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“Oh, him. Ignore it,” Ginger tells her.
Another whisper.
“I said ignore it,” Ginger repeats, this time with a sharp edge to her voice.
“Okay,” the other voice replies, hesitancy still evident. “These are the ones you asked for. For order 622.”
“That’ll be all,” Ginger replies.
The other woman mutters something.
Quick taps out of the room, the door shuts.
Ginger sighs.
“What the fuck,” she mutters, so quiet I almost didn’t hear it.
The rifling of papers.
The punctuated sound of something being dropped on a hard surface. A book, maybe?
The sounds continue, and I wait, listening.
Hours pass as I listen, but without anyone speaking or my sight, there’s little to be learned. The impatience and boredom are almost as bad as the chains themselves. Not quite, though.
My mind wanders, able to drift with the sound of steady typing. Eventually, I hear the sound of a chair being pushed back and those stupid fucking shoes before they hit carpet. I resist the urge to tilt my head up to try to peer out the bottom of the bag.
“I’m going to untie you, but you cannot take the bag off of your head,” her voice states from somewhere right in front of me. “I don’t want you to piss on my carpet, but if you piss me off or try anything, then I will shoot you and then let you fucking soil yourself, you got me? You smell bad enough already, let's not add to it.”
I nod curtly, a bit taken aback. Not wanting to smell piss is an excuse, sure, but why doesn’t she have the others who previously tended to this task handle it? She’s working here, near me, because she wants to. She’s taking me piss because she wants to be close.
Apparently, my nod was enough because she takes off the heavy manacles then places a dainty hand on my wrist. Through the bottom of the bag, I can see a hint of our skin, hers fair and flawless, mine scarred and thick.
Without a word, she leads me by the wrist across the room. It’s disorienting with the bag on my head, but I’m not stupid enough to try anything now. The whole mission may revolve around her, but taking her out isn’t the only objective.
“Here, just to your right,” she says. “I’m not holding your dick for you.”
She guides my hand forward until I feel a hard surface, some kind of porcelain counter. When I don’t hear her walk away, I smile to myself and don’t hesitate to pull out my dick, facing the direction I assume I should. I hear the sound of her clothing shifting and grin at the thought of making her uncomfortable.
Well, don’t watch, bitch.
I hold in a sigh as I release a small stream. Presumably due to the minimal amount of water I’ve been given. I estimate I can go another few weeks of them feeding and hydrating me like this before the really negative effects kick in, but something tells me I won’t have to wait that long.
I finish then turn back in her direction, wishing I could see her face. It takes everything in me not to rip this stupid fucking bag off my head, but that would only set me back in the long run.
“Hold out your hands,” she commands. I hesitate but do oblige. She squirts something into my hand.
“It's sanitizer, rub it in,” she instructs, and I actually let out a small laugh.
“You’ve got me fucking chained in an office dungeon, yet you want my hands clean?” I ask as I let the liquid drip off my hands. I hear the smirk in her voice when she replies, “I like things clean.”
Her hand touches my wrist once more, then she leads me across the room. When I hear the sound of chains jangling, I freeze.
Gritting my teeth, I let her chain me up, aware that my breathing is more ragged than I’d like. Once I’m back in place, I hear the sound of her steps receding.
“Sweet dreams, asshole.”
The light clicks off and the door closes, the sound of fading heeled steps the last thing I hear.
