Marie Could Have Left The Room

Marie clung to her glass as if it were a lifeline keeping her anchored in the present. She deliberately avoided looking toward the back of the room. Nevertheless, she couldn't banish the image of the large, upright cross from her mind.

Steve sat across from her. He did nothing. He said nothing. He was simply there.

Marie cleared her throat. “Steve, this isn't...” Her voice trailed off. She searched for words and started again: “I don't know...” Once again, she couldn't finish the sentence.

Steve smiled slightly. His eyes sparkled with amusement.

“You don't need to know anything. You don't need to decide anything.” He spoke with a matter-of-factness that allowed for no questions or discussion. “Today I'm deciding for you. Tomorrow, another man may decide. You see how easy and pleasant life is for women here.”

A feeling of protest stirred within her. That wasn't right. And yet she couldn't get the words out. Her trembling intensified, and to calm herself, she emptied the whiskey in one big sip.

Steve stood up. He didn't explain to Marie what he was going to do. He didn't even look at her. He calmly walked to the door, opened it, and looked out into the conference room. The five women were still waiting there, humbly with their heads bowed. He pointed to one of them with a brief jerk of his chin. The choice seemed random.

The woman didn't hesitate a second. As she entered the room, Marie registered every detail about her. Fair skin, long red hair. She probably had Irish ancestors. She walked upright, but with her eyes downcast. She didn't have to look around; she knew the room. She headed straight for the St. Andrew's cross, turned around, and stood in front of it.

Steve followed her slowly. He didn't need to give her any instructions; a glance was enough. She calmly took off her top and panties, then stepped with her legs apart onto two footrests at the bottom of the cross, bent down, and closed the loops around her ankles. She revealed a short, narrow triangle of deep red hair above her sex, which caught the indirect light like little flames. She waited submissively with her arms stretched upward while Steve fastened the restraints around her wrists.

The redhead and Marie's eyes met briefly before the American looked down again. Marie was shocked. In the other woman's gaze, she saw the same feelings that prevailed in her own chest: uncertainty, but also curiosity and – unexpectedly – desire. She understood that it would have taken only a small twist of fate for her to be standing there now, waiting to see what Steve had in store for her.

She wanted to look away, but kept looking back. Her heart was beating faster. She noticed that she was breathing deeper and unconsciously holding her breath as she watched.

What confused her most was how naturally everything was happening. The woman was not being **** into anything. Conversely, Steve never asked for consent. It just happened, the roles were assigned, and no one questioned anything.

Marie could have gotten up and left the room. It would have been reasonable to draw a line and make it clear that she did not agree with what was happening and did not want to be a part of it. But she stayed.

Marie slid deeper into the armchair. Her shoulders drooped slightly, as if she wanted to make herself smaller. She watched intently through half-closed eyelids.

The sounds were quiet, but she heard everything. A suppressed gasp as Steve attached the nipple clamps. A faint moan, accompanied by a continuous humming, after he turned on the mini vibrator he had inserted into her. He calmly looked at the collection of whips and lashes on the wall, carefully selecting one.

Marie reacted before she understood. A tightening in her chest. A cramping in her stomach. Her thighs pressed tightly together to hide telltale signs. She was annoyed that her body had come to a conclusion about what was happening without asking her.

Nothing actually happened to her; she was just sitting there. She wasn't directly involved, but she wasn't left out either. She lowered her head. Not out of shame or as a gesture of submission, but to collect herself and sort through the thoughts that were rushing through her mind, chaotic and uninvited.

Is it easier to endure something when someone else makes the decision for you?
Is freedom more exhausting than relinquishing control?
Is self-determination an illusion if your body does what it wants?

A noise startled her. Sharp, hissing, short. Unmistakable.

She sat up. Breathed in, breathed out. She looked.

You're just an observer, she told herself. That's your role.

And that makes you part of the game.