Page 8 of Taking Turns

I flick the light on and she closes her eyes, hiding her face to shield herself from the sudden brightness.

She’s… pretty. Dark hair, long and straight, kind of like Rochelle’s, but nothing at all like Rochelle’s at the same time. Her skin is fair, which isn’t surprising since it’s winter and the sun seems to have gone missing in Denver for the past month. Her hands are tied behind her back, so I can’t see them. And she’s sitting up, knees to chest, completely naked, and I can see her pussy.

I stare for a moment longer than I should and then I finally look at her face—a sweet face. Wide blue eyes looking up at me, the remnants of her make-up streaked down her cheeks like she’s been crying.

But she isn’t crying now.

Her nose is small and her plump lips are wrapped around the ball of the gag. Drool is dripping out of her mouth. One long strand hangs just above her left breast, ready to fall.

“Well,” I say, far beyond curious at this point, “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve got to say about this.”

I crouch down in front of her legs and catch her scent. The flowers. Or citrus, whichever it is. I inhale deeply and can’t help but take in the smell of sex.

I look her in the eyes as I reach behind her head and unstrap the gag. It falls forward, dropping into her lap as I watch her adjust, swallow down the drool, and then take a deep breath.

She says nothing.

Hmmm.

Just stares at me.

My hand is between her legs. My finger slipping inside her pussy. She is wet. So fucking wet. She doesn’t close her eyes or moan. In fact, her eyes never leave mine. Not once.

She likes it.

I remove my slick fingers from her pussy and bring them to her mouth.

She opens, sucks them.

My God.

Still, she stares into my eyes.

I envision her mouth on my cock and grow hard at the thought.

And then I close my eyes.

But only for a moment. Barely a blink. I’m back in control. I reach for her upper arm and pull her to her feet. She complies willingly. And then I spin her around and begin untying her wrists.

The rope is tight. Tighter than it should be. Quin knows how to tie a girl up, I’ve seen him do it enough times to be sure of that. But he was probably panicking, so I don’t judge.

When I get the rope off there is a deep red burn ringing her wrists.

She brings her hands in front of her to get a look at her wrists. I take them, looking closely at her wounds. “I have something for that. But first, let’s make progress on your clothes.”

“I have clothes,” she says, her voice not weak, not small, but firm and strong. “On the chair.”

I walk over to the chair and pick them up. Jeans. Nondescript sweater. Winter shearling boots. Some semi-nice lingerie and thick cotton socks.

“Well, that won’t do,” I say, walking back to the closets. I open the one across the short hallway from the one I share with Bric and Quin. Rochelle’s closet.

I don’t know what I expected, but I’m kinda taken aback that everything Rochelle owns is still in there. Her many, many, many pairs of thrift-store shoes, and skirts, and those horrible long dresses. Even her purses are still here. She never shopped for purses at the thrift stores. They are all designer. Even the fringy ones. They live in soft cloth bags that come inside the purse when you purchase it, and they are lined up on the top shelf like little surprises wrapped in velvet.

I only know this because I bought her a few purses myself that first year. A Prada, a Gucci, and some other brand she asked for that I had never heard of, but which set me back almost three thousand dollars.

If Rochelle ever tells someone the story of us, she better not call me cheap.

I sigh and divert my attention to the limited number of classy, five-star-restaurant-worthy dresses hanging on the far end of a rack. I look back at the new girl for a moment, then choose a red one. To set off her hair.