Free I Am The Wind by Sarah Masters Page A

know about that either.
    Footsteps sound on the stairs outside the wooden door opposite me. My stomach contracts, and not just from a speck of fear either. I never know when he’s going to turn funny—whether he even intends to. That’s where the fear comes from. But the excitement? I enjoy seeing him, enjoy studying his features, the way his nose slopes up at the end when I view his profile, and the shell of his ear, plump and ready for sucking. I wonder, then, whether his cock needs sucking but shut the thought away. He hasn’t shown any desire for me to do that, just asks if I mind him touching me, wanting me. He gently primes my arse with lube, suits up and pushes in, telling me he’ll make me feel good. And he does. I just wish he’d let me make him feel good too.
    God, he makes me hard, makes me wonder why I even get hard when this situation is about as messed up as you can imagine.
    It isn’t normal to think this is okay, surely?
    Stockholm Syndrome, that’s the term I’ve been trying to remember for days. But it isn’t that. It can’t be, when I fancied him something rotten in The Mason’s, went with him willingly after he’d chatted me up for a bit. Who wouldn’t, with his sexy-as-fuck grin that puts dimples in his cheeks, his tousled brown hair sometimes hanging over his eyes, and that undeniably hot sway he’s got going on with his hips. He’d got me then and he’s got me now.
    I’m not going anywhere any time soon. Not if I have a say in it.
    I suppose I could get out if I gave it enough thought. Get rid of the cable tie that binds my wrists. Somehow. Rub it over those hacksaw teeth or something. Wait behind the door for him to come inside and smack him on the head with the hacksaw handle. It’d be easy, to knock him out, run up those steps behind the door over there and get the fuck away. He’s a big guy and I’m pretty small, but with the element of surprise on my side…
    So why am I still here?
    He inserts the key in the lock, and the door swings open, bashing against the wall. A shower of loosened breezeblock crackles on the floor, and I wonder what’s got him so riled. He stares at me, brown eyes blazing with all kinds of anger, cheeks flushed, mouth set in a grim line.
    “What’s up?” I ask, so familiar with him now, my chest tightening, making it difficult to breathe.
    “You thinking of leaving?” He strides towards me, arms bowed at his sides, emphasizing the breadth of him, the sheer size of the bloke.
    “What? How the fuck can I leave? I’m tied up. Locked up. You’ve seen to that.” I laugh a bit to show him I don’t mean any malice.
    “Yeah, but you’re thinking of going, aren’t you? Of leaving me. Like he did. Like they all did.”
    I have no idea who he or they are, and I’m not about to ask. Prying might set him off, get him angry as fuck, and I don’t fancy being hit today. Tonight. Or whatever time of damn day it is. I want to get inside his head, to find out what’s going on in there, why he’s doing this. If I’d done that with Ted, maybe I wouldn’t be here now.
    “I’d have stayed, you know, if only you’d asked,” I say, manoeuvering to get up. It’s difficult with my hands tied, but I manage it, drawing upright as he comes to stand in front of me.
    I have to tilt my chin to look at his face, him being a head taller. He smells of aftershave, Jean Paul Gautier if I’m not mistaken. You know, the bottle that’s the shape of a man’s torso. Blue glass. I almost smile at the fact the body has no cock, just a swollen bump in place of a dick.
    “Yeah, you would say that,” he says.
    His voice, it does things to my insides like no other voice has.
    And he has a point. I suppose I would say that. But I mean it. That first night, me giddy from booze and him giddy on me agreeing to go home with him…it was enough. Except he’d panicked the next morning when I’d dressed, me saying I’d ring him later and maybe we could get together again. I know