Chapter 2: Tied to a Dirty Dream
The dorm room door clicked shut, sealing Evie inside a silence that felt louder than the bar. Mia’s perfume—something sweet and aggressively cheerful—still hung in the air, clinging to the rumpled sheets on the other twin bed. She’d bounced out an hour ago, arm in arm with a broad-shouldered business major, yelling “Don’t wait up!” over her shoulder.
Evie sat on the edge of her own bed, the coarse fabric of her jeans suddenly intolerable. The memory of Jay’s hand was a live wire on her thigh. She could still feel the exact weight of it, the rough pads of his fingers, the possessive spread of his palm. Her skin there tingled, as if branded. His eyes, dark and taking her in, seeing past the grey sweater, seeing the choker not as an accessory but as an invitation. A lock. A plea.
A hot, shameful thrill crawled up from her gut. She let it.
Her fingers, trembling slightly, went to the button of her jeans. The denim was tight. She shoved them down over her hips, kicking them off. The sweater followed, pulled over her head in one swift motion. The air in the room was cool on her naked skin, raising goosebumps. She sat there in just her plain cotton panties, breathing.
Her gaze fell to the collection of stuffed animals piled against her pillows—a sentimental holdover from home, a disguise. With a sweep of her arm, she knocked them to the floor. They tumbled silently, revealing what they concealed: a sleek, black vibrator, a pair of stainless steel cuffs connected by a short chain, and a rubber ball gag with leather straps.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She got up, crossed the tiny room in two strides, and checked the door. Locked. The deadbolt thrown. The world was shut out.
She returned to the bed, peeling off her panties. She was already wet, a slick heat gathering between her legs that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. She picked up the gag, the rubber smelling faintly of clean silicone. She buckled it between her teeth, the ball pressing her tongue down, the straps tight at the corners of her mouth. Her breaths became noisy, nasal things.
She picked up her phone. Her thumbs moved quickly, pulling up the private bookmark, the video she’d found in a dark corner of the internet and saved for nights like this. The thumbnail was a blur of limbs, a hand over a mouth. She tapped play, shoved the earbuds in, and the world outside vanished.
The sounds flooded her skull—grunts, the sharp slap of skin on skin, a low, guttural voice saying, “Take it, you fucking slut. You wanted this.” A muffled, desperate cry in response.
It was raw. It was filthy. It was everything she was never supposed to want.
She reached for the vibrator and the roll of black bondage tape. Lying back, she spread her legs. She was soaked, her cunt lips swollen and slick. She placed the smooth, rounded head of the vibrator right against her clit, holding it in place with one hand. With the other, she wound the tape around her thigh and over the toy, securing it tightly, mummifying it against her. The pressure was perfect, unrelenting. Her finger found the button, turned it.
A deep, aggressive buzz erupted against her most sensitive flesh. She jolted, a stifled cry caught in the gag. The vibration was immediate and intense, a direct line of electricity to her core.
She grabbed the cuffs. The metal was cool. She snapped one around her left wrist, then the right, the chain between them short, maybe six inches. She’d practiced this. She fumbled for the small key, attached to a elastic bracelet, and slid it onto her ankle, within reach if she arched her foot. A safety measure. An acknowledgment of the real world waiting outside.
She lifted her cuffed hands above her head, threaded the chain through a gap in the wrought-iron headboard, and let her arms fall. The position pulled her shoulders taut, stretched her body, made her feel exposed and helpless. Exactly how she wanted to feel.
She was trapped. By her own design. The vibrator buzzed relentlessly against her clit, a brutal, glorious torture. On the screen of her phone, propped beside her, the violent choreography of the porn played out—a woman being pinned, used, possessed. The ugly, beautiful words hissed in her ears.
She let Jay’s face fill her mind.
It was his hand on her thigh. It was his voice, that low rasp, growling the filth from the video. You wear that choker for a reason? Holds everything in. She imagined him ripping it off. She imagined his calloused hands, smelling of grease and smoke, tearing the tape away, discarding the toy, and just taking her. Using his fingers, his cock, his teeth. Fucking her with a focused, brutal intensity because he knew—he’d seen—that beneath the quiet was this. A hungry, wet, screaming need to be dominated. To have all that coiled-up silence shattered.
She strained against the cuffs. The metal bit into her wrists, a bright counterpoint to the deep, gathering throb between her legs. She moaned into the gag, the sound a pathetic, desperate hum. Her hips lifted off the bed, trying to grind against the unyielding vibration. Her back arched. Sweat beaded on her stomach, between her breasts.
The orgasm built not as a wave but as a pressure cooker, tightening every muscle in her abdomen, coiling her toes. She was whimpering, her nose streaming air, her eyes screwed shut. She saw his face above her, unsmiling, watching her come apart.
It hit her. A raw, convulsing explosion that made her body bow violently. Pleasure, white-hot and jagged, ripped through her cunt, radiating out to her fingertips, her toes. She screamed into the gag, the sound utterly trapped, a silent vibration in her own skull. The chains rattled against the headboard as she jerked.
It subsided, leaving her trembling, the vibrator still buzzing mercilessly against her oversensitive clit. It was too much. It was perfect. She didn’t turn it off.
She rode the sharp, almost painful edge, her thoughts a slurry of Jay and the porn and the smell of her own arousal. The second climax came quicker, a shuddering, continuous tremor that left her gasping, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. She was a mess of sweat and need. A third followed, weaker but deeper, a pulsing ache inside her that felt like surrender.
Finally, her body went limp, spent. Her ankles uncrossed. Her feet fell flat on the mattress. The vibrator still hummed, a now-annoying insect. With a monumental effort, she arched her foot, hooked the key bracelet with her toes, and dragged it up. She unlocked the cuffs with fumbling fingers, her arms aching as she brought them down. She peeled the tape away, wincing as it tugged at her pubic hair, and turned the vibrator off.
The sudden silence in her own body was deafening. She pulled the gag from her mouth, her jaw sore, and spat out the ball. She removed the earbuds. The only sound was her own ragged breathing in the quiet dorm room.
She lay there, naked, exposed, the tools of her secret self scattered around her. The phantom of Jay’s touch was no longer just on her thigh. It was everywhere. In the ache between her legs, in the marks on her wrists, in the raw feel of her throat.
She knew, with a calm that settled deep in her bones, that she would be at mile marker 77 tomorrow. She would watch him race. She would let him see exactly what his gaze had unlocked.
She curled onto her side, pulling a sheet over her sticky skin. In the dark, she traced the faint bracelet of bruises around her wrist and smiled.