Just her and the punishment frame, and the small pile of prison clothes that she’d removed, as instructed, and placed in a neat pile on the floor.Watson had brought her here. The officer in charge of C Wing. The officer with whom she’d argued earlier in the day. (Why had she argued? Why had she been so stupid? Why couldn’t she turn back time?). Led her, handcuffed, down the long, silent, antiseptic corridors, unlocking each of the heavy doors in turn, locking them firmly behind her. Brought the girl who’d questioned his authority to the place where it would be demonstrated to her in such unequivocal terms.Then left, without so much as a glance.Ten minutes ago? Thirty? Hard to keep track of time.Too long. Not long enough.Her eyes kept glancing to the polished wooden contraption in the centre of the high, bare cell. Glancing, looking away, steeling herself, glancing back. The leather ties that would bind her ankles. Looking away. Looking away. The smooth, dark wood over which they’d. "She trusted me, and did so, holding her arms (and her hands, which did, in fact, have batter on them) away from her body. I lifted her shirt up to her neck and told her to hold it there with her chin.Then I Ieaned in and captured her left nipple between my lips.The next thing I knew my face was being smeared with chocolate cake batter.I ducked back, laughing. She reached for a towel, wiped her hands, fixed her bra and gave me a mock glare."Maybe you won't get to play with them any more!" she growled."I have to!" I crowed."Why?" Because I promised Dad I'd be nice to you." Go pick up the living room," she said, changing the subject."I did," I said."Then go pick up what you missed the first time."It might have gone on, but we heard the garage door opener cycle. Our parents were home.The honeymoon was over.Mom's homecoming was great for us all. We had no problem with Dad being in charge of us, of course, but it was still nice to have Mom around. She was dead tired, but we knew she'd.
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