Each buckle was checked for security and tightness, a red painted fingernail tracing each metal clasp encased with latex bindings. The armbinders were a single latex slip that both arms fit in, before it was tightened down the middle to restrain them from movement. And once Kimberly was properly restrained, Cook rolled her back onto her side and doubled back over the silk rope knotted around Kimberly’s ankles and knees. She was properly restrained from any sense of free will to move her body.
“Good, my precious pet. But we’re still missing one more thing…”
Cook stood at the side of the bed triumphantly, clad in no latex or even fetish attire, just a red lace bra and knickers. She was comfortable where Kimberly was expected to remain uncomfortable.
“A finishing touch.” Cook took the ball gag from the hotel bedside drawer, where they kept the bible, and leaned back over the platinum victim to attach it around her head. Kimberly’s blue wet eyes stared wildly up at her, hazed over from the effects of the weed still. Cook would take completely advantage of that.
With a single quil feather Cook stroked the nude skin of Kimberly’s stomach, tracing circles around her torso so the other twitched and laughed into the smothering mouth gag. Kimberly’s eyes watered more as Cook watched, observing the reaction like it were a survey of her own performance— and it was.
The feather only lasted as long as Cook’s attention did, but gradually she became weary of Kimberly convulsions and muffled begs between giggles, and tried for something else. Getting on the bed with her bound pet Cook stroked down the uncovered thigh of Kim’s leg, feeling her fresh goosebump as the sensation of touch was heightened by the intoxication from smoking. She didn’t tickle her, instead stroked and prodded Kim’s skin in pleasant ways, pinching and plucking at sensitive areas of the skin— which Kim had plenty of, being bound nude and quite high. It would make for an enjoyable hour or two, watching the other writhing in the odd sensation of pleasure and discomfort at Cook’s touch.
Cook couldn’t remember at what point she’d fallen asleep by the time she woke up, a luke warm body curled up into her side under a thick layer of fully white comforter. It was like Kimberly had made a nest of blankets in her sleep, completely cocooning herself to contain some level of warmth. Cook felt like a furnace she’d snuggled up to. For a moment while the sun sat on the bed through the blinds, Cook just lay in bed recalling the night before, and reminding her why her alarm was for so early… When Markel’s good morning text came in, she recalled her plans for the day and reluctantly raised herself from bed.
Cook combed her fingers through her hair as she watched the gentle rise and fall of Kimberly’s body under the sheets. Carefully, she began to pull back layers, looking for the body inside. Kimberly was curled up comfortable, a small leaking of drool from her mouth onto one of the hotel pillows. Cook rolled her eyes in disgust and did her best to avoid Kimberly’s mouth when she kissed the girl’s cheek. “I knew you’d never get up… Idiot.”
When there weren’t any lights on in the halls and the classrooms were empty, Middlebridge High was like something out of a ghost movie. Tessa wondered if all schools were like that, or if just this particular one where she’d been tripped in hallways, locked in bathroom stalls, and forced to eat alone in the cafeteria was exceptionally eerie for her.
“Cook, I don’t think this is such a good idea…” Tessa was barely breathing, so nervous that she’d unconsciously held her breath and caused her voice to crack.
“Oh shut up, Tess.” Scoffed her company, her red painted lips condescending into a smile. “You are always such a bitch. No wonder everyone teases you in school.” The last tacked on comment was unnecessary, but Cook thought it to herself and decided to say it outloud.
Tessa blinked rapidly, trying to fan her eyes dry as a stinging started warning of coming tears. She couldn’t let Cook see her cry, Cook had warned her if she did they wouldn’t be friends. And Tessa needed at least one.
Besides, Cook was pretty and popular. She was the school’s Queen Bee and the hierarchy of high school demanded that Tessa do everything she can to stay on her good side. Not to mention, well, Tessa owned her.
So with the key Cook had lifted off the janitor they were breaking into the school counselor’s office where files on students were kept about more personal information than just their “permanent records”. Cook said she’d already seen those anyway.
Tessa could swear the way the key scraped into the lock, the bolt unlocked and the door creeped open was loud enough for anyone in the whole neighbourhood to hear. Her adrenaline began rush and her heart pounded in her head as she became sensitive to every sound in the hall behind them, that always sounded suspiciously like someone going to catch them. Of course there was no one there, and Cook didn’t seem like she’d of cared even if they were. The two girls came in and closed the door behind them, flicking on the rooms light that Tessa knew would be seen by passing cars down the street, and someone would call the police that there’d been a break in at the school and Tessa and Cook would be arrested.
But no one was going to care about a light on in the back of the building, and no one was going to call the police over a public school breakin. Cook went through the unlocked drawers of the counselor’s desk trying to unearth keys for the locked drawers. She pulled up a few contraband items, a ‘where did he touch you’ doll, and cigarettes with a lighter in the pack. Those Cook pocketed.
“Omigod Cook! You can’t take anything she’s notice!” Tessa watched in horror as Cook gave her a stern glare that soon became a patronizing smile, and stuck a cigarette between her crimson painted lips. She lit it up with the lighter like she’d done it before, and Tessa was beginning to think Cook had done a lot of things before.
“I don’t know why you’re freaking out. I’m not going to get caught.” Cook’s confidence would hopefully rub off, Tessa thought. “Look, if you promise to stop crying I’ll let you touch my cunt or something.”
Tessa spat up a laugh, covering her mouth immediately after in shock. “Omigod, what?”
“What? That’s what you lesbians like, isn’t it?” She asked with a child like slyness in her eye.
“I— I don’t know…” Tessa swallowed but smiled, still embarrassed thought it did make her laugh. “Well you’re into girls too, I thought… since we’re… you know…”
It didn’t matter that every smile was barbed wired, and her eyes looked right through Tessa like she were an insignificant speck, Tessa could even handle knowing that Cook was flirting with everyone else. Sometimes when Cook wasn’t paying attention, occupied in her own mind, Tessa got a chance to hold her hand, and remembered the feeling of being accepted for who she was. She hoped Cook did too, wasn’t it why she approached Tessa and suggested they date? It had been odd that Cook treated it like a deal; that if Tessa said she’d do anything Cook wanted, she’d let Tessa date her. But Tessa knew deep down that Cook was just as damaged as she was, and she tried to remember that as Cook flicked the stolen lighter under her counselor file.
She lit her cigarette, and her red lips became the barrel of a hot gun. Tongue a sharp shooting bullet.
"I’m not one to celebrate holidays."
“Not even for Samhain? I would think with all the skeletons in your closet that you’d need a whole dining hall to accommodate all their restless spirits…”
“But of course, Mister Wake. I’m certain you don’t want me as an -enemy-!” She laughs. “I’m being consider to you, as a friend, by not destroying your life. Don’t give me a reason to open hell under your heels.”
Cook mirrors Lincoln in leaning forward, her voice dropping to a playful whisper, “Would you rather I was here for sex..?” Her parted lips smile, eyes laughing at him if he even let the idea cross his mind. “A lot of men do— some women too. I don’t think they realize how much danger it puts them in.”
She wakes up to no one. The warmth in the bed beside her is evaporating from the sheets, but the smell of his shampoo and cigarette habits stains the pillow under her head. Cook rolls on her back with rolling shoulder, stretching her body from head to toe like a large cat. Her late night company was still in the room, buttoning the cuff of an expensive white shirt.
The end of the gown swept back and forth against the sauntering stepping heels, hips tossing dangerously side to side like they could steer a tempest. With the band playing her steps could be a waltz through the thong of the crowd that hadn’t yet stopped and watched with an unbroken stare. Lost in the dizzle trance her gold curls bounced to, and in the roads of folds her red gown made around every curve.
The bar was everything you could look for when you were looking for trouble. And though Lincoln Wake didn’t have any in mind, he also had an open schedule. A woman with a green and yellow scale like complexion served him his double bourbon, her third eyelid flashing sideways when she winked at him. Among the freaks littering the bar Lincoln was still the worst; a common man with too much experience with uncommon arts, putting him at ends with half the club’s crowd before he’d even sat down. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know them— they knew him, and knew to keep a wide arc from the man who’d banished their friends and kin away to ethereal planes, realms of hell and alternate dimensions. Back where they belonged, Lincoln would of told them if they asked.
But no one was going to ask. The tip of his cigarette slowly combusted into a short living flame, lighting itself as the filter was pinched with his lips. Obscuring his gaze with a veil of smoke, Lincoln watched the corner of the bar that was roped off and guided by a single man, hooves for his feet. But his real interest was the tall, pale gentleman in a thin black suit sitting center stage on the VIP couch. The amateurs guess would be vampire, but Lincoln knew this was just a man with too much time on his hands and a lot of old tombs under his belt. Though at the moment, the only thing near his belt was a pretty girl with raven black, straight as straw hair. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, buying Lincoln time to clear the brain-throb that was the bar music from his head and smoke his cigarette in peace outside.
The New York fall air was growing a winter chill to it, turning up Lincoln’s coat collar as he loitered in the alley behind the bar. It wasn’t a dangerous place for him, he was probably the most dangerous thing in it— so he thinks, until a sultry voice proved otherwise. “Got a light?”
She couldn’t of been more than nineteen, he thought, which he picked up only after noticing how gorgeous she was. The raven black hair, straight as a straw, framed a handsomely angled jaw face set with bright blue eyes staring into his. When he didn’t respond, she cleared her throat and smirked.
"Aren’t you a bit young for such a bad habit?" He patronized, his immediate assume being that she was just some kid along for the ride. See a bit of witchcraft and magic, say her first chant, then grow out of it by twenty one. How very wrong he was.
"I’ve been told I have bad taste— I like bad things." She fit the bill of bad girl too, her lithe figure wrapped up in leather; corset, tight pants and boots for that perfect fetish feel. "Bad habits, bad decisions, bad men."
Her lips puckered around her black clove cigarette and Lincoln’s zippo lit the end, the flame the only illumination besides street lights from the ends of the alley. He leaned towards her, supporting himself on an arm over her head as she inclined against the dirty brick wall.
"Lets hope your boyfriend isn’t the jealous type." he says as his eyes dance constantly up and down her body, idling where skin showed.
"I saw you watching him. I was upset you didn’t come over." She didn’t seem to mind the staring, and by the way her body angled in her lean— Lincoln knew she was encouraging it.
"Oh? But you looked so occupied already."
"Mmm, don’t be cute. It doesn’t suite you." Her eyes casted up so their gazes met again, and she didn’t break it even for a blink. "I’m just his antiquarian."
"Now I -know- you’re too young for that." Their smoke mixed, her scent among it.
"I’m twenty soon, you know. And he’s been giving me lots of help."
Lincoln scoffed, smoke tossed from his mouth. “I’m sure out of the kindness of his heart.”
"Oh no," she assures him, her words becoming quieter as she was growing closer, "I have sex with him of course. Sex worth giving my first pick at his pretty collection…" Now she was just teasing him, being a smart enough girl to know where it would really hurt: their mutual acquaintance had a personal library Lincoln had been trying to buy his way into by favors for months now. She had the luxury— if you could call it that— of being sexy /and/ his type. Lincoln would have been madder if not for the distraction of the hand trying to coax a different sort of reaction from him, cradling the crotch of his pants. Lincoln gripped her thin wrist and forced the hand into their view, smirking around his cigarette.
"I’m not so easily led around by the ear." He tells her, noticing the glare that passed her expression just by a split second. No, she was not used to being turned down. Lincoln was flattered to be targeted by her, but wasn’t about to fall over himself for a pretty face. Behind them the door creaked, music and light pouring onto them as a single, slim black suit figure stepped out. "I think that’s your call." Lincoln says to her as they both turned back to look at one another. He could feel the heat of her breath against his mouth, practically taste her glossy lips and silver tongue. The pretty face smirked with a sigh, and made her way to the door with Lincoln’s hand still around her wrist. Lincoln delayed letting go till the last second, watching her return to the man in the suit. He gripped his pets ass as she hugged his neck and kissed him deeply, then disappeared without a look back.
"Damn." Lincoln muttered, licking his lips for whatever remained of her warm breath.
Standing around the table were four figures; two middle age, happy, english country folk in matching sweaters and holding hands beside a woman gowned in a hospital dress, still shoeless, with a man who was literally steaming around the collar as if there was a fire under his shirt.
The disgusting flavour of vomit reached Cook’s throat, washed down by desperate swallows like gasps for breath. It wasn’t fear, but a entirely repugnant regard towards the sight of what Cook recognized as her parents. It could only mean that two other two strangers were of a similar relation to Lincoln, who she whipped her head around to bury a clever glare into him.
Before Lincoln saw his parents, the sight of Cook being pseudo-reunited with her parents filled him with a sense of dread, one that dropped from the lump in his throat down to the darkest pits of his stomach. He whipped his head around and saw his steaming father, the remains of the man he left to burn in his own home so many years before. And his mother, the only woman he regretted never knowing. He almost panicked, forcing himself to only stare at his father, hoping that if his mom was out of sight, she would also be out of mind.
As the steaming man placed himself two seats down from Lincoln, at the head of the table, Link gave him a fish-eyed look that held no sort of affection or appreciation. When his mother came and sat next to him, still wearing the medical gown she wore giving birth to him, he noticeably tensed up and avoided eye contact. She reached over and took both his hands in her own, giving Lincoln a start, it took everything he had not to jerk his hands away. She leaned forward and stroked his cheek, “Lincoln, oh honey, it’s so lovely to finally meet you.” She beamed, a glowing smile for her only boy.
He closed his eyes and gulped slowly, taking great pains to stop his jaw from trembling, “Hello mom.” Lincoln Wake forced a smile and flicked his eyes to hers for only a moment, any longer and he certainly would have wept.
Cook was not exchanging as tender a moment.
“Why ‘ave ya got yahr ‘ayr up like that? You ‘ave such lovely ‘air. Where are ya glasses? I ‘ope ya ‘aven’t broken ‘em.” Cook’s mother was no example of her daughter’s distinguishing beauty, but a short old english woman who’d gained weight as she gained years. “Do you really need to be wearing that much makeup? That shade looks like a brass—.”
“Mother,” Cook trembled with rage, restraining herself from clearing the table and it’s meal with one sudden flip, “would you just shut up?”
“Oi, don’t ya speak ter yahr mum like that! We raised ya be’a then that, we did.” Her father chimed with his equally heavy cockney accent. Cook could have murdered them where they sat if the table knife had been closer to her groping reach.