Chapter Eight
Brianna
Al Green is playing on the stereo: romantic soul music from the seventies. Candles are blazing everywhere again. Apart from the small fish tank these provide the room’s only light. Though it’s just eight o’clock with darkness outside a good hour or so away, the curtains are still tightly closed, as they have been all over the house all day. Mistress shuts the door and locks us in. As always there is no escape for me. Still leading me by the hand (and striding far more easily than I in our stiletto heels), she draws me straight over to the bed. The covers are already pulled back, and lying on the mattress is the roll of tape and racquetball for gagging me, the balaclava for hooding me, and several coils of rope. Next to these I see a small hand towel, a bottle of bab
