Heart In A Cage

52

What is she up to?

Fear, anticipation, desire―it all surges through me when I'm forced to stare back at my reflection. The eye tattoo is concealed by the rope. I look as expected―struck with an alcoholic episode, crazed by foul circumstances. My hair is a tousle of brown waves intertwining, and dark moons circle beneath my eye.

I look nasty, but she wouldn't agree with that. Bella wouldn't think that. She can spot me draggled and sweaty after I've been hauled through a sewer and still snuggle into me. She'd brush my hair out the way, knead my strained muscles, cleanse my torn-up body with gentle words.

Just like she's going to cleanse me in the present.

"Oh, fuck," I mumble. On her next return, there's a plastic bucket at her hip. It thumps onto the floor beside me, filled with water and bubbles, a sponge floating on the top.

My heart pounds as she plants a hand on the side of my neck and rounds to my back where, through the mirror, I watch her lean down and peck across my shoulder, up my throat, to my jaw. I twist my head to her, but as I look into those shaded eyes and reach for her lips, she pulls back with a disdainful smirk.

I don't need to suppress an impending fuss because she slides onto my lap, her knees dipping into my thighs. Stimulation is relayed to my cock. She peels off her shirt, throwing it to the floor, and I lose my breath.

Her breasts are a copy of my chest, vibrant with tattoos that look from the plants of an ethereal forest.

"Oh, gosh. Oh, wow. They're so pretty, baby." If my choice to act on desire weren't restrained, I might've already brought my lips over the tapering peaks and sucked them into my mouth. I take advantage of the sliver of freedom I've been given and ogle at the view, at the 3D illustration of stems striking across her skin, at the cut of forest curving around each breast.

"Look at you," she teases, tapping at my upright tip. "All hard and happy for my pretty tits. Tell me, my sweet boy, what do you need from me?"

"You," I breathe, no hesitation. "I need you."

Her fingers clamp around the nape of my neck as she presses her chest against me. My lungs shake with anticipation. She's close, so goddamn close with her head angled downwards and lips a whisper away from my own. But her gaze, no matter how much the familiar brush of her fingertips along my jaw denies it, is alien.

"No, you don't," she whispers. "You need my body. You had my body. And now," she climbs down to the floor, hands settling over my thighs, "I have yours."

A soft kiss to my tip, then a tormenting lick at the slit.

"Do you remember giving me my tattoos?" she asks tauntingly. "While I was your pretty possession?" Her hand dips into the bucket as I trail the ink from her fingers, up her arm, across her shoulder, down to her chest. All mine―she was all mine.

The loss is so rooted into the lecherous state of my mind that when the sponge smacks against my chest, the water cold and vindictive, I gasp, my body quaking.

She passes the drenched sponge all over me, swirling it around my torso, the liquid cascading down to my thighs. It sinks back into the bucket, water sloshing against the plastic surface. She scrubs my bound arms, then goes down from there, to my abdomen, just above my swelling cock. My head charges upwards as I groan, my skin shivering, trembling as she cleanses me.

Next drop into the bucket and then we're in the centre of a pond―an ocean that I'm descending into, deeper and deeper as her touches drag me to the seabed. The water that's engulfed me is invigorating, has plunged me into ecstasy, purified me for how I've tormented her.