Page 9 of Jazz

From the back, her figure was amazing. The gentle sway of hips, a nice round arse, leather clinging to what I guessed were toned legs, bulging over tight, muscular calves, tapering away into thick-soled bike boots. The dark plait hung long down her back, loose tendrils of hair falling around her face, sticking against her cheeks and forehead where a thin layer of sweat glistened in the bright lights.

I stepped closer. So close that I could really smell her. The scent of a woman’s sweat, fresh and sweetly fragrant, mixed with the warm smell of skin, even though the bare warehouse welcomed the icy chill of early spring. I could have touched herfrom here. Felt the smoothness of those cheeks, or the delicious bulge of her tits. Maybe I could have tested the tightness of that arse.

Her breath caught in her throat. She held it in suspense. Knowing I was close. Not knowing what I was going to do to her. If her hands and legs hadn’t been bound, I was sure she would have caught me hard in the leg or groin as she kicked out wildly, the heavy metal hook groaning on the chain that suspended her and it from the ceiling.

“I can fucking hear you, cunt.”

Her voice was full of rage, the words harsh, dripping with Newcastle, the Geordie accent hiding a gentle feminine undertone, not so much that she sounded vulnerable. Just womanly.

I stood a little longer, watching her fight thin air. Not knowing where I was, but knowing I was there. There was something almost delicious about that. About taunting her with my presence. About watching her fight and struggle, overly alert, using every one of her senses to find me. I could do this for hours. Days. I shook my head. A flash of rubber, the screech of metal. And I remembered why she was there. Quietly, leaving no evidence I had left, I moved out, easing the office door shut behind me. Behind the glass again, I watched. Her head swivelled left and right, held high like she was sniffing the air, not sure where I was but knowing something had changed. And something would change. Tomorrow.

Chapter Seven

My shoulders burned. Every tiny movement. Every shiver pulling on muscles that screamed in pain. Tiny fibres tore with every tiny movement. It had grown cold. So fucking cold. I could feel it peeling off the leather, hitting my neck and face like the icy mist coming out of a freezer.

I didn’t know what time it was. Whether it was morning or whether it was still night-time passing slowly. And still I was hanging. Moving my weight from my toes back onto my shoulders. Each transfer growing harder and harder. When I let my body weight fall against the hook, the excruciating pain would start in my shoulder blades, radiating down my back and along my arms until they were numb, blood running to myfeet. And then, when I pressed up onto my toes, the burning sensation in my feet would immediately reappear, like an explosion under me.

The cold was filtering into my bones. Into my knuckles and my finger ends, nipping at my nose and frothing out in front of me with every breath I took. I couldn’t see it. But I could feel it. The change in the air with every breath, a tiny puff of warmth stolen in an instant. And now I needed the toilet. A deep thrumming in my stomach. My bladder filling. Aching from where I tried to ignore it. But the tingling, irritating fullness crept further into me. And now I didn’t know whether I was going to succumb to hypothermia or piss all over myself.

I hung, and I hung. I wobbled and tensed and did everything I could to distract myself. To pass the time. I might have even fallen in and out of sleep. I listened and waited. Straining for the slightest of indications that there was someone else there. Yet eventually, it wasn’t a noise that alerted me. It was a smell. Aftershave. Strong this time, recently applied. Not the faint embers of something that had almost evaporated off a person’s skin. This was thick, spicy, new. Tangled with soap. Someone clean. Someone just showered.

He’d crept in. No hint of footfalls on the floor. Not a single sound, only his smell. The same scent as last night. The same man who had circled me as I hung. Keeping out of my way. Avoiding my kicks. And now the fucker was back. Watching me. I could try to fight him again. To kick another one of these fuckers who had taken me and hear him cry out like the other had done. But I also desperately needed a wee. And as far as I could smell, or hear, he was the only one who could help me with that. Better to not kick the fuck out of him just yet.

“Hey.” I called out, my voice hoarse and crackling, and even I could hear pain ringing in the sound. “Hey. I know you’re there.”

No answer. Around me, there was the same silence, not a change, or a whisper or the hint of a breath.

“I can smell you. I know you’re here. Right here.”

Still nothing. Had he gone already? I sniffed the air, inhaling a blaze of spices.

“I need the toilet. Can you get me to a toilet?”

He still didn’t speak, but the scent shifted in the air, something earthy now, and a tiny hint of fresh tobacco. He’d moved, circling me. Like I was prey, and he just hadn’t attacked yet. Or he was waiting for his master to give him the nod.

“Fine. I’ll just piss all over the floor then.”

“You’ll not fucking piss on my floor,” his voice growled beside me.

He was standing on my left. I fought the urge to kick out in that direction. His floor? That was what he had said.His floor. This washisplace. Wherever this place was. And that was the first piece of a puzzle he’d just gifted me.

“Then you’d better get me to a toilet.”

Something clattered. The sound rang loudly and suddenly, rebounding. Metal. I screwed my blindfolded eyes trying to focus. Metal scratching concrete.

“Bucket.” He growled.

Now the earthy, spicy scent was right in front of me. Something brushed my arm. And I fought that urge, biting my lip to control the overwhelming need to drive my head into him,or my feet. I needed to wait until I had a better hand to play, and this wasn’t it.

“I’m not pissing in a bucket.”

A hand felt over where mine hung, and an arm scooped around my waist. He lifted me off the ground; the weight taken off my feet, off my shoulder blades.

“I’ll not watch,” he grunted, the noise vibrating against me, low and gravelly.

“Rather piss on your floor.”

He loosened his grip, my full weight falling onto my legs. Legs that were filled with blood like jellied limbs. My body crumbled, collapsing, and I thumped onto the floor, bound hands unable to break the fall. Air rushed from my lungs. Fatigue and shock. But the pain lifted, just a little, my calf muscles released of the pressure, my shoulders relieved from holding my weight. And, fuck, I was so tired. I could have just stayed here on the floor. Until those rough hands dragged me upwards.