The View From the Corner
The click of the brass padlock always sounded deafening in the quiet of our bedroom.
My wife, Clara, didn't look down at me as she snapped the shackle shut around the base of my cage. She didn’t need to. The cold weight of the medical-grade steel resting against my thigh was reminder enough of my new position. I was an observer now. A permanent fixture of the background.
"He’ll be here in ten minutes," she said smoothly, leaning into the mirror to touch up her crimson lipstick. Her voice carried a casual, dangerous thrill that made my heart race against my ribs. "You stay in your chair, Arthur. You don't speak, you don't touch yourself, and you keep your eyes wide open. If I see you look away even once, I'm keeping the key in the safe for a month. Understand?"
"Yes, Clara," I whispered, my voice thick with a pathetic mixture of ache and desperate compliance.
When the heavy knock echoed from the front door, Clara smiled—a sharp, feral expression I’ve only ever seen her wear since we invited Marcus into our lives. She smoothed down her tight leather skirt and walked out, leaving the bedroom door propped wide open.
I sat in the dark corner, my useless heat locked tight in metal, listening to the heavy, confident footsteps of a larger man entering my home. Marcus didn’t greet me. He didn’t care that I existed, except as a witness to his ownership. Within seconds, they were back in the room, and Marcus’s massive hands were already bruising the pale skin of Clara’s hips, twisting her around to face my chair so I could see exactly what was no longer mine.
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