Page 38 of His Atonement

That little minx.

To think I spent all this time worrying about her when in reality Frankie was just working on her revenge for what wasn't actually some botched prank in our game.

But if that were the case, why can't I shake the feeling that she is still unwell?

Perhaps it is just residual from the withdrawal.

Yes, surely that's it.

It isn't anything more than leftover negativity as my body regulates.

Gods, I can't even lie to myself properly.

I set the note down next to me then look inside the envelope for whatever payback awaits, but there is nothing.

So I return to my drawers, check them for scorpions or snakes or some other creepy crawly that Frankie may have hidden in there, but again, there is nothing. I search my entire dungeon, every inch of it as well as the bathroom and still I find no evidence of her next move in our game.

Disappointed, I sit back on the bed, check the envelope one more time and sigh.

So very disappointing.

And just when I've almost given up I recall that photo she left under my pillow, the one with a thank you note scribbled on the back.

That photo is tucked away for safekeeping now, but I will not lie and say that it is not frequently looked at, no I will not. I look at it multiple times a day, as a matter of fact, and if this is anything like that one then I may have to start an album and refer to it as myspank bank, a term I learned from that twat Milos.

With a deep breath and slight tremble to my fingers, I carefully turn over the note and the second my eyes land on what is in fact another photo, the entire room tilts and I go lightheaded.

It is a self-portrait, if you will. One of Frankie from the back, her blood red curls pulled up into a sleek ponytail that makes them look like a lion's mane, the satin blindfold tied loosely over her eyes, one peeking through and looking in the direction of the camera with a smirk as her slender fingers hold it slightly away from her face.

Around her wrist is one of the cuffs, the chain just off her shoulder but connected to the collar, the rest of the links only seen down by her opposite hip where she holds the riding crop.

Her bare hip that leads to her completely bare ass, nothing covering it but the crop itself as it rests against the curve of her cheeks.

And Frankie, the little she-devil, is absolutely wearing the corset, the finest faux leather hugging her hourglass shape, and fits to her body like a fucking glove. As I continue staring I almost have a stroke when I see the top of the fishnets just above those fucking boots that make her legs look even longer than they are.

I guessed on her measurements, but I have to give myself credit where it's due, and fuck me it is due right now, and it is no wonder that she is a successful photographer because the photo is beautiful. Erotic and sexy as fuck, but absolutely beautiful.

Sheis absolutely beautiful.

And erotic.

Also, sexy as fuck.

So much so that I almost miss the wooden box between her feet exposing the rest of the toys, the composition outstanding as it teases my darkest desires.

If my cock could get any harder than it is now, it would shoot right off my body and track Frankie down himself.

Which is exactly why I take it in hand and only have to pump it a few times before I come so goddamn hard my vision blacks out momentarily.

But when it returns, when the white spots and stars clear, I see something I did not notice before, something any untrained eye would skim over completely.

There are thin, faint red lines on the inside of her left thigh just above the fishnets, barely visible through her tattoos, but the way Frankie is standing, the way her legs are spread just enough to pop her beautiful bare ass out, make them clear to my acute vision.

She has been isolated for days,days, under the pretense of illness and yet I know in my gut that is false and now that I see she is in fact injured, though small, a new set of feelings bloom in my chest.

Possessiveness.

Protectiveness.