He coughed as she hefted the closest shoulder and rolled him on his side, the bones in his arm indiscernible through the hard layers of compact muscle. A few careful tugs on the carpet, his breathing stuttering and steadying, and the rug pulled free from his weight. She set it behind her and returned him to his back.
At his feet, she pulled a zipper around the edges of the latex, sliding it toward his head and removing the chains from his wrist cuffs as she went. Through the night, it would be a plastic sleeping bag. With the sides zipped together, she cinched the latex around his shoulders.
That done, she curled up on the mattress, lit a cigarette, and walked through her preparations for the next day. The nature of mornings in captivity was either they woke up remembering where they were and what was expected or they were punished and dropped in hell. The captive’s first day was always hell.
CHAPTER 13
The gravity of confinement bore down on Josh’s sleep-dazed utopia. It was a relentless press, dragging against his skin and nudging him to wake.
Lying on his back, he reached up to rub the fog from his eyes and couldn’t move his hands. He tried to lift his legs. Couldn’t move those either. His heart rate exploded, ripping the haze of sleep from his brain.
The oblivion behind his eyelids was replaced with the blank stare of a masked face. It floated above him, a ghastly-white monition against ruffled waves of chestnut hair.
Arms pinned at his sides, he blinked to clear his vision as her brown eyes watched him through the eyeholes of the opaque disguise. A nondescript nose, pointy chin, and cheekbones molded the white, oval-shaped, plastic face. It would’ve been androgynous, except for the puckered, red-painted mouth, the upper lip arching in two dramatically-peaked points.
He lifted his head, dragged his focus from the mask to where she straddled his ribs and arms, and wasn’t sure which had his heart pumping faster. The blood-red bra and panties that bared her body or the latex body bag that sheathed his.
“What is this?” His voice shrilled, and an impending sense of doom sparked the compulsion to fight.
His muscles tightened, heating his skin and constricting against the stretchy rubber. He could give into his rising panic and shout, writhe, and wear himself out. Or he could conquer his impulses, behave with reason, and deny her the satisfaction of his fear. At least his backside was safe at the moment.
He peered into the eyes behind the mask and searched for a human being. The pupils, lifeless and frozen, might as well have been painted glass.
His jaw tightened. “Damn. I’m still in this nightmare?”
There, a flicker of raw umber in the glass. His heart danced in his chest. Then the flicker disappeared with a sweep of latex as she stretched the covering from his neck to the crown of his head.
He gulped against sudden claustrophobia, catching pockets of air in the see-through plastic wrap. Bucking and kicking and straining his neck, there was no room to maneuver. The transparent rubber clung to every inch of him, his skin sweating and slipping along it uselessly.
His inhales thinned, every other breath sealing the bag against his mouth and nose. He squirmed toward the top opening, but it cinched around the top of his skull. He could lift his head to scan down the expanse of his body through the bag, but he couldn’t roll, couldn’t sit up. It was as if he was cemented to the floor.
The whine of a motor screeched through the room and vibrated the wood against his back. Oxygen vanished. The latex shrunk, compressing his arms to his sides and sinking his body to the floor. His nerves rampaged with realization. She was sucking the air from the bag with a vacuum, trapping him, suffocating him.
He grunted, tried to scream at her to stop. Breathless. Constricted. Fire lit his lungs, and his heart exploded with terror.
The motor shut off, and the bag loosened. She peeled back the flap, cool air stroking his face and filling his lungs.
She smoothed his hair from his forehead. “If there’s a definition for waking up on the wrong side of the bed, this is it.”
Was that a joke? Was the vile witch mocking him while she tortured him?
He mustered his most sarcastic tone and smiled. “I’ll pray for your soul, Liv.”
Her fist slammed into his cheekbone.
Ow, dammit. A jolt of pain seared through his skull and burned his eyes.
The bag covered over his face again. The motor roared. He fought for air, his chest burning. The suffocation seemed to double this time. Trapped. Can’t breathe. Too long. Black spots speckled his vision.
When she turned it off and pulled back the plastic, he couldn’t catch his voice. He didn’t want to.
One of her cold, heartless fingers traced his jaw. “You failed two of the simplest requirements.”
He panted, his lungs on fire. The requirements…the requirements… Strip. Kneel. No sex with her. No touching her. No masturbating. Eyes down.
His gaze dropped, taking his heart with it. Chest heaving, instinct screaming to insult her with every curse word he knew, he tried to shed the fear from his face.
“That’s one.” She placed a hand on his groin, the heat of her palm seeping through the thin barrier.
A moan caught in his throat. He didn’t want to feel her hand there, and he definitely didn’t want to like it. Dammit, which requirement was he missing? Sifting through the list, he gritted his teeth. “Mistress.”
“Good.” She stroked his penis through the latex with a skill that infused his body with lust and fury.
Keeping his eyes averted from hers, he flexed his muscles, drew calming breaths, and blanked his mind. Years of practice in controlling his desires should’ve overpowered the sensations she was weaving through him, but with each twist of her wrist and drag of her fingernail, the traitorous erection swelled.
Her
