Bound To You

Chapter 10- Nick

I stared at my whiskey selection for the night: a bottle of Maker's Mark. After pouring myself a glass, I sat down on my usual chair in my study, placing the glass next to a Cuban cigar. This was my usual nighttime routine, where I could turn my brain off and simply focus on the burn of the whiskey as it hit my throat. I used to hate the taste, the way it lit my esophagus on fire, but now it felt more like a soothing aid. Some whiskey snobs would give a kidney to have a choice from my collection. Honestly, I couldn't care less about it. Instead of the liquor being a reward at the end of the day, it felt more like a medication to me.

Something else was on my mind that night. Clara's image continued to pop into my head. The vision of her laying on the bed, wrists bound, and completely at my will kept projecting itself in my brain. God Clara, get off of my mind.. Relieve me from the image of you underneath me. Stop making me remember the feel of your lips on mine and your taste. I was slowly eating myself up inside.

Usually after sex with a random beautiful woman, I was able to eliminate any thoughts of her almost instantaneously. There was nothing memorable about casual sex, especially when I knew I'd never see them again. Yet, Clara burned herself a space in my mind. Her presence was irresistible and I found myself needing to self-medicate in order to keep my desires at bay. She was special, and I despised it. When I decided I wanted a sex slave, I never thought I'd spend so much time dwelling on their image. I'd be damned if I added another layer of complication and hurt to my already complex life.

I had to evacuate that room after I climaxed. I couldn't lay there and let myself form something more with her. Those were the rules I made, I'd forbidden myself from developing anything romantic again. If I spent another moment in that room, I feared I'd break my own boundaries. She probably didn't even want anything more after that. She had verbally agreed and signed a contract that solidified this would strictly be a relationship of sex, nothing more. So why was I replaying the act in my head?

Yes, having her under me and marking her made me feel incredible. That was what I craved, a release at the end of the day from the stressors of work. Yet, I couldn't allow myself to take this any further. I'd ruin it like I'd ruined everything in the past. I couldn't risk losing her. I turned to the whiskey, looking for a cure to my worries.

The evening hours became the night hours and then turned into the midnight hours. I sat in the same place, sedentary and on my fourth glass of liquor. This wasn't like me. I was always terrified of becoming my father, drowning my sorrows in alcohol. But with each glass I finished, the image of Clara in the bed, underneath me, became blurrier. With that came slurred speech and unsteadiness. Finally, it faded to black. What was I even thinking about? Oh, yes, the woman I love.

I struggled to lift myself up and then hobbled over to a stack of books. Even in a drunken stupor, I knew exactly what I was selecting. Pulling out an album, I dragged my feet back to the chair and plopped myself down. I flipped through the pages until I found the one I needed. There was a photograph of a man in a navy suit down on one knee and a woman, hands cupping her mouth, in a light blue gown. Oh, how that image seemed so far away but also like yesterday. I could still feel myself in that moment, the anxiety I felt in my head, and the excitement that flooded my body. I let myself go back there, experiencing that instance once more. I tried everything to hold my tears back, but it was no use. A single tear escaped my eye and rolled down my cheek, and I could taste the saltiness. That tear must've held back a tsunami since my eyes continued to produce more.

The pain was too much for me and I couldn't handle it anymore. I threw the album across the room and heard a crashing sound. Looking up through hazy eyes, a vintage lamp laid on the floor, the lightbulb shattered into a million pieces. I didn't give a shit about that antique, I needed a release. I grabbed my chest, placing a hand over my heart, and slumped over, my body feeling too heavy to keep upright.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, I heard a faint voice say, "Shit." and "C'mon, Nick." From what I could recognize, that voice belonged to either my butler, Jason, or my head of staff, Elijah. Then, I felt hands on my shoulders, attempting to pull me up. Whoever it was put my arm around his shoulder and dragged me toward my bedroom. That was all I could remember from the night I first had Clara Walsh.