Editor's note: this submission contains scenes of non-consensual, dubiously consensual or reluctant sexual situations.
[Disclaimer: all characters portrayed in this story are over 18 years old. They are also fictional and a figment of my overactive imagination. Thanks for reading. Feedback is welcome.]
I awoke disoriented.
The room was dark and, after a few moments of blinking and familiar smells of vanilla and lavender, I could make out some recognizable shapes. Realizing I was in my bedroom and on my bed was, however, a momentary relief. It took a bit of struggling moving my arms, to register the restrains on my delicate wrists and ankles. My semi-conscious mind, now infused with panic regarding my safety, is jarred awake, sluggishly trying to piece together what's going on and happening to me. I struggle for a bit longer but can't find any slack in the binds. My hands are clasped as if in prayer and stretched high, with ropes keeping them together. Try as I might, I can't bring them down. My legs, splayed wide, are tightly tied to the posts of my bedframe.
My panic, now morphs into horror, as my fruitless struggles for freedom, along with my racing mind screech to a halt. I am buck ass naked. Lying on my back, on the 400-count thread lily white Egyptian cotton sheets my mom got me for my 24
th
birthday last month. I am fucking nude. My heart in my throat, I start hyperventilating.
"This can't be happening to me," I think out loud, anxiety and the beginnings of terror lacing every word. I hear a deep, amused snort from the left side of my bedroom and I freeze. My heart galloping wildly, I slowly turn my head in that direction.
"Who's there?" I try to quiet my breathing; try to force a sense of calm so I don't lose my shit before I can figure out how to get out of this.
"Honestly Via, did you really think I wouldn't be able to find you?" I feel chills running down my spine. Disbelief, horror, relief, and apprehension fight for dominance in my mind. I know this voice.
I thought I'd left this voice in New York City after the worst night of my life. I thought I'd never hear this voice again after running away and leaving everything and everyone behind. It sounded like honey and iron, deep and dark, velvety and unyielding. I always got the honeyed voice; never the iron. This voice promised pain; salvation would have to wait. After years of not hearing it, of missing and dreading it, I'm still surprised by the strength of the clench in my core, my body always betraying me when it comes to him. I'm surprised I can read my fate. I'm not going anywhere until he's satisfied.
"Liam," I croaked and hated myself for the nervousness I've just exposed. I take a deep breath as light floods into the room. Suddenly I want the darkness back as I blink furiously, trying to adjust to the golden glow bouncing off my lavender walls. My bedroom door, directly across the foot of the bed several feet away, is slightly ajar, showing a darkened world beyond. My vanity, nestled on the wall between my closed en-suite and walk-in closet doors, is on my right. The tiny rainbow lights dancing merrily along the sides of the oblong mirror seem from another world. My nightstands appear undisturbed, my mind flashing to my gun inside the bottom right drawer.
"There's no one else here to come to your rescue Via," Liam says, amused. "You really shouldn't have picked such a secluded home with no one around but you for miles."
"I didn't think—"
"Look at me!" He thunders softly, interrupting what I'm sure would've been something stupid that won't help me now anyway.
My heart racing wildly, I finally turn my head in his direction and see the blackout curtains on my floor to ceiling glass wall tightly shut. He's sitting back in my ice gray accent chair; his long legs clad in dark jeans, crossed at the ankles. His hands resting on his black button down covered corrugated torso. His hair, not quite black, not quite brown, is longer than I remember ever seeing it, almost shoulder length. High cheekbones pronounced against a regal, aristocratic nose and forehead. An angelic face stubbled with a persistent looking 5'oclock shadow, another difference from when I knew him to like being clean shaven at all times. Gray eyes, framed with the thickest and longest lashes ever wasted on a man, look on with what seems to be indifference but, I know better. I thought I'd be spending the rest of my life alongside this man. The one who still makes my heart beat staccato from fear and excitement.
He looks like every woman's wet dream come to life. The rake from the harlequin book that'll love you hard and leave you used up and satiated.
"You were saying," he gestures for me to continue, one perfect eyebrow arched.
I sigh heavily, needing to ground myself.
"Why did you tie me up Liam?" I hold his burning gaze, apprehensively feeling goosebumps erupt all over my body. My nipples pebble and the throbbing in my pussy intensify. I know I'm getting wet and, as if he can sense my emotional whirlwind, he flashes me that wolfish smile that never reaches his eyes. The smile he reserves for those who always come to feel his wrath. His left hand rub his top lip as if he's thinking about what to say but, again, I know better. Despite my body's reaction to his proximity, I'm on high alert and afraid.
He unfolds himself from the low chair, all grace and lithe like a panther. His tall and wide frame fills the space he's occupying, owning it, gravity be damned. He owns every movement he makes, no step wasted, no gesture overdone. He looks bigger than the last time I saw him; his chest and arms straining against the simple black shirt as he moves closer. His long legs eating up the few feet between the chair and the foot of my bed; bare feet soundless on the plush carpeted floor. I used to love his control; I made it my mission to try to shatter it at every chance I could get. I was the one who ended up broken to a million pieces though, so much so that I'm still an unfinished mosaic, trying to pick up the pieces of my life.
