Chapter 10: The Captive's Lecture
Leo floated.
The icy water had settled into a deep, penetrating chill that made his skin feel tight and new. Below him, the rug was a landscape of tangled limbs and drying puddles. Margot was trying to roll onto her side, her bound wrists making the motion awkward, her hips hitching. Indira lay still, her eyes closed, breathing steadily as if meditating on the indignity.
“You know,” Leo said, his voice cutting through the lazy hum of the apartment, “I’m thinking I might just stay here. Indefinitely. You two can be my living room sculptures. ‘Nude Captives in a Heatwave.’ It has a ring.”
“Your artistic vision is derivative and your knots are too tight,” Margot grumbled, finally managing to get onto her side to face him. Her red curls were plastered to her neck and cheek. A bead of sweat traced a path from her temple, down over the swell of her breast, and vanished into the freckled valley between them.
“The knots are perfect. You’re just wriggly.”
He watched them for another minute, the rise and fall of their chests, the way the late afternoon light gilded the sweat on Indira’s flank. The power dynamic was a tangible, delicious thing. He’d won. For now.
With a resigned sigh that was mostly performative, he pushed himself up. The plastic crinkled loudly. Water sluiced off him, pattering onto the floor as he stepped over the low wall of the bed and stood, dripping, on the rug between them.
“Changed your mind, tyrant?” Indira asked without opening her eyes.
“The water’s getting warm. Your body heat polluted it from across the room. It’s a tragedy.”
He knelt, the rough fibers of the rug biting into his knees. He was level with them now. Margot watched him, her green eyes wide and bright with unsquashed mischief. Indira finally looked at him, her gaze a calm, dark pool.
“What’s the play, Leo?” Margot asked, her voice a low challenge.
“No play. Just assessment.”
He reached out, his finger cold from the bed, and touched the center of Margot’s chest. He dragged it slowly down her sternum, through the faint, damp trail of copper curls, over the gentle convex plane of her stomach. Her skin was hot. She flinched at the chill, then stilled, her breath catching just slightly.
“Such a pretty prisoner,” he murmured, his tone clinical, dry.
“Fuck off,” she said, but she was smiling.
His hand cupped her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple, which hardened instantly against his cool skin. He didn’t squeeze, just held the weight of it, his thumb making slow, idle passes. “All that frantic energy. No outlet. Must be frustrating.”
She arched into the touch, a reflex, then caught herself and tried to look defiant. “You’re going to pay for this in ways you haven’t even imagined.”
“I have a very good imagination.” He gave her nipple a sharp, playful pinch.
She yelped, laughing, and tried to buck, but the bound ankles made it useless. “Asshole!”
He withdrew his hand and shifted his weight, turning to Indira. She hadn’t moved. Her legs were pressed together, her bound hands resting just below her navel. He placed a hand on her inner thigh, just above her knee. Her skin was smoother, cooler than Margot’s. He pushed gently, and her legs fell open a few inches with a quiet, surrendering rustle against the rug.
“And you,” he said. “My silent instigator. Look at you now.”
He ran his hand up the length of her inner thigh, a slow, deliberate journey. The muscles there tensed under his palm, then, as he reached the apex, relaxed again. Her composure was a fortress, but her body was a honest map. He traced the crease where her thigh met her torso with a single, blunt fingertip.
“You’re very quiet,” he observed.
“I’m observing,” she said, her voice even. “Logging data. The calluses on your fingers from those stupid intricate knots you tie. The way your breathing changed when you touched her. The exact level of smugness in your posture. It’s all useful.”
He chuckled, low and genuine. “Always plotting.” He leaned over her, bracing a hand near her shoulder. His damp hair dripped onto her collarbone. She didn’t flinch. He brought his other hand down and gave her backside a firm, resonant slap. The sound was sharp in the humid room.
Her breath hitched. Not in pain, but in surprise. A faint, pink handprint bloomed on her skin.
“Data point,” she managed, her voice tighter now.
“For what?”
“Tensile resilience. Acoustics.”
He laughed again and did it once more, on the other side, matching the first. She squeezed her eyes shut, a real smile breaking through her calm. He smoothed his palm over the reddening skin, then gave a gentle, proprietary squeeze of her hip.
“You’re both so… responsive,” he mused, sitting back on his heels to look at them. Margot was flushed from chest to forehead, her freckles standing out like specks of cinnamon. Indira’s serene expression was cracked, revealing the vibrant, amused woman beneath. They were spectacular.
He leaned over Margot again, this time to trace the generous curve of her ass, his fingers following the path of a faint tan line. “You have more surface area. You must be absorbing heat like a solar panel.”
“Unhook me and I’ll show you absorption,” she muttered, twisting to try and see him.
He ignored her, his hands moving over them with a curious, almost artistic detachment. He pinched Margot’s other nipple, rolled it between his fingers until she gasped. He traced the elegant line of Indira’s spine from the nape of her neck down to the swell of her ass, feeling each vertebra. He squeezed Margot’s thigh, feeling the powerful muscle there, the one she used for her flying tackles. He spanned Indira’s waist with his hands, his thumbs meeting over her navel.
It was a catalogue. A re-mapping of familiar territory under new, thrilling rules. They were his prisoners, and the sentence was his attention.
“Okay,” Indira said finally, her voice a little ragged. She was breathing harder. “You’ve made your point. The bed is yours. You’re the master of the ice. Now untie us.”
“Why?” Leo asked, sitting back. He was fully hard, a fact he made no effort to hide. It was just another part of the landscape here, unremarkable. “I’m enjoying the afterparty.”
“The afterparty is my shoulder going numb and a bug possibly crawling into my ear,” Margot said. “Let us go. I promise my revenge will be swift and painless.”
“Liar.” Leo grinned. He stretched, his joints popping. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a pleasant, buzzing fatigue. He looked at them, truly looked. The trust in their eyes, even now. The absolute lack of fear. It was everything.
He reached for the knot at Margot’s ankles.
“Finally,” she sighed, going limp.
He undid it. Then her wrists. She brought her arms around slowly, groaning as she rubbed her red-marked skin. He moved to Indira, freeing her ankles, then her wrists. She sat up fluidly, rolling her shoulders, stretching her neck from side to side.
They were free. They were naked. They were on either side of him.
For a second, no one moved. The balance of power hung in the air, quivering, ready to tip.
Margot looked at Indira. Indira gave a microscopic nod.
Then they moved.
It wasn't a coordinated tackle. It was a pincer movement. Margot launched herself at his torso, her arms wrapping around his waist, her momentum knocking him sideways. At the same instant, Indira’s hand shot out and snagged the discarded coil of clothesline from where it lay near the leg of the couch.
“Hey—wait—a deal’s a deal!” Leo grunted, trying to pry Margot off. She clung like a barnacle, laughing into his ribs.
“We didn’t shake on it,” Indira said calmly. She was behind him now. She looped the rope around his wrists, which he’d thrown up to protect his head, and pulled them together. The knot was swift, efficient, and viciously tight.
“You used my own knot!” he protested, struggling.
“I’m a fast learner,” she said, her breath cool against his ear. She pushed him forward onto his stomach. Margot shifted, sitting on the small of his back, pinning him. He felt Indira grab his ankles, pulling them together. The rope bit into his skin.
“This is a betrayal of the highest order!”
“This is reciprocity,” Margot corrected, shifting her weight. She leaned down, her curtain of red hair brushing his shoulder. “You got your five minutes of being a conquering asshole. Now we get ours.”
They finished tying his ankles. He was trussed, facedown on the rug they’d just vacated. It smelled like sweat, wet cotton, and them.
Indira stood up, looking down at him. She wiped a strand of hair from her face. “Comfortable?”
“The rug is scratchy.”
“Good.”
They left him there. Just walked away. He heard the soft slosh as first one, then the other, lowered themselves back into the water bed. A synchronized sigh of relief.
He craned his neck. From his vantage point, he could see their legs dangling over the side of the bed, Indira’s long and lean, Margot’s sturdy and freckled. Their toes almost touched the floor.
“You can’t just leave me here,” he called out.
“Watch us,” Margot sing-songed.
“I’m getting stiff!”
“You were already stiff,” Indira noted drily. “We saw.”
He rested his forehead on the rug. He could hear the soft, wet sounds of them moving in the water, the occasional whispered comment he couldn’t make out. The heat of the room began to seep back into his skin. The thrill of victory had been exquisite, but short-lived. This, he thought as he tested the unforgiving knots, was the cost of doing business with them.
And he wouldn't have it any other way.
A minute later, a cold droplet of water hit the center of his back. Then another. He looked up.
Margot was leaning over the side of the bed, her hair dripping, flicking water at him with her fingers. She grinned. “Thirsty, king?”
He smiled into the rug. The game wasn’t over. It was just their turn.