Vivienne was still tied up to André's bedpost like some cheap sacrifice waiting for a drunk god. Her arms were stretched above her head, wrists bound in silk, and her back pressed against his sheets. The sunlight from the noon window poured onto her naked body, which only made it worse. No shadows to hide in. Just pure, humiliating brightness.
Her brain screamed at her: Scream, Vivienne. Shout. Kick. Do something. You're about to get fucked while being tied up, and this idiot will make it slow. Stop this before it gets worse. Say something. Pretend you're sick. Pretend you're dying. He'll believe it. He'll leave you alone.
But nothing came out of her mouth. Her lips were sealed shut. And the longer she stayed quiet, the worse it felt.
God, this is so embarrassing. Look at me. Naked, tied, spread out like I'm begging. There's no dignity left. I am a dead woman. I should have become a nun. At least then I'd die clean. Now I'm going to die moaning under this lunatic.
