‘Please’. It may have approached 'Fine’.

It was probably 'Bastard’, though.