Free Master of Miasma (The Valhalla Series) by Poppet Page B
Authors: Poppet
space shuttle is parked on my ribcage, I am smothered.
Screw it. Taking the hoodie off with ease I stare shocked at my image in the mirror. My tee is suctioned over my torso and chest as if everything I am wearing shrunk last night. No wonder I can't breathe!
Determined to pull it off and just wear the loose hoodie, I grip the bottom, tugging it up to my boobs when it refuses to budge over them. For fuck's sake! Maybe he has a pair of scissors or a razor in here?
Looking in the cupboard, then the shower, I can't locate any such item.
Wheezing with the restriction, overheating because I've been vacuum sealed, I sit down on the toilet lid with my jeans still stuck below my hips. I feel tied up and frustrated with the bondage. Desperate, I grip the neckline of my shirt, yanking for all I'm worth, trying to get the resilient thing to tear.
My heart is pounding and the only result are two hot cheeks radiating my spent energy.
What the fuck happened last night? Who shrunk my clothes to torture me more. Isn't this ordeal enough without adding insult to injury?
“Em?” calls carefully to me. “You okay in there?”
Shit! Triple shit shit shit!
Panting from effort and mild asphyxiation, I wheeze, “Not really.”
“ Do you need me to get you anything?” speaks the vibrato of a man plucking heart strings with his vocal harmonies.
Closing my eyes I wallow in it until I relax. I need a voice like that. It's incredible.
“Mac, do you have scissors?”
“ Why?” Now he sounds all fierce, like he's going to storm in here to battle my demons.
“ I can't breathe!” I yell, instantly lightheaded with the loss of oxygen from being forceful.
“ I'm coming in,” he announces, firm and decisive, immediately filling the doorway. “Hang on,” he smiles, reaching me in a blink, seeing my hands still stuck inside my neckline.
He joins his hands to mine and a searing rip echoes around the stone chamber. Looking down, my boobs are spilling out of the push-up bra, it's cleavage that doesn't belong to me but some pin-up model instead.
It's automatic to fold my arms over them defensively when he looks at my jeans, grabbing hold where the zip joins to yank the seam so hard it quivers the ripping up into my tender bits. Blushing now, I'm stuck in the Macala tornado when he lifts and flips me, supporting me easily while tearing the jeans asunder all the way around from button to back, then flips me back in his gigantic strength, returning me to sitting on the stone toilet lid.
“ Hold tight,” he orders, forcing me to unwrap modesty to hold onto the rock under my tush. He hauls down my jeans, pulling the legs off separately, tugging them in aggressive spurts over my ankles.
My cheeks are burning with humiliation. I'm overexposed through no fault of my own.
With his single minded focus now given flight he looks at me, his serious expression breaking into a pleased smile. “You are growing. Hang on and I'll get you a shirt, we'll go looking for a new wardrobe for you after breakfast.”
Spinning with purpose he goes striding the way he came, leaving me alone with my senses reeling.
Curious, I stand, stalking the bathroom mirror to compare heights to yesterday. It's true. I have to stoop down further to wash my hands.
How the hell did this happen?
Jesus, he stripped me faster than a rapist. It's unsettling. If he wasn't so gallant and had malicious intent, I wouldn't have stood a chance.
The knock on the rock grabs my attention, “Em?”
He's dangling his long arm into the bathroom, holding out a cord, a t-shirt, and sweatpants. I stare at it for a moment, loving the definition caused by the flexing.
“ Thanks,” I mumble, mortification setting in when I take them from the extended hand.
Scrambling back to the safety deeper in, I tug the shirt over my head, snorting at how miniscule I am in it. Scrunching it up over my face I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with his evocative smell. Heat blizzards through my loins
Screw it. Taking the hoodie off with ease I stare shocked at my image in the mirror. My tee is suctioned over my torso and chest as if everything I am wearing shrunk last night. No wonder I can't breathe!
Determined to pull it off and just wear the loose hoodie, I grip the bottom, tugging it up to my boobs when it refuses to budge over them. For fuck's sake! Maybe he has a pair of scissors or a razor in here?
Looking in the cupboard, then the shower, I can't locate any such item.
Wheezing with the restriction, overheating because I've been vacuum sealed, I sit down on the toilet lid with my jeans still stuck below my hips. I feel tied up and frustrated with the bondage. Desperate, I grip the neckline of my shirt, yanking for all I'm worth, trying to get the resilient thing to tear.
My heart is pounding and the only result are two hot cheeks radiating my spent energy.
What the fuck happened last night? Who shrunk my clothes to torture me more. Isn't this ordeal enough without adding insult to injury?
“Em?” calls carefully to me. “You okay in there?”
Shit! Triple shit shit shit!
Panting from effort and mild asphyxiation, I wheeze, “Not really.”
“ Do you need me to get you anything?” speaks the vibrato of a man plucking heart strings with his vocal harmonies.
Closing my eyes I wallow in it until I relax. I need a voice like that. It's incredible.
“Mac, do you have scissors?”
“ Why?” Now he sounds all fierce, like he's going to storm in here to battle my demons.
“ I can't breathe!” I yell, instantly lightheaded with the loss of oxygen from being forceful.
“ I'm coming in,” he announces, firm and decisive, immediately filling the doorway. “Hang on,” he smiles, reaching me in a blink, seeing my hands still stuck inside my neckline.
He joins his hands to mine and a searing rip echoes around the stone chamber. Looking down, my boobs are spilling out of the push-up bra, it's cleavage that doesn't belong to me but some pin-up model instead.
It's automatic to fold my arms over them defensively when he looks at my jeans, grabbing hold where the zip joins to yank the seam so hard it quivers the ripping up into my tender bits. Blushing now, I'm stuck in the Macala tornado when he lifts and flips me, supporting me easily while tearing the jeans asunder all the way around from button to back, then flips me back in his gigantic strength, returning me to sitting on the stone toilet lid.
“ Hold tight,” he orders, forcing me to unwrap modesty to hold onto the rock under my tush. He hauls down my jeans, pulling the legs off separately, tugging them in aggressive spurts over my ankles.
My cheeks are burning with humiliation. I'm overexposed through no fault of my own.
With his single minded focus now given flight he looks at me, his serious expression breaking into a pleased smile. “You are growing. Hang on and I'll get you a shirt, we'll go looking for a new wardrobe for you after breakfast.”
Spinning with purpose he goes striding the way he came, leaving me alone with my senses reeling.
Curious, I stand, stalking the bathroom mirror to compare heights to yesterday. It's true. I have to stoop down further to wash my hands.
How the hell did this happen?
Jesus, he stripped me faster than a rapist. It's unsettling. If he wasn't so gallant and had malicious intent, I wouldn't have stood a chance.
The knock on the rock grabs my attention, “Em?”
He's dangling his long arm into the bathroom, holding out a cord, a t-shirt, and sweatpants. I stare at it for a moment, loving the definition caused by the flexing.
“ Thanks,” I mumble, mortification setting in when I take them from the extended hand.
Scrambling back to the safety deeper in, I tug the shirt over my head, snorting at how miniscule I am in it. Scrunching it up over my face I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with his evocative smell. Heat blizzards through my loins