Page 10 of Good Girl

7

Cadence

Ifeel like I’ve barely closed my eyes when suddenly bright lights flood the dungeon. I’m still blinking awake when the cage door is opened and Vin’s hand reaches in. He wraps long fingers around my ankle and drags me toward the opening. I try to twist, to kick out at him, but I remember the bruising on my back and ass where they touch the bottom of the cage. I cry out and stiffen, allowing him to pull me all the way out.

I take stock of my body, expecting sharp, shooting pains all over. But the pain isn’t that bad. More of a deep ache unless I’m touched. Nothing I can’t manage. Vin had always hinted that he thought I could take more. That my pain tolerance is higher than I’m willing to test. Maybe the fucker is right.

He grips my arm and drags me to my feet. I sway and reach out for the bed post, but he pulls me away. I stumble after him as he drags me across the room. I’m blinking rapidly, trying to adjust to the light, figure out what’s going on.

As he pushes me through a door that he’s opened, he says, “You have two minutes.”

I stare blankly at a tiny washroom. It’s clean, and fully functioning, with a toilet, sink and shower stall. I’m about to ask him what my two minutes are for when my full bladder answers the question, screaming at me for release. I must’ve been so deeply asleep I hadn’t noticed. I’m naked, so all I have to do is turn around and sit.

I glance toward Vin, at his cool dark eyes. He’s leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, biceps bulging against the short sleeves of his grey T-shirt. His tattoo pops out at me, looking suddenly sinister to my eyes. It looks like some kind of official crest or something. I never bothered to ask him what it was for, didn’t want to have information that might lead to intimacy. But I find myself curious now.

“Can you leave?” I ask, hoping for the best, but knowing otherwise. If he’d intended to leave then he would be gone already. No, he intends this as an added humiliation.

He just looks at me for a beat, then says, “One minute.”

Fuck!

I sit on the toilet, gasping as my bruised ass hits the seat. I lean forward in an effort to minimize the surface area touching the surface and grip my hair trying desperately to ignore him. My bladder knows he’s standing there though. Knows he’s watching me pee. No one’s watched me go to the bathroom since I was a toddler. My face heats as I try to release and tears leap to my eyes. I tighten my fingers in my hair, hoping the slight pain will distract me from his presence.

Just as I’m feeling relaxed enough to finally let out a stream, he grabs my arm. “Time’s up.”

“Vin, please,” I groan, tipping my head back to look at him.

He raises an eyebrow and tightens his fingers, but he doesn’t lift me away from the toilet. The threat is there though, and I know what he’s looking for.

I swallow hard, swallowing my pride in one big gulp. My bladder is more important right now. “Master… may I please use the toilet until I’m done?” I try for as meek a voice as I can manage while imagining him being crushed to death under the weight of his fucking St. Andrew’s Cross. I’m not sure if I’ve succeeded, but he gives me a sharp nod and backs away, leaning his hip against the vanity. His crotch is now inches from my face.

I sigh my relief at his concession and force the urine from my body, knowing this is my only chance for a while. Whatever he has in mind, it either involves his torture instruments or the cage under the bed.

I use the toilet paper and stand, expecting him to move aside so I can wash my hands. He doesn’t, simply allows my naked body to brush his as we stand in the tight space together. I grit my teeth, trying not to breathe him in. I hate that he’s so attractive, that his scent makes me weak in the knees.

“May I please wash my hands, Master?” I ask, trying to bite back the sarcasm.

He steps to the side, giving me access to the sink. I wash my hands quickly and dry them on the hand towel. As soon as I’m done, he takes my arm and pulls me from the washroom, slamming the door behind him. I glance over my shoulder. The door has almost become a seamless part of the wall. Very clever. I can’t deny the skill involved in building this place.

“Did you build this room? The washroom?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I’m impressed, despite myself. I already know he’s talented with his hands, but this is on a whole other level. I don’t say anything though, instead I turn my attention to where he’s pulling me. We stop in front of what appears to be a massage table. I glare at it suspiciously.

He lifts me by the waist and sets me on the table. I hiss as my ass touches the leather.

“Lay down,” he commands.

I bite back the ‘fuck off’ that leaps to my lips and settle for a searing glare as I lean gingerly lean back on an elbow before dropping my bruised shoulders to the mat. I cry out as my abused body is forced to lay flat on the surface.

“Can I lay on my front?” I ask hopefully.

He looks down at me, considering, as he pulls a set of handcuffs from beneath the table. Then he shakes his head. “Your back has already had enough.”

“What are you going to do to me?” I ask with increasing unease as he secures one end of the cuff to my wrist and other to the metal bar beside the table.

He ignores me, walking to the other side to secure my other wrist.

---