Mabel Shot
My body remains still, curled up inside the bathtub, with my arms wrapped around my legs. I rest my chin on my knee and gaze lost into the foam. I close my eyes and sigh softly, feeling the gentle movements of the sponge on my back as he bathes me. My body was so tired and relaxed that I just agreed to everything he wanted to do with me. I hum softly an old song by the Eagles. Playing with the foam, I raise my fingers up and open my eyes, blowing at it and lazily singing.
"What song is that?" he asks softly, focused on the foam gliding over my back.
"Hotel California," I reply, turning my face toward him, watching him sitting on the edge of the tub, his eyes fixed on his work. "Don’t you find that strange?" I murmur to him, stretching one of my arms as he holds it, carefully passing the sponge over it.
"I don’t know; I don’t see much purpose in a song about staying in a hotel," he answers calmly, his brown eyes following the sponge’s glide over my arms.
"No," I say, laughing, shifting in the tub and stretching my legs. "Hotel California was a classic from the '70s, but I wasn't referring to the song," I lazily sigh, feeling the warm water running down my arms as he rinses me off.
"Explain," he says. He drops the sponge and stands up, walking toward the door to grab the towel from the hook, drying his hands. I notice his shirt torn by my nails, which had gripped it tightly.
I suppress a smile and divert my eyes from it, stopping my attention on the bruises forming on my wrists from the handcuffs.
"I let you bathe me like I was a child," I say, thoughtful, analyzing this and how I didn’t mind letting him wash my hair and bathe me completely. In fact, I felt good.
"No," he responds seriously and firmly.
I turn my eyes back to him and see him drying each finger with pure concentration, removing any droplet that might have been left behind. I sink deeper into the bathtub and lean back, holding onto its edge until my body is completely submerged, with only my face above the water. He walks around the bathroom with such clean white tiles that I think the poor cleaner must have spent hours scrubbing the grout with a toothbrush to ensure no dirt escaped her sight.
I see him stop next to the tub, towel stretched open in his hands, looking at me without showing any interest in discussing what I said or explaining why he spent the last thirty minutes meticulously scrubbing me. Not that I was complaining; on the contrary, I felt good, a different well-being I had never experienced. The sensation of just being there, carefree, with my body relaxed and my muscles still numb from the iron handcuffs, collar, and the pinches on my breasts, made me pliable to enjoy the care and attention I received after the wave of pleasure my body had experienced.
"Get up!" he commands, taciturn.
I quickly rise and stand before him almost immediately. My legs waver, and I stumble, feeling the insides of my thighs chastising me for being a couch potato, who just had all her muscles used at once.
"Don’t do that again; you could hurt yourself if you fall into the tub," he stretches out his hand and holds me by the hip, giving me a reproachful look.
I find myself nodding positively, holding onto his arms. My body had strangely, and too quickly, acquired the bad habit of obeying his voice. I still haven’t figured out why his voice leaves me so trained, like an obedient dog. And I mean that in a very animalistic sense, because every time his mouth opens, I feel my brain lose the power I have over my motor coordination. I didn’t stand up quickly because I was in a hurry; I did so because he told me to get up; my body automatically responded to his command. Czar wraps me in the towel and slides his hand underneath my legs, lifting me out of the tub and depositing me on the edge. I tap the tips of my toes on the floor and watch him turn to grab the other towel from the hook, using it to dry my hair when he returns.
"No one has ever dried my hair. Well, not that I remember..." I say, lost in thought, recalling my childhood in the orphanage. "But I don’t think so, after I grew up and learned to take care of myself."
I let out a low sigh and close my eyes, feeling the movements of his fingers with the towel in my hair as if it were a massage on my scalp. I open my eyes when his hands and the towel pull away from my head, and I find his brown irises just a few inches from mine. The warm air from his mouth hits me as he exhales, looking at my neck and drying it carefully.
"A submissive is a valuable object; if a master does not care, it is because he does not deserve the trust she places in him." He touches my neck and slowly slides his finger down, a little spark igniting in his honey-colored eyes. "I like to take care of what I claim as mine."
"Isn’t that what you say during the game?" I ask softly, letting out a sigh due to the burning in my throat, which ignites when he touches it. "In twenty days, when the game ends, I will be mine again."
His eyes rise from my neck and lock onto mine. I feel my heart racing in my chest, as if I were facing a great jaguar, studying its prey to know the best moment to strike.
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