I return, planting the bottle down hard, the thud jolting her off the chair as the glass meets wood. A declaration. A warning. The cigarette smoulders between her fingers, its embers glowing as she inhales. I snatch it, bringing it to my lips, pulling a long drag. Smoke curls deep in my lungs, it’s sharp and biting, but I hold it there, letting the burn settle before me. I stare into her eyes, and without hesitation, I crush the embers into my palm. The heat sears, and the sting is immediate but I don’t flinch. She holds my gaze, jaw tight, chest rising and falling. Now she’s not laughing.
I never realised just how much fun I’d have removing that smirk off her face.
Stella’s eyes widen as I bend down to grab her ankles. Her expression a combination of surprise, concern and what can only be described as anticipation. I stay vigilant – ready for her strike, a sudden snap of movement, in case a foot comes flying towards my face, but so far, her body is reacting before I’ve even started. I move fast – too fast for her to predict. Before she can decide her next move, or give another calculated smirk, I seize both ankles in a firm grip, and pull her towards me. She gasps, her back sliding down the sofa, her fingers clawing, trying to catch the edge of the sofa as I haul her to her bed. I stay silent, looming over her, watching as she breathes – exaggerated, controlled. It’s a performance, a test. Every inhale, every exhale is deliberate. She’s deciding how to play this. And so am I. For the first time she’s caught off-guard. I’m in control, and I’m not going to wait for permission. The four-poster metal framed bed dominates her room – it’s a bold statement, just like her. Its iron structure is dark, matte black, with each corner post stretching towards the ceiling with intricate gothic detailing that snakes through the headboard. The metal twists into patterns like vines clinging to an iron gate. The posts frame the bed like a cage that isn’t meant to confine, but rather contain something untamed.
It’s perfect.
She lays there, bewildered, sprawled across the rich, black sheets that spill over the edges like ink. And now, like a queen on her throne, she adjusts her posture; legs crossed as she watches. I run my fingers along the iron frame, pressing against the edges, feeling the weight behind its construction. It’s solid, handmade. I grip one of the towering posts, and jiggle it. There’s no give, the welds are tight and purposeful. But at the last moment, I change my mind. The bed isn’t right – not for this. Not for what I have planned.
The barn.
I turn without a word. Behind me, I drag Stella by her ankles, and push through the front door, stepping into the night. The cold air bites against the heat building in my chest. She’s balking the moment I step outside, protesting like she’s suddenly found a reason not to play the game she started.
‘Let. Me. Go!’ She squirms, twisting against my grip. I don’t answer or act right away. Instead, I smile.
‘You knew where this was going. Now, let’s check out this barn you mentioned.’
She scoffs, shaking her head as it jerks with each pull. ‘I didn’t sign up for this!’
‘It’s OK to be afraid,’ I say – not accusing, just stating fact.
Her jaw tightens. ‘I’m not afraid,’ she answers.
‘We both know that’s a lie.’
My shoulders are screaming, and my fingers are raw from gripping ankles that twist and resist. My body aches, but it’s a glorious ache, the kind that tells me she’s a fighter. Roots snag at her clothing, stones bite at her skin. There’s a wild joy in it, every yank a release of pent-up tension. The flailing, the cursing, the occasional bump over a rock – it’s slapstick gold. You learn a lot about someone by how they scream when they hit a rock.
The barn door groans as I push it open, the scent of aged wood, dust and old hay rushing out to greet me. The barn is bigger than it looks from the outside, stretching into the darkness. Thick, reinforced beams rise overhead, solid and unyielding. Four large lamps hang between them, barely visible. Without them on, the stars do most of the work, casting a silver light through a tall window, though not illuminating details – just shapes, shadows and possibilities.
I reach for a switch, flicking it on with a snap, and it lights one corner of the barn, illuminating stacks of wooden crates, dust floating mid-air, old hay bales, and a pulley bolted into one of the beams. The rest of the barn is shrouded in silence, swallowed in the shadows. The lamp hums softly overhead, casting a muted glow on the metal pulley – its surface worn, weathered like a relic of countless uses. But it’s sturdy. Reliable. With my free hand, I grip the rope, testing its strength against my palm. The rough fibres bite into my skin, grounding me in the moment. Above, the pulley sways, shifting in the light like it remembers every hand that’s pulled before mine. I crouch down, fingers curling around a rigid rebar. The metal is rough, worn, but I loop the rope around each ankle, securing them to the rebar – spaced apart, held firm, like a spreader bar, and as I begin to pull the rope tight, the tension hums through the fibres.
Stella’s eyes are wide and glassy, reflection defiance and something unspoken. Her mouth is parted, not to scream, but in stunned silence that follows one. Dirt streaks her cheeks, and there’s a flicker – almost imperceptible – of recognition. I can see there’s a collision of vulnerability and steel…she’s not broken. Not yet.
I stand to the side, the rope’s fibres biting into my palm as I pull it tight. Stella shudders, hesitating to breathe before she smirks…again.
As she lifts off the floor, her skirt flips, tumbling over her head towards the ground. The pulley groans, straining under the weight. But I’m gifted the glorious sight of her bare arse. The rope holds. Of course it does. Stella barely weighs a hundred and twenty pounds – if that.
I don’t stop. Up. Higher. I hoist Stella into the air. Her legs spread apart, and her hair just barely sweeping across the floor. She doesn’t speak. Instead, she watches me…she’salwayswatching.
She’s wondering if this is still a game. Wondering if I’m about to change the rules. The rope is taut as I secure the knot, tying it off against a hook on the wall. It holds.
‘Oh, Stella,’ I whisper, almost thoughtfully. I reach for the secateurs, sweeping her hair off the floor with the blades. They’re inches from her face, and yet she doesn’t struggle.
‘I-I…,’ she splutters.
‘What’s that?’ I coo.
‘Make it quick.’ She sighs.
‘I’m not going to kill you, Stella. God, I’d rather shave my nutsack with these rusty, old secateurs than do that.’
‘Then what do you want?’
‘You!’
I open the secateurs, gliding a blade beneath her knickers’ elastic. The blade cuts through with a sharp snap. ‘We won’t be needing these,’ I say, letting the secateurs hang loosely in my grip as her knickers fall to the floor like a discarded thought. I glance down, the tips of my fingers gliding across the inside of her bare thighs, and she gasps as they inch closer to her pussy. It’s smooth, shaved, bare.
‘P-please,’ she whimpers, and I bite back a groan.
