11. Louise #2
“You can uncuff yourself to get undressed—then get into the tub and handcuff yourself to the plumbing.” Seb nods to my wrists, then the stalky copper water pipe—green and patinated with use and age.
“You try fucking around?” He clicks his tongue and wiggles the muzzle of his gun menacingly.
“You will most certainly find out, I fear,” he tuts with mock pity.
“Good-looking guy like you wouldn’t have to ask me to do this at gunpoint if you hadn’t fucking kidnapped me,” I dangle the textbook assault deterrent in front of him, knowing full well he won’t take the bait.
“Trust me, Loulu—under different circumstances, I think you and I would have had a very, very different relationship,” he sighs wistfully as I pop the handcuffs from my wrists—thankful for a moment of freedom before I begin to peel the wretched, filthy clothes from my body.
“A great deal less talking, I’d imagine,” Seb purrs as I shed the t-shirt—my bare breasts like alabaster apples, my pink upturned nipples diamond-hard in the cold bathroom.
I shrug, stepping out of the gym shorts that I’ve spent the last several days in; making my way to the filling bath; a bottle of Castile soap, and some shampoo and conditioner that look like they might be old enough to buy a drink or rent a car sit on a slotted metal shelf that hangs from the main piping for the shower head above.
“Cuff yourself to the piping please, Loulu,” he asks sweetly, eyeing me through the sights of his gun.
He’s doing his best to keep focused, but I can see his arousal through his ratty jeans, the outline of his massive half-hard cock standing out against the blue-gray fabric of the distressed denim.
I probably can’t get around re-cuffing myself without getting shot, but I’m willing to wager that I can give myself just enough room to be able to slip out of my singular handcuff with enough distraction and soapy water—even if it means breaking my own wrist to do it.
“Ah, ah, ah!” Seb scolds me as I step into the steaming water—preparing to cuff my right hand to the piping so I can face the bathroom door.. “Cuff your left hand, please.” He jerks the muzzle of his gun meaningfully toward my left hand.
Of course, the motherfucker wants my back to the door, my dominant hand out of commission.
Fine. That’s what he wants? I can play dumb. I can do that for him.
“Do you have a washcloth?” I ask nonchalantly, allowing my hair to fall over my face and shoulder as I lean down to cuff myself to the plumbing—making sure to give Seb a good view of my bare ass and the slightest glimpse of my slick pussy from behind as I ratchet my handcuffs as loose as I can without it looking conspicuous to Seb.
I allow myself a little smirk as I catch Sébastien’s hand leaving the bottom half of his teacup grip on his gun to pinch at the leg of his jeans—desperately trying to allow his chafed erection more breathing room as his urgency grows.
“Caz! Bring a washcloth—and get in here. Her hair is filthy and needs a wash,” he barks, his eyes still on me as I ease down into the rising bathwater.
There’s a droning affirmative noise from somewhere deep in the apartment, and Sébastien adjusts his stance—his gun still trained directly between my eyes.
“You really did look like the devil last night when Frank let you out of that interrogation room,” he breathes, low and ragged as I cup my hand in the water—lifting a glittering handful of the sweet bathwater from the surface to pour over my shoulders and breasts.
“Lucifer, the morning star—dark and glowing and beautiful—.” His breath hitches as I allow my own fingers to linger over my hard nipples on their way back into the water; his eyes sparkling with a sharp lucidity once more. “And dangerous—and evil,” he hisses.
“What?” I sigh, cupping a breast—my head lolled back so that my long, red hair dips into the rising bathwater, tendrils of steam curling around us—carrying my scent to him. “Little old me?”
“Cazzy! Get in here with that washcloth, now!” Sébastien barks, his lip curling away from his pointed pearly canines. I can’t help but imagine them sinking into the flesh between my neck and my earlobe.
Right on cue, Caz bursts through the door behind me—that opium poppy top note of his intoxicating theta scent rolling through the steam slows my pulse—I feel myself melt into slow motion as he comes into view, towels draped over his arms and a large empty plastic deli container in his hands.
“I know—I know. Do you know how hard it was to find a clean washcloth in this place?” Caz protests, giving a little jump when he turns to see me, fully naked in the tub.
“Oh!” he squeaks—turning his glacier blue eyes up to the ceiling and away from me as he extends the washcloth to me, hunching slightly in his gray sweatpants as his cock begins to stiffen.
“Here you go…” His nostrils flare—and I can tell he’s caught my scent too; still high intensity and cloyingly sweet after Frank dosed me with the suppressant-melters last night.
“It’s going to take both of you big strong men to bathe me? Gosh, I’m flattered.” I bat my lashes at the two of them, taking the washcloth from Caz and dragging the square of mauve terry cloth beneath the water’s surface.
“You better believe we’d like to do a lot more than wash you.” Caz lets out a low whistle and shakes his head, exchanging a look with Seb, who makes a ‘tch’ sound with his tongue and teeth in disapproval.
“Scoot back—I’m not doing anything to that crazy perfect body of yours—I’m just here to wash that greasy mop, sheesh.
” Caz shakes off his starry eyes and throws a folded towel on the floor before he kneels at my side, his cock visibly bobbing in his gray sweats as he settles himself—carefully reaching across me in the bath to grab the shampoo and conditioner while Seb keeps his gun trained on me.
I inhale deeply through my nose, exhaling with a low moan as Caz lowers a large plastic cup beneath the water—pouring its contents slowly over my head—carefully using his free hand to shield my forehead and eyes as he wets my hair down.
Seb’s eyes laser focus on the washcloth in my hand as it slips between my legs—the bit of fabric flowing underwater as I move it aside—allowing him to see my fingers trawl up my trembling pussy lips to my swollen clit.
Part of me hates how much of this isn’t an act.
Ever since my encounter with Frank in the interrogation room last night, my pussy has been achingly tight—my clit reminding me of my need with a dull throb every now and again—my legs sticky with my own slick before I could even sink into the bath water.
I’ve never felt so compelled to make myself cum—or to beg for someone to do it for me since I first presented as a sigma nearly twelve years ago.
And I’m not even through with this cycle of suppressants. When I do run out and my heat hits… god help me.
I’m gratified to see Sébastien’s tongue slip out and trace his own bottom lip nervously as he eyes me; fingers slipping inside the petals of my slick flower as I lean back into Caz’s fingers, massaging cheap, clarifying shampoo into my scalp.
“Can you hurry it up?” Seb grunts tightly, his bottom hand leaving his teacup grip once more to stroke his hardness through the worn fabric of his jeans.
“Look, I’m going as fast as I can—just take a few deep breaths, you can take a cold shower after,” Caz teases Seb, pouring another round of hot water over my greasy hair before squeezing a good amount of shampoo into his palm.
“You know what—I don’t need this shit,” Seb grumbles, flicking the safety back on and jamming the shining black handgun into the back band of his jeans.
“She’s cuffed, she’s not going anywhere for now—I’m going to go rub one out.
I can’t even think straight right now,” he growls, stalking out of the bathroom—leaving me alone with Caz.
I sigh, leaning back in the tub—so that my head almost rests against Caz, seated behind me on the bathroom floor, just behind the lip of the metal tub.
“So, does that make you the ‘good cop’—between the two of you?” I ask nonchalantly—Caz’s fingers working gently to massage the shampoo lather into my scalp.
“We don’t really do that whole routine, that’s more Frank and Q’s—ope!” Caz stops himself as he realizes he’s giving me exactly what I want, his lips pressing sheepishly together as he continues about his work.
“Are all of you usually this… excitable?” I purr, allowing my eyes to fall on the mirror held to the back of the bathroom door by two cracked plastic brackets—a single hairline fracture running diagonally across the long, skinny reflection from bottom to top.
In its warbled vision, I make eye contact with Caz, my eyes dropping to his tented sweatpants, insistent erection punctuated with a smudge of dark wetness where his precum has seeped through the heather gray cotton.
“Or is it all my fault?” I allow my own hands to run up my body under the warm water—my hands stopping to gently tweak my own nipples, my knees parting with a gentle swishing of bathwater.
Caz knows better than to answer this, his face as impassive as he can manage as his cock twitches at my words.
“You all watched on camera last night, didn’t you?” I sigh as Caz carefully decants another deli container of water to rinse my soapy tresses.
I savor the way Caz goes rigid—the memory of pleasure making his scent stronger in the closeness of the steamy bathroom.
“Don’t lie, y’all wouldn’t have let Quentin cover up the one camera you put in there—I’m a Fed, not a moron,” I laugh, my hands creeping down over my belly—the peaks of my hips, toward the apex of my thighs.
“If you know—why did you ask?” Caz grumbles—squeezing a glob of conditioner into his hand grouchily.
“Because I’m still fucking horny after he dosed me with that supressant melter,” I whine with kittenish need as I arch my back,lifting my breasts up and out of the water.
My wrist tests the limits of the handcuff chain as I inconspicuously allow my conditioner saturated locks to slide over my raw wrist and the stainless steel cuff.
I try my best not to wince as the slippery hair product seeps into the broken flesh, my eyes still locked with Caz’s through the mirror’s reflection as he eyes me hungrily.
“Believe me, I’d like to do something about it… but we all know how that would be likely to end up.” He scoffs a laugh—dragging his extended thumb across his throat in the universal motion for cutting one’s throat.
“Then why don’t you help me out, Cazzy.” I try out the nickname I’ve heard the others use, forcing a feeling of familiarity—of comfort.
Even though he’s only just begun to creep into motion, I can tell by the look in those icy blues—I’ve got him right where I want him.