Bathtub at home

The water was lukewarm now, lapping gently against her skin.

Emily lay motionless in the tub, knees bent, arms floating weightless at her sides. The dim light from the bathroom vanity reflected off the ripples, casting soft golden lines across her bare stomach, her breasts, the gentle curve of her thighs. Her hair was pulled up in a lazy knot, steam clinging to the strands at her temples. The blindfold was gone, of course—but sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could still feel it.

The silence was thick.

Only the faint hum of the baby monitor on the sink and the occasional creak of the house reminded her that the world was still turning.

Jason wasn’t home yet.

He’d texted around seven—“Heading out w/ the guys. Project’s done. Beer time ”—followed by a second, “Don’t wait up. Love you.”

She hadn’t responded.

Not because she was mad. She wasn’t. Not really. Just… distant.

Her body still ached.

Her thighs were sore. Her breasts tender. Her core empty and too aware of it. Even now, the water between her legs felt different—cooling something that hadn’t really stopped burning since that moment she’d stepped into the elevator. Since the door on the seventh floor had opened. Since she’d been told not to move for five minutes.

She’d waited six.

Then walked back to her desk on legs that didn’t feel like hers.

Everything had felt numb after that.

Surreal.

And now here she was, naked and alone in the quiet hush of her own home, soaking in bathwater scented faintly with lavender, wondering how the fuck she was supposed to act like things were normal.

She shifted slightly.

Her breasts bobbed above the surface, nipples flushed from the heat. Her skin was still faintly red where the desk had pressed into her. She’d stared at the bruises earlier in the mirror. Light. Barely there. But they were real.

She ran her fingers over her inner thigh.

Still sore.

Still wet, if she let herself remember.

Her stomach flipped.

She should be panicking. Angry. Scared.

But all she felt was… unsettled.

She’d begged. For a man she couldn’t see. Had let him record her. Had been fucked, filled, used like a thing—and she’d cried when he stopped.

And the worst part?

Some part of her… wanted him to tell her when to come back.

She tilted her head back against the edge of the tub.

Above her, the ceiling fan spun slowly, lazily, whispering the minutes by.

She could hear Chloe breathing through the monitor—steady, soft. Safe.

Jason would come home hours from now, smell faintly of beer, kiss her on the forehead without seeing her, and fall into bed beside her without touching her.

And she would lie there.

Sore. Wet. Owned.

And she wouldn't tell a soul.