Hi all. Thanks for the kind upvotes and feedback on Ch. 03. I wanted to take this opportunity to remind readers that this is a work of fiction, and has never claimed to be otherwise. As much as I (and maybe a few others) might find it enjoyable for it to happen in real life, it's not means tested. Please feel free to comment/add suggestions but don't expect that this fantasy will meet real-world reality. It's seldom the case.
When I arrive home, I pull into the driveway beside Tom's car. I've spent the ten-minute journey trying to compose myself and plan how to confront him. I don't enjoy confrontation but this one is unavoidable.
I storm into the house angrily, letting the handle of the front door smack against the wall.
The house is quiet.
"Tom?" I yell furiously, putting my bag down and closing the door. No answer.
"Tom!" I shout again. Wherever he is in the house, he must be able to hear me.
I hear a cup being put down in the kitchen and storm down the hallway to find him.
Tom's face twists into a smirk when he lays eyes on me. "What happened to your dress?" he asks.
His reaction confirms his willing complicity.
"I'm surprised Linda hasn't already told you!" I snap back, my voice warbling with anger and upset.
I'm determined not to cry; tears have never acted as a deterrent for him.
"She did. She couldn't stop laughing when she told me. Now I'm seeing you for myself, I can see why," he laughs cruelly.
His reaction vexes me, I can feel my emotions rising at the back of my throat.
I scramble to grab something from the countertop and my hand lands on a mug.
I'm not a volatile person, but anger gets the better of me, forcing a physical response and I launch it at him. In that moment I want the mug to hit him, but he swerves his head, and it misses by a few inches.
He watches it land and smash noisily on the tiled floor and looks back at me with dangerous eyes.
He briskly paces towards me. He's my husband, but I find it intimidating, nonetheless.
I bring my hands up defensively and begin frantically slapping out at him when he gets close enough.
We've never been an argumentative couple. We rarely exchange cross words and prefer to deal with disagreements through silence until one or the other of us backs down. Tom has never raised a hand to me in our marriage, and staunchly condemns violence against women. I've always quietly known that if he ever changed his position on this, he's strong enough to seriously hurt me.
I'm subtly relieved that my outburst doesn't force his hand.
He instead remains calm, not retaliating. He dodges my uncoordinated strikes and secures my wrists firmly, restraining me.
"You're going to hurt yourself," he insists, not allowing me to provoke him.
He pulls me toward him and spins me round brusquely, so my back is pressed against him, then crosses my arms up and over my chest before steering me out of the kitchen, up the hall and towards the stairs.
I curse him and struggle the whole way, only stopping when he starts pushing me up the steps and only because I'm determined not to lose my footing as we ascend them.
Tom continues to force me along the landing and into our bedroom, where he releases me.
He used to manhandle me like this all the time, and I used to love it. This time is starkly different.
I pull forward, out of his grip, not anticipating him to allow it, and trip straight over a dining chair.
I go down to the floor hard and immediately swear in frustration.
The dining chair has no place in the room. It isn't a normal bedroom fixture, and it certainly wasn't there when I left this morning. I think about it for a second, questioning why a dining chair has suddenly decided to relocate up here.
As I clamber back to standing, I turn to look for some significance in the chairs' placing and notice the addition of ropes to the wooden frame of it.
I turn my attention back to Tom and he's standing, blocking the door and watching me, relishing my confusion.
He steps forward and snatches one of my wrists, roughly pulling me to the chair and physically making me sit onto it.
"Get off me Tom," I shout. "Why the fuck have you brought a chair upstairs?"
My question goes unanswered.
I desperately try to stand, but he forces me back down by pressing firm on my shoulder and begins to drag a length of rope around my body. I repeatedly move, trying to make securing me as difficult as possible, but he pulls the rope tight, making the task of tying me up seem easy. One of the things I had initially been attracted to about Tom was his uncompromising ability to overpower me. Over the years, he has remained committed to being strong and conditioning his body. I never imagined a day when I'd feel victimised by his strength.
He loops the rope around my body twice before tying it, and then coerces my arms behind me. I feel him pull cord around them and it digs into my wrists uncomfortably.
I strain frantically, trying to find a weak point to loosen, but Tom appears to have already planned for this.
Each time I pull to free myself, my binds seem to tighten more.
Tom moves in front of me again and I try to kick him. My attempts are pathetic, I know it and so does he.
"Are you finished now?" he asks, looking more amused than intimidated and crouches down to affix my ankles to the chair legs.
I decide to change strategy, knowing I'm getting nowhere with hostility.
"Tom?" I appeal. "Please. I don't like this. Please stop. We've been married for eleven years. We love each other. This is insane."
He seems to have anticipated my change in demeanour and shakes his head, not fooled.
"Whatever Linda has promised is bullshit. She's a cunt," I insist, breathlessly.
Tom flashes a warning glance at me, appearing to take great offence to my description of his paramour.
"Mind your manners Gabby," he tells me.
"Why?" I challenge him. "What are you going to do?"
Tom shakes his head at me, pityingly. "Me? Absolutely nothing. But I'm sure Linda will think of something when I tell her."
His sudden wanting to share things with Linda infuriates me. A conversation between my husband and me is none of her concern.
