The Thief, part 8

      She woke slowly, groggy from another night of intense sex. He must have made her orgasm 10 times, a new record for her. He’d spanked her, tickled her, clamped her nipples which were now incredibly sensitive, and fucked her to kingdom come.  The entire time, she was cuffed to the headboard. She was really starting to loathe those cuffs. It wasn’t as if she was running anytime soon. He’d claimed ownership of her. Marked her ass with his hand and his name.  And chained her to him with a need she’d never been able to express or understand before. 

He came out of the bathroom, met her eyes. His were solemn, and she wondered, “what now”?  Coming to the bed, he uncuffed her wrists, and sent her to the potty. She stared at him.

“You pee when I say you pee. Go.”  He shooed her out of the bedroom.  She went, but he could see resistance in her yet. He had time. Plenty of time.  A lifetime of training, and it still wouldn’t completely bank the fire in that one. And he didn’t mind that a bit.

He moved to the bathroom door, watching her on the toilet. She blushed, trying to ignore his stare.  He commented on it, of course. Told her she’d need to get used to it.

“I feel like a dog on a leash when you watch me,” she complained.

“You are on a leash, ” he responded, “but you’re prettier than my last dog. Not by much, but…” He laughed as she threw a glare at him.  When she finished, he took her arm. When she would have passed him to leave the bathroom, he shook his head, pushed her towards the tub.

“In,” he commanded.

“I don’t want a shower,” she responded, not quite able to keep the petulant note out of  her voice.

He ignored her, again, and pushed her none too gently into the tub. They tussled there for a moment, before the look in his eye convinced her to get into the tub.

There were two grab bars spaced a brief distance apart. He pushed her between them, then positioned her hands so she was grabbing the bar near the top, her forearms laying vertically, along the cold metal rod. He took a roll of ace bandage from his pocket, and began wrapping her arm and the pole together, from elbow to wrist. The excess he wrapped around her hand until her arm and the grab bar were totally covered.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she asked, a slight note of worry in her voice.

“You know the wall here is fucking cold!”

“My feet are freezing!”

He ignored her, taking a second roll of the bandage out of his other pocket, and securing her other arm in the same way as the first. When he was done, he surveyed his handiwork.

“Let me out of here, you fucker!”

This last complaint drew his attention. She swallowed hard at the look in his eye.  She tried to pull away, but she was tightly secured. She could toss her head, move her legs, but her torso and arms were locked against the wall.

“S-sorry,” she said, finally, defeated just by that look.

“Yes, you will be,” he responded. “In the time and way of my choosing, you will be punished for your…rudeness.”

She shivered, and not from the cold tile at her back.

He left the room, drawing  his cell phone from his pocket. He closed the door to the bathroom, but she heard his murmured  conversation. Knew he was talking about her. O gawd! Please not the tattoo guy again??!

A few minutes later there was a quiet knock on the door. Two male voices. Two? Joined His. Sounds of male camaraderie. Arms slapping, laughter.  She shivered again.

Closed her eyes tight as the voices came closer to the bathroom door. Then, defiant, not willing to show HIM how frightened he made her, she opened them, and glared.

The door opened.