Gagged (24 page)

“Afraid of being human.”
 

A long, slow motion down between my breasts. Across my belly. And between my legs. He brushes my clit, and there’s a bolt of sensation so strong and so needed, I almost collapse against my restraints.
 

“Afraid that the soul you feel inside might actually be the true Aurora you’ve always been.”

He circles. I hear his breath, the pacing of his feet.

“Maybe you’re afraid now, not because of how I might hurt you, but because you might enjoy it.”

His fingers slip inside me. Back to my clit. Back inside. I’m so wet, there’s practically no friction. The room is filled with the sounds of my wetness.
 

I’m going to come, right here and now. With my hands trussed up. Unable to stop anything he might do to me, no matter how vanilla or horrible. But at least if I enjoy this, it won’t be my fault.
 

His fingers move faster.
 

“Do you want me to fuck you, Aurora?”
 

And I sigh, “Yes.”
 

“Then beg me.”

I hear him unbuckle his belt. I hear him unzip. I hear the rustle of fabric. I wait for the touch of his hard cock, but instead I can practically feel its presence so near my pussy that its heat warms my already-hot skin.
 

“Beg me, Aurora,” he repeats.
 

I writhe. I try to reach him with my body. It’s like trying to find him in the dark, to find an extension cord by jabbing at it with the socket.
 

And he says, “Do you want to come?”
 

“Yes.
Yes!”
 

He moves away. He must press a button somewhere because all of a sudden the thing holding my arms lets go. I was apparently putting weight on it because I go with it, collapsing to a pile on the ground.
 

I shake off the shock, more aroused than ever, my legs spreading on impact as if they know what’s coming. And I finally find the blindfold with my freed hands and pull it away, throbbing with the anticipation of seeing Caspian kneeling over me, his hard dick out and ready to enter me.

But Caspian is at the open elevator.

“Then do it yourself,” he says, stepping inside.
 

The doors close.
 

And he’s gone.
 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A
URORA

A
T
FIRST
I
ASSUME
THIS
must be some sort of cruel joke. I actually lie on the floor for a minute or two, feeling less aroused and increasingly stupid by the second. He did tell me what to do before he left, but it felt more like a brush-off than an actual command. And besides, I don’t particularly feel like playing with myself on the floor of some guy’s sex dungeon-apartment amid implements of bondage. Not with him not even around to watch, or participate.
 

But then I’m up, already wondering what happened. I’m dizzy in a strange way, as I always seem to be after seeing Caspian — somehow confused and guilty. But this is my third time with these emotions, and I think I’m getting used to them. Numb, perhaps, like the forearm-cutting, ass-fucking, boy-corrupting Becky Jeffries.
 

I look around, seeing Caspian in a bit more context. Wondering why he told me the story then left without doing what I clearly wanted, yes. But getting his fucked-up nature just a little more.
 

 
There’s some sort of cable hook still on my restraints, which are basically padded handcuffs. Whatever he did released more line from the hole in the ceiling, where there must be a winch. But the cable is still attached, and it’s tricky to get loose with my hands still bound. Once I do, I glance around for the key to the cuffs but it’s nowhere to be seen.
 

I do my best to compose myself, walking to the pile of my skirt and panties, untangling the garments then pulling them on and zipping the skirt with my bound hands. The shirt is hard to button with my wrists confined, but I manage. The bra is a lost cause, so I let it dangle, mostly hidden by my shirt. Then I make my way into what seems to be an elegant washroom and fluff my hair out as best I can, noting and sighing uselessly at the bra ends dangling beneath the shirt’s hem at my sides.
 

After a bit more searching I assume I can’t find the key because Caspian has it. And of course, this is all a big fucking game.
 

Well, good job, Caspian. I’m no longer aroused.

Now I’m pissed.
 

With my hands still bound, I move through the place, noting its strangely hybrid nature. At the far end of the first floor I find a big desk. In it are more of Caspian’s business cards, and on its top is an actual corded phone. I get the handset wedged between ear and shoulder and manage to dial the number.
 

I don’t expect to get Caspian. I figure I’ll get James. But given the whole Jasmine situation, there are things I’d like to say to that asshole, too.
 

But I don’t get James.
 

“Hey,” says a female voice. “This is Lucy.”
 

It doesn’t strike me as a very professional greeting for a receptionist. But the woman’s voice also doesn’t sound properly subservient for an assistant, so maybe I’ve got the wrong number.
 

“Oh. Hi. I’m looking for Caspian White.”
 

“Caspian’s out for the weekend. Who is this?”
 

“Where is he?”
 

“I don’t know. Home, probably,” the woman sounds, a trifle irritated-sounding.
“Who is this?”
 

“I don’t think he’s at home.”
 

“Okay. Well. It’s been nice talking to you, whoever you are.”

“Because that’s where
I
am. At his home.”
 

That stops her. Which is good, because I’m one pissed-off, jilted woman right now, and don’t feel like being condescended to.
 

“I really need to talk to him,” I say, my voice even. “Please …
Lucy.”
 

“Is your name Aurora?”

Now I’m speechless.
 

“I’m coming up. I’m just a few blocks away. Just … stay where you are.”
 

“Wait. Why?”
 

“Please. Just — ”

But this is too fucking weird.
 

I hang up the phone.

I take the elevator down to lobby then shuffle into a corner away from the main doors just in case this Lucy person enters. I don’t particularly want to be seen or interviewed further. Not until I’ve had a chance to catch my breath and untangle what’s happening. Then I decide that even the lobby isn’t safe, so I sort of wrap my bag around my conjoined hands to hide them and stumble outside. I’m about to round the corner when I see a thin woman around my age with straight-cropped blonde hair pull up in a taxi and scamper toward the door. Lucy-whoever, I presume.
 

It’s tricky as hell to pull the phone from my bag with my hands joined at the wrists, but for the first time ever I’m thankful for my phone’s voice recognition abilities.
 

“Siri,” I tell the phone, “call Jasmine.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

A
URORA

“D
ON
’
T
CUT
OFF
MY
HANDS
,” I say.
 

And Jasmine replies, “Then promise never to hog the remote again, bitch.”

She bears down on the bolt cutters. There’s a satisfying snap of metal and a relieving absence of severed flesh. She repeats the operation on the other cuff, and then I’m rubbing my wrists, enjoying their freedom.
 

Jasmine is still holding the cutters, looking down at the cuffs. They’re lined with black fuzz but must not be genuine shackles because something tells me police cuffs would be harder to remove.
 

“Want me to cut some other shit?” she says, working the handles.

“I think that’ll do it.”
 

Jasmine puts the borrowed bolt cutters back on our couch. “If we’d made a bet, when we started living together, which of the two of us would be rescuing the other from a man’s place and cutting cuffs from her wrists, I’d have been sure it’d have been the other way around.”

I consider attempting to justify the situation but feel strangely past protest. A ton has changed in the past week. Jasmine used to be the adventurous one and I was the prude, but now we’ve each been ego-jilted a few times, we’ve done sexy dances together, Jasmine has had sex in front of me and knows I blew a billionaire in a bathroom. She did lick me a little, and that was weird, but I also enjoyed it. And now, with this latest addition to our scorecards, I’d put me in the lead if this were a contest.
 

I finally tell her, and spill everything. I give her all the details about Friday night and what I did in that bathroom, just in case she wasn’t clear or thought Caspian was lying; I tell her about our super-chaste date yesterday; I tell her about today. I even turn back the clock and admit to fishing the vibrator out of the garbage. It’s surprisingly easy to admit. It feels good to have a friend I can finally confess to.
 

And when I’m done, Jasmine doesn’t look at me like she’s disgusted. She looks at me like a friend.
 

“So what are you going to do now?”
 

“Nothing, I guess. It’s not like I didn’t allow him to do what he did. I can’t … I don’t know … get him arrested or anything.”
 

“No, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean about getting him busted.”
 

“What, then?”
 

She sort of sighs. “Oh come on, Aurora. Don’t make me say it.”
 

“Say what?”
 

“You’re into him.”
 

“I am not
into him!”
 

“Honey, when a virgin lets a hot guy tie her up in his sex dungeon, it’s like the purest sign of true love there is.”
 

“Do you not remember what I just asked you to do? To come and rescue me from his place, then cut me out of handcuffs?”
 

“He let you go. He didn’t even spank you, poor girl.”
 

I give Jasmine a look meant to convey my surety that she has severe psychological problems.

“Oh, like you’d know how to behave in a sex dungeon. This is how it goes, Aurora. Trust me. As far as sex dungeons go, you got off easy.”
 

“I hardly think that’s — ”

“Well, except that you didn’t really
get off
at all. It’s a control thing. You’ll get used to it.”
 

“You don’t understand, Jas. You weren’t listening. We made a bet. That’s all.”
 

“Hmm. ‘That’s all.’ So you honestly don’t think he’s into you, too? That he doesn’t want to fuck your brains out?”
 

“Those are very different questions.”
 

“A. Seriously. Stop being a dumb bitch. Men lead with their dicks. The only reason guys don’t usually offer girls their cocks on first dates instead of flowers is because cops keep arresting the guys who do. But it’s how they’re wired. Do you seriously think he can’t
just fuck
whoever he wants? He’s Caspian Fucking White. If he called me right now and asked me to be ready in two minutes with my pussy spread open, I’d do it. And hey, that actually reminds me. What’s his phone number again?”

I throw a pillow at Jasmine. She blocks like a karate master.
 

She sighs. “Look. Guys like Caspian don’t do shit like this to get pussy. They don’t have to. If he made a bet with you, it doesn’t matter if the bet is all about tying you up and fucking you sore. It means something. It means he’s more into you than his casual lays.”
 

“You’re so full of shit.”
 

“What was the bet?”
 

Jasmine must have only been half listening while James was trying to stick himself inside her.
 

“He tries to prove that life is dark and dreary and that nobody wins. I try to show him how life is all rainbows and fairies. But it’s not even that. On his turns he just wants to order me around and make me feel like crap. And on my one turn so far, he got pissed off and left. He’s not convincing me people are evil, and I’m not convincing him that the future is bright. We’re not even trying. It’s a struggle of wills.”
 

“Exactly. And what does that tell you?”
 

“That he’s fucked up.”
 

“Just him?”
 

I tilt my head and stare at Jasmine, giving her a look that says,
Really? Are you seriously going there?

She takes my hand. It’s testament to our healing that I don’t flinch at her touch.
 

“Honey. Aurora. I love you. But you are one
seriously
fucked-up broad. You know you are. How could you not be, with what you went through?”
 

“I’m fine. I’m happy.”
 

“Really? Show me your back.”
 

I shift uncomfortably.

And Jasmine recites, pulling from things I wish I’d never told her.
 

“Girl discovers her sexuality. Girl gets caught coming for the first time using her mom’s back massager on herself. Girl’s repressed mother hears her. Rushes in. Calls her all sorts of horrible things. Practically disowns her right on the spot. Girl’s equally repressed, brutalizing father takes over, whipping her with his belt until she has bleeding welts. And
this
is the baggage you carry into adulthood — sexual pleasure leads to shame and pain. Can’t blame your parents; oh no, they were just doing what they thought was best. So maybe sex
is
bad. Maybe the feelings you have — which you admitted to feeling
really
early in life, which says to me that you’re super-sexual inside —
are
wrong, and that your folks were right.”