Page 62 of Dr. Bad Boy

He glances at me as he sets supplies on his bedside table. Condoms, lube, and…markers. Some with brightly coloured caps, and one big fat black one.

I force myself not to react.

“Let’s review our safe words, kitten.”

“Yes, Max.” I look anywhere other than at the markers. “Red for stop, yellow for slow down.”

“And the rules about leaving marks on your body?”

“Nothing visible outside my clothing.” My voice shakes, a slight tremor. This might be close to a limit for me, but I’m not sure. “Nothing on my chest or hands or face or lower legs.”

“Can you clarify what you mean by chest?” He gestures for me to climb onto the bed, and I settle in the middle, facing him. Knees wide, shoulders back. “Very nice. Could I mark you…here?” He circles one nipple with his index finger, than the other.

“Y-yes.”

“Would you need to choose your bras and shirts carefully if I did?”

“Yes.” I can see my closet. I don’t have a lot of blouses that go over a dark bra. I might have to go shopping if the marks don’t fade by the end of the week. But surely they would.

“And that would be acceptable?”

I nod with more confidence now. “Yes.”

He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear. “Good. I want to write my name all over your body.”

Whoosh. All the air in my lungs rushes out of my body. I was expecting bruises. Bite marks, like the one he left between my shoulder blades in July.

His name? Where I can see it all week long?

But he didn’t ask if he could do that. He just told me that he was going to. And I have my safewords.

It could be another mindfuck. Or I might be leaving here with his brand on my body.

He moves around the bed and climbs up behind me. His jeans rub against my skin as he kneels on the bed and gathers my hair, loosely at first, his fingers rubbing against my scalp, then more firmly as he separates my locks into three chunks and starts to braid.

“I have a—” I stop and try again. “Do you need a hair elastic?”

“No, thank you. I’ve got one.” He sounds amused.

I’m so curious now. Is it a rubber band? Does he know to use a covered one, or those little ones that don’t pull?

“Should you be thinking right now?”

“No?”

He laughs and kisses my temple. “Go ahead and lie down, head on the pillows, arms and legs wide. Eyes closed. If you aren’t able to do that, I’ll blindfold you.”

I do as instructed, and he moves over me, lashing velcro cuffs to my wrists and ankles, pressing each limb back to the bed once I’m bound for him, although bound isn’t quite the right word. I’m not tied too tightly to the bed. I bet I could even reach my arms up and around him, there’s enough slack on ropes for that, but I stay where he’s put me.

It’s an anticipatory kind of bondage. When he starts to do whatever he’s going to do with those markers, I’m going to try and pull away. They might be cold or wet or God forbid ticklish, and I’ll twist and turn, but I can’t get away.

I can move.

I have that seeming appearance of freedom.

But like a bird in a cage, I can only go so far.

And then I’m trapped. His. His to torture, and his to decorate. His to literally brand as his own.

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