Topping From Below by Laura Reese

what would come next. Music played softly from the den. Earlier, she’d been too nervous to notice it. The volume was turned down very low. Something by Brahms, she thought, but she wasn’t sure.
    “Your hands are obstructing my view,” Michael said. “Put them at your sides.”
    She removed her hands and bowed her head, trying to act natural in the crotchless bustier, as if she always wore sexy lingerie. The music ended, and the room became quiet. Too quiet. She could hear herself breathing softly.
    “You look like a slut,” she heard him say, his harsh words cutting into the silence.
    Franny grimaced. Nervously, she chewed on her lip. She hated it when he called her that, but knew better than to protest.
    He stood up and walked behind her. Pushing her hair to one side, he leaned down and kissed her gently on the neck. Franny started to turn around so she could return his kiss, but he held her in place.
    “Don’t move,” he said, and he kissed her again, sliding his tongue along the nape of her neck. She leaned back against him, felt his body against hers, then saw him reach into his pants pocket. He pulled out a black scarf and slid it up her arm, along the front of her neck, across her face. It was silky and soft against her skin. He reached around with his other arm and took the opposite end of the scarf, stretching it tight, and placed it over her eyes. He tied the ends behind her head.
    “Michael—” she began.
    But he put his finger to her lips and very quietly said, “Shhh.”
    It was dark behind the scarf. And scary. He took her arm and slowly pulled her forward. She had no choice but to follow, stumbling awkwardly along the way. She clung to him as they walked through the house, seeing nothing, the blackness disorienting her. She thought they were in the hallway, but then she heard her high heels clicking on the tile. A sense of vertigo overcame her, and she wanted desperately to remove the scarf. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Suddenly, Michael was pushing her down. She struggled, a reflexive reaction, but he forced her down, and with an ungainly thud she fell into a chair. When she realized it was only a chair, Franny gave out a short, nervous laugh of embarrassment. She’d thought he was attempting to trip her, and now she felt foolish. She ran her fingers along the edges of the chair. Wood, smooth, cool to the touch. It was a dining room chair. Feeling grounded and more secure now that she was seated, Franny began to relax. She felt Michael’s hands, rubbing her shoulders and neck, then he took her arms and gently drew them back behind the chair.
    “Cross your wrists,” he said, “and hold them still.”
    A second later she felt him lashing her wrists together. Her apprehension returned.
    “Michael,” she said again, but once more he put his fingers to her lips.
    “I don’t want you to speak,” he said, then removed his fingers. She heard him walk away, and felt panicked at his desertion. She wanted to call out, but knew that would displease him. She pulled her wrists. The lashing was secure. She could not untie the rope. What if he left her here for a long time? What if he left the house and there was a fire and she couldn’t escape? She told herself to calm down—her imagination was working overtime. He was probably still in the room, watching her. She sat up straighter, feeling spied upon. Then another thought occurred to her: what if someone else was watching her? She fidgeted in the chair, worrying, wanting to call out. How long had she been here? The low rumble of thunder reached her ears, and she was comforted by the sound. Earlier, the clap of thunder had seemed threatening, ominous even, but now its familiar noise steadied her.
    After a while—she wasn’t sure how long—she heard footsteps. Turning her head to the left, she listened intently, and when something brushed against her thigh, she jerked her leg, swallowing a scream.
    “Spread your legs,” she heard a