Page 28 of Penny for Your Saints

“If we don’t return after two hours; take Louise and book it to Safehouse D.” Frank warns, like a father telling the kids to behave for the babysitter before leaving for the night.

Seb and Caz say nothing, just nod dutifully—even if I can tell by the anxious ticking in both of their jaw muscles that they’re using the entirety of their willpower not to talk back to Daddy.

All three of us watch as Quentin and Frank sweep out of the apartment before Seb rushes in to lock the door behind them—slipping the door chain into its slot before pulling the dirty dishcloth from his shoulder with a heavy sigh.

“Finish up your breakfast, eh? I’ll draw the bath—Cazzy—you’re on kitchen cleanup.” Seb stretches, a cat in a beam of sun from the overhead windows, tossing Caz the dishcloth.

“Aw what?” Caz groans.

“Don’t whine to me. I’m not your maid or your mother,mon petit fantome,” Sébastien teases, his full lips pursed—his face so close to Caz’s that it looks as if they might kiss.

As if the two of them have only just remembered that I’m sitting here watching—Caz gives Sébastien a playful shove, threading the dishcloth around the back of his neck like a gym towel.

“Fine, fine—I’ll clean up. How are you planning on chaining her to the tub? There’s not a whole lot of options in there.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sébastien shakes his head dismissively. “Just come in once you’re done with the dishes. I’m going to need an extra set of hands to wash her hair, ok?”

Both Caz and I give Seb strange looks at this—to which he responds by snatching my empty plate from in front of me, placing it on top of Caz’s before unceremoniously hoisting me from my place on the futon by my upper arm with his impressive strength.

Seb drags me down the hall, past the powder room they’ve been having me use—a tiny bathroom where the door stayswide open, even when I’m on the toilet, with a tiny pedestal sink below a small, flaked foil mirror hanging on the wall. Seb pulls me past the two dingy bedrooms where Frank and Quentin have been sleeping and into the full bathroom at the end of the hall. A modern minimalist affair; toilet, sink, and stock tank tub/shower with a very psycho-killer-esque clear vinyl curtain bunched together at one end of a curved bar hanging from the ceiling where a rickety exhaust fan squeaks gently overhead and a long dead houseplant sits in one of the recessed clerestory windows beside a dusty bottle of lavender bath salts.

He snaps the toilet seat closed and motions for me to sit.

I take a seat, eyes fixed on Seb as he begins to run the water, crouching low with his back to the far wall as he dips a hand beneath the cascade from the tap.

Satisfied that the water is running hot enough, he jams a rubber stopper into the tub’s crude drain. Water drips from the black ink tattoos on his forearms; a scorpion, an eight-pointed star made from two overlapping squares, a rose in full bloom, and the skinniest of crescent moons.

I can tell that the suppressant melter has truly done its damage; my thighs pressing together as I look at those muscular, inked forearms.

“Alright, no funny business,” he sighs, removing the ball chain with the steel handcuff key from around his neck before reaching into the back waistband of his pants for his gun, the click of him disengaging the safety echoes against the rush of water in the small, tiled bathroom.

He tosses the key to me and I catch it from my place huddled on the closed toilet seat.

“You can uncuff yourself to get undressed—then get into the tub and handcuff yourself to the plumbing.” Seb nods to my wrists, then the stalky copper water pipe—green and patinated with use and age. “You try fucking around?” He clicks his tongueand wiggles the muzzle of his gun menacingly. “You will most certainly find out, I fear,” he tuts with mock pity.

“Good-looking guy like you wouldn’t have to ask me to do this at gunpoint if you hadn’t fucking kidnapped me,” I dangle the textbook assault deterrent in front of him, knowing full well he won’t take the bait.

“Trust me, Loulu—under different circumstances, I think you and I would have had a very, very different relationship,” he sighs wistfully as I pop the handcuffs from my wrists—thankful for a moment of freedom before I begin to peel the wretched, filthy clothes from my body.

“A great deal less talking, I’d imagine,” Seb purrs as I shed the t-shirt—my bare breasts like alabaster apples, my pink upturned nipples diamond-hard in the cold bathroom.

I shrug, stepping out of the gym shorts that I’ve spent the last several days in; making my way to the filling bath; a bottle of Castile soap, and some shampoo and conditioner that look like they might be old enough to buy a drink or rent a car sit on a slotted metal shelf that hangs from the main piping for the shower head above.

“Cuff yourself to the piping please, Loulu,” he asks sweetly, eyeing me through the sights of his gun.

He’s doing his best to keep focused, but I can see his arousal through his ratty jeans, the outline of his massive half-hard cock standing out against the blue-gray fabric of the distressed denim.

I probably can’t get around re-cuffing myself without getting shot, but I’m willing to wager that I can give myself just enough room to be able to slip out of my singular handcuff with enough distraction and soapy water—even if it means breaking my own wrist to do it.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Seb scolds me as I step into the steaming water—preparing to cuff my right hand to the piping so I can facethe bathroom door.. “Cuff your left hand, please.” He jerks the muzzle of his gun meaningfully toward my left hand.

Of course, the motherfucker wants my back to the door, my dominant hand out of commission.

Fine. That’s what he wants? I can play dumb. I can do that for him.

“Do you have a washcloth?” I ask nonchalantly, allowing my hair to fall over my face and shoulder as I lean down to cuff myself to the plumbing—making sure to give Seb a good view of my bare ass and the slightest glimpse of my slick pussy from behind as I ratchet my handcuffs as loose as I can without it looking conspicuous to Seb.

I allow myself a little smirk as I catch Sébastien’s hand leaving the bottom half of his teacup grip on his gun to pinch at the leg of his jeans—desperately trying to allow his chafed erection more breathing room as his urgency grows.

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