Mornings made her nervous. She’d watched too much Cinderella, hyperbolised the walk of shame far too much to ever let herself survive through to the morning. It became a ritual for her, to slip out in the middle of the night, when the light was still artificial and the streets empty. No one to witness what she’d done, no one but the poor sap she’d left alone in the bed, snoring lightly. And who was going to believe him, when she was such an upstanding citizen.
It meant that, when she did finally awake, in her own bed, it felt like the night before had been erased, replaced like a bad recording on a tape deck with something entirely of her own creation. She’d stayed in, watched a movie, ‘made’ dinner (fried up some fish in the pan, added water to cous cous). What had happened, hadn’t, and that way she didn’t have to think about it. When her phone buzzed she’d just ignore it, and life would go on.
The problem was she was starting to enjoy being tied up, and handcuffs are much harder to slip out of than bedsheets. The first time she’d made sure to stash the key in an easily accessible place, just in case he got funny ideas and left her like that when he fell asleep. There must have been something approaching nervous panic in her eyes, because when he’d asked she’d had to just laugh and shrug, saying she wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. It had sounded like a joke at the time.
The second time wasn’t so tricky; you can’t leave rope tied too tightly for long, unless you want to wake up with a few less limbs to work with. He’d untied her and she’d gone to the bathroom, freshened up. He’d been asleep when she returned, and she didn’t even have to carefully lift his hand from her chest.
And then there was him. The problem man. The one who could somehow figure out what she was going to do before she did it. He’d been doing it all night, and it was charming in its own way, until the night started to draw to a close. She found herself back in his apartment, blindfolded, gagged, wrapped around the bedposts like a car crash. She could barely move, let alone escape, and as his hands wandered over her she couldn’t help but allow herself a little surrender, a moment to lose herself in all this.
He untied her after, but left her hands. The rope was loose enough that she wasn’t going to wake up with any fewer fingers, but tight enough that she wasn’t going to slip free, either. She shot him an accusing look.
“You’re not done.” There was petulance in her voice. It rode on the back of confusion.
For a moment it looked like he considered what she said, as if it might make a difference. And then that smirk creeped along his lips like a grifter, and he shrugged.
“No, I’m not.” The silence stretched out like a cat. “But you? I think you’re done."
Well. For a moment her safeword flashed across her lips, the get out of jail free card. And then it faded from sight, and she narrowed her eyes.
