** Hi folks. Thanks for all the reads/upvotes/comments/feedback from Ch. 06. Your interaction is always well received.
This chapter is the longest (yet) and contains themes of mental health, gaslighting and Tom and Linda's manipulation of them. If this is a trigger, please bear this in mind prior to reading.
As ever, I remind readers that this is a work of fiction, and while it may draw some parallels to reality, it isn't.
Please read Ch. 01- Ch. 06 before embarking on this one. It probably won't make sense otherwise.
Best wishes and let me know your thoughts! Ch. 08 is in progress.
**
Linda's voice stirs me awake. It's not how I'd choose to wake up by any means, especially given that last night was one of the worst night's sleeps I've ever had. I couldn't settle and spent hours tossing and turning.
I'm not someone who has ever been able to function well without enough sleep.
I've had to acclimatise to a new normal means of waking up over the past seven weeks. I used to be a snooze-button enthusiast, granting myself multiple rounds of extra four or five minutes, sometimes more times than I perhaps should have done. Since Linda's hostile hijacking of my life, I've had to get used to being roused by her and Tom's loud pleasured moans, fucking mere metres from me, with no discernible efforts to be quiet.
For a short while, I'd found that putting my pillow over my head worked well to muffle their impassioned noises, until Linda put a swift stop to it and ensured that putting my pillow over my head is no longer an option.
Last week, to enforce her rule about me not self-gratifying, she decided that I couldn't be trusted overnight. I'd suspected that Tom had confided to her about my occasional former use of masturbation to help me get to sleep, though she'd not explicitly said as much.
She'd instead claimed to have 'thought about it' and 'become concerned' that potential misdemeanours overnight should be prevented.
She'd spoken to Tom about it at length and they'd worked out a 'solution'. Like usual in their discussions about me, I'd been the subject, not a participant, and had been the last to know of their plan.
I'd only learned of the newest restriction when it was being enacted.
I'd gone to bed like normal, at a time decided upon by Linda and hadn't the slightest suspicion of anything untoward. After I'd undressed for bed, under Linda's supervision, Tom had come up the stairs to us and stood himself in the bedroom doorway, authoritatively.
His unexpected presence during my bedtime routine had unnerved me. It had been a true case of 'absence of the normal and presence of the abnormal'. I'd immediately known something was about to happen, and from experience, sensed that I wouldn't like it.
Tom hadn't hinted at anything, hadn't spoken a word, simply watching in silence. I'd climbed onto the camp bed and rolled onto my side, readying myself to go to sleep.
Contrary to what I'd become 'used to', Linda had roughly wrenched me over, positioning me flat onto my back, before dragging four black strapped restraints up from under the bed, and delightedly boasting her rationale, while fitting me into them.
She'd insisted that this new restriction was being implemented for my own good. The new restraints were being used to prevent me from touching myself but also for allowing her and Tom to sleep soundly, knowing that I couldn't wander around the house at night.
When I'd looked over at Tom, he'd been sadistically smirking, remaining on hand, ready to assist if I resisted.
A week later, now I'm accustomed to it, Tom has lessened his insistence on chaperoning the procedure.
Linda has no idea of how badly I slept as she wakes me. She smiles widely down at me as she unfastens me from the bed.
"It's nearly eight o'clock," she tells me, as if this is a groundbreaking revelation.
Eight o'clock is still early by my reckoning, especially given my poor-quality sleep.
"For fucks sake, I'm awake," I tell her indignantly. She tuts at my tone.
When my limbs are freed, she stands beside the bed and waits for me to get out of it.
I move sluggishly, not wanting to be awake or to get up. My grumpy delaying prompts her to click her fingers at me, as if I'm some sort of trained animal, expected to perform tricks at her command.
"Come on," she directs. "It's time to start the day."
She paces over to the chair, the one I'm often strapped onto, and retrieves a pile of clothes, assumedly the ones she's chosen for me to wear today and returns, holding them while she waits.
I slowly pull myself off the camp bed and stand, waiting.
"I've picked you out a lovely outfit for today. I think you're going to like it," she tells me, with a glint in her eyes.
She reserves comments like this for when she's selected something particularly garish. I half expect to be dressed in a binbag.
She studies my drowsy disposition and clears her throat before speaking again.
"I thought you might show a bit more appreciation for us letting you have a lie in," she comments, as if they've done me some sort of grandiose favour.
Any gratitude I feel is well buried beneath my tiredness, and I roll my eyes, maybe not as subtly as I'd liked to have been.
Linda shakes her head, and hands me a pair of knickers to put on.
They're vastly different from the type of knickers I used to wear. These ones are floral, oversized, and generally just unflattering.
She bought them in bulk from a market stall, choosing them on the basis of the shape and style generally not being worn by anyone under the age of seventy.
I slip my legs in and pull the knickers up, conscious that she's watching me closely. She seems to smell the air around me, with her nose turned. "When was the last time we showered you?" she asks, unconcerned about causing me offence.
"Tom and I will have to make time to get you washed today," she adds.
I scowl at her. The only reason that I'm less than fresh is because of her and Tom's stupid restrictions on my bathing.
She passes me a long-sleeved t-shirt next. It was probably white once.
A couple of months ago, I'd have put a bra on at this point, but I'm denied the privilege of wearing bras anymore. Linda feels that my tits are too small to wear one.
I pull the t-shirt on compliantly, huffing impatiently to myself as I wait for her to hand me the final garment, which closely resembles a dark grey, burlap sack.
She's excited about revealing it and unfolds it instead of handing it to me, before holding it up proudly, letting me see it clearly. It's a woollen pinafore dress, and an ugly one at that. The bottom half is crudely pleated, and the top half is the embodiment of frumpiness.
Vintage clothing is considered to be fashionable. This dress is the exception. It never has and never will be fashionable.
"It's lovely, isn't it?" Linda delights, grinning gleefully. "I was walking past a charity shop the other day and saw it in the window. I had to go in and buy it for you. I couldn't resist. Here," she beckons, gathering the material and holding it outstretched, almost appearing to be friendly. "Put your arms up and I'll help you put it on."
I'm so busy looking in disgust at the dress that I'm slow to react to her.
