Bondage and Other Tales

Marisa stirred the mixture in the golden bowl slowly until it turned blue and completely clear, which was what the instructions had said should happen—as near as they could translate, since the complicated formula had been masked in a mixture of anagrams and letter-swapped ciphers which had then described ingredients and steps in purple prose that didn’t always have clear and obvious meanings.

This should be the final step. They’d needed all four hands at several points, but now, all that remained was to add this to the main bowl, a broad ceramic thing of white with coloured symbols painted across much of its surface, resting on a frame over a small fire.

Their kitchen counter looked like gleaming marble; the cupboards and shelves were invisible, though with new cupboards, shallow ones with sliding doors, immediately in front, holding countless bottles of potential ingredients. The chains on one wall, Marisa had to admit, were distracting. Were they supposed to mean that someone had been chained up in this room at some point, forced to assist or give answers, or made to work but chained the rest of the time, or had someone been useful for something more grim?

Or they were decoration that meant nothing. It got hard, now and then, to remember that this wasn’t real.

The book lying on the chest freezer, now a stone pedestal, had been open to a page on how to make a key they would need in order to open the final door. One such key, a disc that resembled glass in an intense amethyst-purple, already rested in one of the pockets in Harley’s skirt; it had been at the centre of the black sphere, although extensive disassembly had been necessary to reach it.

A little at a time, she poured the new blue mixture into the rest.

The contents of the bowl flickered slightly, turned vividly red, and began to shrink. Within heartbeats, it was a quarter of the original size, and looked more like a thick gel. It continued to contract, and finally solidified as a glassy red disc, about the diameter of the circle she could form with thumb and forefinger.

“Well?” Harley asked, from over by the book of instructions. “This says, I think, that it should turn red and then give us the key.”

They weren’t necessarily on the same side in this game. Their interests might very well conflict later on—in fact, probably would, by the end.

Impulsively, with her back to Harley, Marisa scooped the red disc out of the bowl and hid it in one hand. “We must have gotten something wrong, Mistress.”

“Why? What happened?”

“It was more orange-yellow than red, Mistress, and it all just sort of evaporated.”

“All of it?” Harley strode over to join her. “Well, that’s annoying. I suppose we’ll need to check that we didn’t make any mistakes in the puzzles, and then whether there are other interpretations for ingredients or steps. What’s in your hand?”

“What? Nothing, Mistress.” Marisa offered her right hand, slipping the left behind her to wedge the red disc into what passed for a waistband on her skirt, against her lower back.

“Both hands, please.”

Marisa showed her both.

“You have nowhere to hide anything properly, dressed like that. Give up now.” Harley advanced on her; Marisa gave ground, retreating without turning her back, changing angles as necessary to keep Harley in front of her.

“Give up what? You’re paranoid, Mistress.” She ran into the wall.

Harley was taller than her, normally—by less than three inches, though.

In higher heels than hers, the difference was exacerbated considerably. Those dragon wings spreading wider added to the intimidation factor, like a cat with its fur all on end to look bigger.

Distracted by that, she didn’t notice that she’d placed herself directly in front of those hanging chains she’d been speculating about.

Harley seized one of her wrists, pinned it to the wall, and fastened the end of the chain to the ring of her cuff, all in one surprisingly-smooth motion; by the time Marisa realized what was happening, Harley had the other wrist pinned.

“Hey!” She pulled against the chains, to no avail. Nor could she unfasten the clips that were holding her to them. How did the things even work? “What are you doing? Let me go, Mistress!” That title rather undermined the force behind the rest.

“Last chance, kitty-cat.”

“For what? I can’t help with anything chained to a wall!” She felt incredibly vulnerable and exposed, wearing next to nothing and now unable to do anything to protect herself.

With less faith in Harley, it could have been terrifying, but she wasn’t afraid at all. There was actually something sort of... weirdly intense and fascinating about it.

“You can’t steal things, either. Because I bet you did, between the way you were watching the bowl and that attempt at palming something.

Marisa’s breathing turned a bit ragged as Harley reached around her, the fingers of one hand following the top of her skirt in a feather-light touch, never straying.

“Right there.” Harley deftly pulled the disc free, hardly touching bare skin at all, and backed up a step to inspect it. “Our key, obviously.” She shook her head. “How did you expect to be able to keep it to yourself? This would have showed against your clothes the minute I saw you from the wrong angle.” She slipped the disc into a side pocket of her long skirt, with the first, and moved closer to Marisa again. “Or were you hoping I’d catch you and chain you to the wall, hm? Lucky you, I’m too obsessive about boundaries to give in, because with you looking like that and all chained up after being naughty... oh, you’re making it so hard to remember that I am absolutely not going to act on that, because other things are much more important.”

“I... oh hell.” She finally identified that feeling: it was disappointment. And it was hard to miss the feeling of dampness between her legs. “Possibly we need to wait a couple of days to calm down and then talk, Mistress.”

“I’m good with that. But it has nothing to do with ignoring boundaries now. On the other hand, I’m not sure it would be in keeping with my role or the game for me to immediately let you go.” That grin held all the mischief in the world.

“Bully,” Marisa muttered. “You aren’t seriously going to leave me here, Mistress!” She pulled on the chains, in vain—she couldn’t get her wrists below the level of roughly her own head, level with her twitching kitty-ears.

“Oh, for the moment I am, while I go take a look at what’s ahead and whether it’s anything I can do alone.”

“I don’t... you really are!” Marisa jerked at the chains again, as Harley simply turned around and walked away. She wanted to say that she didn’t like the chains, or didn’t like being confined and left, or... or something, but she knew herself well enough to know that something was going on in her head that she couldn’t immediately identify and which would need closer scrutiny later. She’d definitely reacted, just now. They’d established rules for a reason; they’d acknowledged that possible attraction and decided that it wasn’t likely to go anywhere that could be worth risking their current arrangement. Choosing to move in with a lover was a big enough decision; the chance of complicating or destroying a friendship with someone living in the same house was bigger and potentially catastrophic.

But in that brief moment of contact, a new kind of tension had sung between them. Why?

Harley strolled back to the kitchen, unhurriedly.

“I believe the next stage will need two people, so I’ll have to let you go. I’m keeping the keys, but we can discuss it further when we get that far. Do you think you can behave yourself?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Marisa said meekly.

“Hm. It would be fun to hear you apologize at length, but that would be a distraction, I suppose.” Unfastening the clasps holding her wrists was apparently easy for Harley despite being impossible for Marisa. “Coming?”