ILLICIT DESIRES | 18 +

14: Destructive Hands on Soft Skin

RITA

Like A delicate Flower, I feel As if I've Lost all my Petals.

I feel stripped bare — of any rights.

I don't like this space. Darkness, like a sunless forest, engulfs me, robbing me of my rays, as there are no windows here. The room feels cold and hollow.

I don't like this place. My body trembles, bound in the cold embrace of his tub. My wrists ache beneath the plastic ties, my voice smothered by tape. I feel buried alive.

I don't like the silence. Even when I scream — a wild cry — it's swallowed whole, muffled by the gag. No, I don't like this environment at all. I am not versatile enough to adapt.

His hands are only skilled at destruction. If he ever touched a garden, he'd topple it with hubris. At least nature is safe from him.

But I am not. To him, my feelings are poppycock. My heart splinters beneath his dominion as I sit shackled in this hollow room.

Time feels endless. I squirm, close my eyes, and retreat into my own world, trying to distract myself with visions of nature. But the pain always drags me back to reality.

The plastic cuts in deeply, leaving indelible grooves in my skin. Finally, I give up and stop fighting, not wanting to let the restraints penetrate any deeper.

My feeble body betrays me once more — my bladder gives in. I sit in my own fluids, a mixture of blood, urine, and humiliation.

Tears follow, wrenching sobs that only deepen my misery. Exhausted, I fall asleep. Then I wake beneath a sudden shower of cold water. No soothing cleansing, just a cruel splash.

A horrible way to wake.

Now drenched, my wrists burn before feeling numb. My head bows to keep from choking on the water, my body rigid with fatigue, gooseflesh prickling across my skin.

When the torrent stops, the light flickers on. The room sharpens into view.

Then him.

He's crouched beside me, the showerhead still dripping in his hand.

"You look grumpy." His eyes gleam with mockery. "Why so glum? Not a morning sunshine?"

My glare is vehement, though the words remain trapped behind the tape. He peels it away with deliberate carelessness, leaving my lips raw.

"Now, in words, please," he drawls.

"You," I hiss through chattering teeth. "You almost killed me — and my plant."

He glances at the withering plant in my lap and scoffs.

"You're tied in a tub, and that's what you're worried about? Your plant?"

"You left us both to decay," I shoot back. "If you ever change professions, don't become a florist — or a nurse. You'd only annihilate life."

He laughs, smug and unbothered.

"If I change professions, it won't be that. Maybe a toy boy. A toy for naughty girls..."

His crude words make heat creep into my cheeks.

"You should be ashamed," I mutter. "Your passions are nothing but a conspiracy against decency. Not that you possess any."

"Clitoris face, we don't judge," he huffs, deflecting blame as always. "Try being open-minded for once. Try new things instead of nag, nag, nag..."

"Nagging?" I snap, lifting my raw wrists. "After sitting here in blood and piss while waiting for your return, it's hard not to be angry."

"I'm furious."