In Flagrante Delicto

by Heather Nicholson

Thomas was losing feeling in his arms. His hands had gone numb countless minutes before and the crippling heavy of exhaustion crept down his forearms and saturated his biceps. Compromised and exposed, his arms above his head, he waited. Listened. Obeyed. He’d been in that position for more than an hour, he was sure.

The nameless Her bent in half, teasing the bound Thomas with the threat of ecstasy and pain. Whatever it was she intended to do—chew him up, spit him out, rip him to shreds beyond recognition—she had him dead to rights, In flagrante delicto.

Lit only in epileptic bursts of red, it was clear the room was designed for just this occasion—or similar encounters. The hook securing his shackled wrists was designed for carcasses awaiting their butcher. They could hold hundreds of pounds—far more than he weighed—deeming any struggle futile. The angle of light penetrating the windows made clear he was on the second level of whatever industrial building in the outskirts was built for slaughter. Given the streetlight’s flashing, it was somewhere between 2 and 6am; although, it was difficult to say whether the abandoned district warranted the regularity of scheduled traffic signals. Perhaps she’d drug him to hell where the perpetual seizing dark would be enough to drive him mad if she didn’t kill him first.

The walls oozed, the ghosted blood of the butchered seeping from the permeable brick. Was he losing consciousness? He prayed he wasn’t. Wanted to witness her retaliation. Soak in every ounce of what was coming.

The floor sighed under her weight and she folded further, arranging something Thomas couldn’t see. She took her time, rocked back and forth slightly, her ass waving hello.

Bitch, he thought. Slut. Tease.

She’d baited him. Skin-tight dress—red, V-neck. Stilettos. Heavy curls bobbed like Marilyn Monroe. Thick lips somehow more red than her dress and thighs tight enough to crush any man between them. She’d practically begged for attention—all he’d done was oblige her request.

Now she was playing with her food.

Thomas stiffened and tipped his head back, growing impatiently agitated by her deliberate waste of his time. Sure he was guilty but so was she, he justified.

Then she approached, scalpel clutched tightly in her fist—the one she’d pulled from his leather jacket now slumped in a defeated pile on the floor behind her. Smiling, she ran the blunt edge down the middle of her tongue. With each step closer, Thomas remembered why he’d lusted for her. Why he’d taken it too far and why he’d thought her legs for days relentlessly called to him.

The blade clipped the thin threads securing the buttons to his shirt. Each one popped free, hit the ground and rolled somewhere uncertain. One, two, three buttons. A few more and his chest was free—naked and vulnerable. Finally the button on his dockers and his pants dropped to the floor, the scalpel falling with them.

Her hand now free, she brushed over him. Felt his mounting desire despite the tension and uncertainty. Licked the sweat from his neck and sucked in the tendon keeping his chin tall. With a moan, her body was pressed against his.

“This,” she said, running her hands over her breasts, down her waist, over her pear hips, finally resting on her rear, “it was never for you.”

---

#TheHobbesPerspective #HeatherNicholson