9. JIM

The words are stuck in my throat. Insults, mostly, a few curses. Outsmarted by a fucking lawyer, this has gotta be a first. I feel like I shouldn't be surprised, I knew Gwineth has a way of always getting what she wants. She smiled, she said: "My rules today, James."

I hate the way she calls me James and then Jim and then James again. It's stupid. Pick one. Besides, I don't like "James" - James Bond, James Brown, James Cameron, James Stewart, James Dean...

She threw my favourite shirt on the floor and she crawled on top of me like a panther and before I could even realize it she'd tied me to the headboard.

I'm actually still tied to the headboard.

I chuckled at her smugness and perhaps that was my mistake, but then she unbuttoned my trousers and my chuckle turned into a throaty sound I didn't know I could produce until then. She was wearing pearl grey lingerie and I couldn't take it off of her with my teeth. It was infuriating. When her mouth opened around my cock, I decided there wasn't much to do except to rest my head on the mattress and hope she'd untie me after.

Her tongue ran up my dick and circled around the tip, just enough to make my head spin, then she took it in her mouth and slowly started bobbing her head. I could feel her hair brushing against the insides of my thighs and her hands gripping my hips, I could feel fire in my veins and ice in my lungs.

I should have known. To be fair, it was really hard to "know" anything at that precise moment.

She was so good it made me want to gut her. I felt it coming and I ground my teeth, but she slowed down, she let my cock out of her mouth and licked the tip again, so slowly it was almost painful. I wanted to yell at her but I couldn't, I wanted to make her finish but the knots around my wrists were very well-made. She licked her lips and stood up, turned around and slipped into a burgundy dress and heels. That brings us to right now, and right now I can finally form simple sentences.

"Gwineth, what are yo-"

"I have to go to work, dear," she smiles, cutting me off.

"I am going to slice you into little pieces and hide them all over London," I hiss.

"You're welcome to try and get out of those binds," she chuckles darkly. Oh god, I'm going to murder her so violently they're gonna need a DNA test to recognize her.

"You're going to be very sorry," I threaten.

"I do like the sound of that," she smiles again, and bites her bottom lip. My still erect cock is very pleased by that, and for a second I lose control again. "Have a nice day, Jim. I'll be back at 6."


The clock on the wall ticks away every bloody second as I wait for Gwineth. I lost feeling in my hands and toes, and I think there's blood in my mouth from grinding my teeth too hard. This must be what helplessness feels like. I fucking hate it. I try to rip my binds again, but the stupid bitch knotted them like a fucking sailor. The only thing I can do now is fantasise about killing her in the most creative ways, yet somehow there's that stupid hole in my chest again and the red in my fantasies turns from blood to roses and I throw my head back to hit it against the headboard. It hurts and it's good because now I have the pain to focus on.

Why does the anger only make me want her more? I'll die before I'll let her know that-oh. She'd die too, wouldn't she? Before letting me know? That's why she tied me to the bed, of course it is. She wanted me to be here when she got back, she wanted to be with me after work. She's me, preferring to bite my tongue off and bleed to death rather than telling her how she makes me feel.

Somehow this isn't helping at all. If that's her thinking then this is narcissism, this is loving her because she's like me.

I thought it'd be easier to shake this off, but I can never do that now, can I? The clock keeps ticking and I wonder what I'm gonna tell her when she walks in and unbinds me. My phone, in my trousers which are on the floor, rings. It stops, then it rings again a couple of times. 3 rings, 2, 5.

Sebastian. I should remember to call him back when this is over.

It's a quarter to 4. I think I fell asleep at some point because it was one o'clock last I checked. Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like if the concept of keeping time was never introduced. It's a social convention, just like everything else. Why can't people just think? What if we didn't measure seconds, minutes and hours and not even months or years, what if the only indication of time was the cycle of sun and moon and nothing else mattered? We complicated everything by inventing the clock. Would we notice the time passing as much as we do now, if no one measured it?Everyone thinks one day is a very short time, compared to years and decades, but we don't live years and decades, do we? We live days, endless days, and yet everyone refers to years as if they were just as short and meaningless. I can't fathom the thought of a whole week, how could anyone live in years and not in single days? Taking life day-by-day seems more rational, less stressful, to me. A day is such a long time, you can do so many things in one single day. You can have breakfast, lunch and dinner each in different cities in the same day, you know? The same stupid 24 hours. And don't even get me started on timezones.

I could have done so many things today, for instance, if only I weren't tied to a bloody bed.

Tick, tick, tick. I feel like when the clock reaches 6 a bomb's going off. Excited, that is, anxious, while at the same time angry and a bit... scared.

What do I even say? What threat could I possibly utter that would show exactly how I feel - but also not feel? There's a noise coming from the hall.

Keys turning inside a lock, door slightly creaking as it opens and shuts. I hear heels and the sound of fabric, probably a coat being hung by the door. I hear a single step, then another slight creak. I imagine she's placed a hand on the dresser in the corridor and looked in the mirror. I hear a sigh, then heels again.

The door opens. "You're early," I hiss.