Tanned Leather & White Lace [+18]

Grey

When he opens his eyes, he doesn't immediately realize where he is. It feels like there is something, like a weight on his shoulders, something pressing down on him. Headache. It hurts, and inside his head there's a sound, repetitive and painful, ringing and persistent. A sound that he probably the only one to hear.

His eyelids flutter open, the light is dim but even as faint as it is, it still sting and burn, tears welling up in his eyes. Until his vision eventually adjusted and the blurry lines and shapes finally become something real.

There are torches alined against the stone walls. Candles on the floor and on the furniture that seems to have been burning for a while now. Wax falling along in long drops, ending in a white puddle on the floor.

Pete's gaze drifted slowly, everything was still engulfed in a mist, just like his mind, just like his thoughts. Yet, he tries to look around the room, he tries to recognize that place, but he don't. Nothing is familiar. He doesn't remember ever being here.

It's his job. He need to know where he is, he need to know the plan, the exits. He needs to if he ends up being in danger and has no choice but to fight to save his life, or the life of someone he has to protect.

So he tries, again and again, tries to make sense of what he sees. He squints his eyes and shake his head, hoping for the mist to lift, for the fog to disappear.

It worked.

The first things he sees is a table, on the left corner —a table with things Pete's never seen before but he is pretty sure he recognizes chains and ropes.

A cross. On the right, against the wall, made in wood and black steal, its huge shadow stopping right at Pete's knees.

Pete looked around nervously, searching for something, someone, who could at least give him a chance, give him a hint to try to guess where he is, why he is here, how he ended up here. Someone to bring him back to that reality he spent his entire life trying to escape.

He want to go back.

He is sorry. He is scared.

He knows he is almost naked, he can feel the cold biting his bones. He knows he is kneeling on the concrete floor in the middle of this room. He also knows his hands are tied behind his back.

And that the only thing covering him is that white lace panty.

He shivers. He is cold.

A scent. Something suddenly hitting his nose and he instinctively takes a sniff. Cigarette smoke, incense... musk, and maybe... leather?

He is not sure, but he didn't have time to wonder when another scent emerged and this one, yes, this one he knows. This one he would recognize anywhere. Cologne. His cologne. Oud wood. The scent hit him like an uppercut in the face, bringing him back immediately somewhere that feels like home.

Pete lifts up his gaze enough to finally stop on a figure—a dark silhouette, a human form, a few meters in front of him, engulfed in the darkness.

It looks like the shape of a man standing there, half in the shadow, half in the light.

The line are blurred between the two but Pete can now see clearly the amber of a cigarette intensifying more and more brighter as the man takes a drag.

He doesn't recognize that silhouette, that shadow in the dark. He doesn't know at who or what he is looking at. Pete can't see the man's eyes—they are too far away, and it's too dark.

It's just a feeling, a growing feeling, of something, of someone lurking in the shadows, looming over him, over his soul, his skin, his tragic waste of skin lost between light and darkness. Between the smell of cigarette and home.