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“Have you seen Analise today, Cassidy?” Tasia asks.
“Yes. In fact, I just left her in the attic.”
“Oh?” She looks at me curiously. “Will she be coming down to lunch?”
“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “I left her bound to her bed.”
It’s not shock that registers on her face, but a brief startled expression that fades as soon as it appears, her face returning to its characteristically obscure aspect.
“I see,” she says.
I wonder what she will do, if she thinks I’ve overstepped my bounds. I don’t really care what she does. I hold Analise in my grasp, and even should Tasia preempt me, I’ve made a statement she will not easily forget.
I imagine Peach will not forget it either. For the first time in days, she looks at me with some degree of respect. And though we eat in silence, I don’t feel a strain. Getting used to what I’m feeling pleases me, even if I’m not yet certain how this fits into the scheme of my life.
There’s part of me that would rush back to Analise, but the better part is content to let her remain bound in the attic as if she were nothing but my toy to do with as I please. I picture her there often as I go through the next hours. The longer I wait to return, the more aroused I become. I’m not sure she’ll even be there, that Tasia hasn’t already freed her. But I’ll be happy either way.
I read for awhile in the garden; it seems it’s the first day I’ve actually been able to relax anywhere other than the beach. The ominous feeling of the house has made it and its surrounding gardens too oppressive to enjoy. Since the afternoon with Donna and Cozinne my emotions have been frenzied and my thoughts filled with dark desire. But now, there’s a peacefulness creeping into me. I’ve cast away the original version of the vacation Peach and I had planned, and have replaced it with this more bizarre one. What troubles me is that this one appears to have no clear purpose, and no predictable end.
I read with half my mind watchfully gazing at the picture of Analise bound in the attic. When I can no longer focus on the book for thoughts of her, I decide to return to her side.
When I enter the attic again, I’m thoroughly relieved to see that she’s still bound the way I left her—indeed nothing in the room is changed. I do believe she’s been alone for these several hours. I thought it didn’t matter what happened in this game of ours, but I realize now that my new found dominant desires have me longing for another session with this fair waif.
My body immediately responds to her tethered state; the way she looks so divinely erotic fascinates me. I could study her for hours. Her arms bound over her head make her torso look even thinner than it is. Her ribs show and her breasts almost disappear against her chest. Her taut nipples and the creamy white skin of her thighs make a sensuous feast for my eyes.
It surprises me that she’s awake, I would think she might have dozed, but perhaps it’s more difficult than I imagine to remain comfortably bound. I forget my own bondage at Elizabeth’s hands. This seems much more sexually provocative than what I experienced. But then, perhaps provocative is in the eye of the beholder. I wonder what she’s been thinking all this time. Could she guess that there would be another dominant woman to take charge of her, or did this moment surprise her as much as it did me?
As I look at her, I think of a hundred things in a flash of a second that I might do to her next. They are memories from my own writings, fueled by those darker times that come to mind. Yet, it’s a fleeting thought, a quick flash of brilliance that moves me to act.
I untie her ankles.
“On your knees,” I order her. She maneuvers awkwardly, but is able to turn over even with her hands still bound. Her rear end rises high as she presses her face to the pillows. I find the pose the ultimate in submissiveness. Her small rounded ass intrigues me, so I play with it, running my hands along the surface of her skin, and down her wide-open cleft. I find her sphincter with a probing finger and she jerks away. “No please, not there,” she says. Her refusal startles me, though I remember hearing this protest before.
“Why not?” I ask.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” I ask again.
“The pain won’t go away,” she says.
“I know it does, Analise,” I counter her.
I imagine she pleads her case well; but as an expert on backdoor violation, I’m suddenly inspired to bring this puzzling woman to a new sexual initiation.
I find lubricant in the small chest by her bed, and dildos in several sizes… almost as if they were waiting for me to use for just this task.
But rather than stun her, I begin with my hand, with just a simple well-greased finger. A little less than two inches beyond her anus, she’s already in tears, the tight place screams at her, wanting me to stop. But I know better. What begins as resistance is only need, crying so fearfully loud that the pleasantness cannot get through.
I refuse to stop despite her angry impassioned protests.
“Hush,” I say, slapping her ass lightly. Then I stroke her as I continue to gently probe her. I massage her back and shoulders, and coo softly in her ear.
“Relax, relax, relax.”
Elizabeth was never so gentle with me, but I’m a better lover than she ever was.
It takes some minutes, some terrifying minutes, where Analise screams, “NO!” to me, and I refuse to relent. She will get beyond this idiotic fear, I vow silently to myself.
