Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Finally! Some Original Fiction!

Ok, since all I've done so far is deride the works of other authors, I guess it's time that I put my money where my mouth (or hands, since I'm typing all this... whatever) is.

So naturally, I choose one of my more hastily-written and minimally-edited short stories from a year and a half ago. *Sigh* I really do need to make more time for my fiction writing these days... Oh well, I guess I might as well post it here, not like there's really anything better for me to do with it. Just a bit of warning: it's a tad bit melodramatic, and you'll probably either love me or hate me for the ending. So with that in mind, please read and enjoy...


A Short Fiction by Leanne

She tugged futilely at the handcuffs, but her hands remained as firmly clasped to the bed as ever. I’m an idiot, she thought, and didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. There was a horrible sort of irony in it, after all; hadn’t she wanted this? Fantasized about it? Now here she was, handcuffed to his bed, and all she could think about was how stupid she had been.
And how pissed he would be when he found out.

The night had seemed to start out so well; it was the night before her last final of the fall semester. Most of their friends had already finished their finals and gone home for break, but the fates had apparently conspired to have the two of them remain behind. Neither of them had the same final the next day, but since there were so few others left, it was only logical that the two of them should have their own little study party in his dorm.
So at eight o’clock she packed up her laptop and biology book, and nervously headed up to his room. She hated herself for feeling nervous; it wasn’t like they had never been alone together before! But she just couldn’t help the way she felt any time she was near him, even if she had done her best to hide her feelings thus far. But not tonight, not anymore.
I’m not going to let him slip away, she thought determinedly as she mounted the steps, Not him, he’s too precious to let go. Tonight maybe he’ll start to see how I feel. And then… well… I’m going to seduce him, dammit! But she felt her resolve weaken with each step that brought her closer to him. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears as she made her way down the hall, and she had to take a steadying breath as she approached his room.
Mentally she chastised herself for her reactions; wasn’t this all pretty silly? Wasn’t she being just a bit overdramatic about this? Seduce him… who was she kidding? She felt her face heat up with embarrassment at the thought her self-imposed title for her flimsy pseudo-plan to gradually reveal her feelings, but there really wasn’t any other word for it. And it was true, she did want desperately to seduce him; to see him gape at her in wonderment and desire, to have him wrapped around her finger as she was—unbeknownst to him—already wrapped around his, to have him unable to help but softly caress her cheek before pulling her in close or pushing her down on the bed. More than anything else, she wanted him to want her. And so there she stood, internally quivering with emotion and hating herself for it, as she reached out and meekly knocked on his door.
“Just a minute,” she heard him say. Her heart gave an involuntary flutter. Christ, just give me a heart attack with that smooth voice of yours, why don’t you? She joked weakly to herself. But there was something off about that normally smooth voice of his tonight, some note of urgency. He almost sounded hurt… but she had little time to ponder this before he opened the door and greeted her with his usual—and admittedly dazzling—smile, which she gratefully returned.
As she stepped inside the room, her gaze was instantly drawn to his desk; the bottom drawer was partially open, papers lay askew around his laptop, and next to the computer was a picture in a chunky black frame. A brief glance was all she got before he hastily snatched it up, stowed it far in the back of the open drawer, and closed it; all she could discern from that glance was that it looked like a photo of two people standing in front of a colorful background that could have been anything from a cityscape to a carnival. Instinctively, she raised her eyebrows at her friend, and was surprised to see he looked almost as flustered as she felt. But in an instant he smiled at her again and her question about the picture died on her lips with this return to normalcy.
“You want any snacks? Something to drink?” he asked.
“Huh? Oh, no thanks. Not too hungry right now.” Her heartbeat picked up again as she sat down and opened her laptop. What had been her plan for tonight exactly? She hadn’t really had one, but now that she was here she couldn’t even wrap her scattered mind around the concept of beginning to “seduce” him, let alone concentrate on her real reason for being here: studying for finals.
Does he notice anything? Can he tell how distracted I am? Oh God, why did he even have to ask me to study with him? She wondered fretfully. She tried not to fidget and to concentrate on the biology questions he was asking her, all the while worrying he’d notice how distracted she was and ask her what was wrong. She hated it when he asked that. Why did anybody ever have to ask that? It was never a question that one could answer comfortably, and she was asked it far too often, even if nothing was wrong at all. But in this case, not only would it be uncomfortable, she would be hard-pressed to tell the truth as well. No, no, how could she possibly be expected to seduce him properly if she just blurted her feelings out?
Eventually, she managed to calm her worried brain, and their little study session fell into a relaxed state. They talked and laughed a bit, and she had to hide her blush a couple times when he told her that she was funny.
Okay, so tonight’s not going so bad, no pressure, she thought. You’ve got all next semester ahead of you to build on this friendship; can’t expect a successful seduction to happen all at once!
She had been there for almost an hour and was about to start quizzing him on British Literature when his phone rang.
“It’s my mom…” he said, answering it, “Hello? Shit, dropped the call… I’ll go outside and try to call her back, sorry.”
“No, it’s completely fine, take your time,” she said. He got up to leave and closed the door behind him. Now completely alone, she allowed herself to let out a deep sigh. If she had really been expecting anything, she would have thought that things had not been turning out as expected so far. She’d been so ridiculously nervous about a silly little study session, and he’d seemed so… what had been up with him? He had seemed strangely melancholy for some reason; she could tell he was trying to hide it. Yet again, she had never thought to ask him what was wrong, and suddenly she felt very bad for that. She’d been grateful that he hadn’t asked her if she was ok earlier, which meant she had done a good job at hiding her worried distraction, and yet she had noticed something was wrong with him, and hadn’t asked either. She was ashamed; if she truly cared about him so much, why hadn’t she let it show?
Yet again, she thought, maybe he’s like me, maybe he doesn’t like people asking him. He could’ve been hiding something simply because he didn’t want to talk about it; she could respect that. Or maybe he didn’t want to burden her with his problems; she could understand that, too. She thought about the picture she had seen on his desk earlier, the one he had so hastily tried to hide from her. Suddenly she was burning with curiosity to know who it was a photo of. It must have been the reason why he seemed upset, but why did it upset him?
Before she realized what she was doing, she was on her feet and poised to open the desk drawer. But she hesitated. She knew this wasn’t right; what kind of friend would she be, going through his personal stuff like that? But she still just had to know what that picture was, and why he would want to hide it. If it was something he was so desperate for her not to find out about, then she would simply never tell him she had seen it. Whatever it was, she would certainly not judge him for it. If it was something he felt the need to talk about later, he could always confide in her, on his own time… but if she had some idea of what it was now, perhaps it could be so much easier to sympathize with him, even if he had no idea…
Resolving to keep whatever she would find in his drawer a secret, she opened it. The thing seemed to be mostly filled with largely unorganized office supplies; obviously the picture was buried underneath the pile somewhere in the back, and it was a deep drawer. She rummaged through a layer of pencils and sticky notes and felt her fingertips brush cold metal. There was a strange jolt of excitement that sent her heart pounding again when she realized what it could possibly be that she was touching; and it was most certainly not a picture frame. Hesitantly, she stood up from where she had been kneeling in front of the drawer… and pulled out a pair of shiny, steel handcuffs.
Why does he keep these in his desk drawer? Was her immediate thought, and she couldn’t help but giggle at her own reaction. Most normal people would probably be wondering why he would have a pair of handcuffs at all, but to her the answer to that question seemed so incredibly obvious.
She felt a shiver run down her spine as she held the implement of restraint in her hands. So he did have them after all… her mind flickered back to the dream she had had a few weeks before. And then a realization struck her: if he had them, that meant he must have had use for them. She wasn’t quite sure how to feel about some other girl having her hands bound by these very handcuffs, but she thought of her dream and did not care. The thought of being held down and handcuffed to his bed, completely at his whim, made her squirm with desire; impulsively, she pressed her thighs together.
Sitting down on his bed, she gingerly clasped it around one of her wrists, testing the feel of it. She felt that familiar jolt of excitement inside her again as she relished the sensation of the cold metal against her skin. Lying on her stomach, she languidly stretched out on the bed, grasping the foot of the metal bedframe. The cuffs dangled from her left wrist over the metal bar she held on to, and she giggled to herself again as she imagined him bringing it underneath and clasping the other empty cuff around her right wrist, effectively shackling her to the bed. Now, what might he do next, she wondered dreamily as she idly toyed with the handcuffs with her free hand.
She started suddenly. How long had it been since he’d left the room already? She knew she would have to put the handcuffs back where she found them before he got back. Sighing, she pushed herself up onto her knees and made to get off the bed… only to discover her free hand wasn’t free.
She tugged on the handcuffs in disbelief. Didn’t budge. She tugged again; still chained in place. How had she managed to do this? She thought back, but with her mind starting to cloud over with panic, she couldn’t seem to remember actually handcuffing herself to the bed. Somewhere, somehow, the line between fantasy and reality had blurred, and in her giddily aroused state she had done to herself that which she had been imagining him to do!
She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream for help. But as far as she knew, there was no one around to help her, and what would they think of her if anyone saw her in this state? The very thought of being discovered was mortifying. And what about when he discovered her? He would know she’d been through his things; he would hate her for sure.
The thought of him hating her was enough to have her blinking away tears. Helpless and consumed by her sudden misery and guilt, she sank down onto her stomach again. She shifted in discomfort against the phone in the front pocket of her hoodie, which of course had to naturally be positioned between her crotch and the bed. I deserve this, she thought miserably, I got what was coming to me for being such a shitty friend. I’m trapped, alone, uncomfortable and the guy I’m in love with is going to hate me when he finds out what I’ve done. How could things possibly get worse?
Suddenly, in a cruel twist of irony that could only come from God himself, her phone vibrated. She gasped at the sudden shock of both pleasure and discomfort that reverberated throughout her body. Of course someone would have to text her while she was handcuffed to someone’s bed and unable to reach the phone that was causing her both panic and an unwanted, unwarranted sexual thrill. But then it vibrated again. And again. Not a text; someone was calling her.
Now she began to cry in earnest. Handcuffing herself to the bed had been karma; her friend’s hatred of her would be punishment. But this… this was torture. And she knew she deserved all of it.
“You win, God, I’m sorry!” she suddenly wailed, unable to hold back. “I deserve this, I’ve earned this, and I know I deserve a lot worse! I’m a terrible, horrible, untrustworthy friend, and I don’t deserve to have him like me, just please don’t let him hate me!”
“What the hell-?” She whipped her head around suddenly, her breaths coming out as ragged, tear-choked sobs as she saw him staring at her from the doorway. She quickly turned away and buried her face in his comforter, unable to face him in her shame. Her phone had stopped vibrating; who knew what kind of voicemail she would have to look forward to after this whole nightmarish scenario was at an end?
She felt his hand brush hers and she dared to look up at him, but his expression was stony and impassive. He had the key in his hand, and he wordlessly freed her wrists with cold efficiency. She had barely managed to shakily stand up when he thrust her laptop into her arms. For a long moment, neither said anything, each looking down at the floor.
“You went through my stuff…” he said at last, and it did not entirely sound like a question. The hurt in his voice stabbed into her like a knife through the heart. She had no hope left at this point; in fact, she hardly felt anything at all except for that single, sharp stab.
He took a shaky breath. “Please leave,” he told her. She felt the knife in her heart twist. And yet she did not protest. She knew an apology would not be enough; not now, and perhaps not even ever. But as she slowly made her way out the door, she turned back and looked up again to face him. For one brief moment their eyes locked, a million confusing emotions passing between them. It became too much for her to bear; she looked away, and a second later when she turned to face him again, the door was already closed.

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