Sweet restraint.

 

Megan reaches over and tenderly strokes Greta’s cheek with her fingertips.

“Doesn’t that feel good, oh-so-good”, Megan whispers, almost to herself more than to Greta.

Silence.

“Well, this is just what you’ve been needing, isn’t it Greta? You understand that there is a very good reason for us doing this, don’t you? If you are going to do something it is vital that you do it right. Go the whole hog. Make the most of the experience. Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Megan bends to be eye level with Greta and slaps her playfully on the knee.

No knee-jerk reaction.

Silence again.

“Your dad is so wonderfully supportive, to allow you to explore your feelings like this? I wish my dad showed all that interest in my fascinations. He barely knows that I even exist.”

Megan quickly re-tightens the wrist straps, even though Greta’s wrists are so small. The ankle straps she made sure were extra tight the first time round. Greta’s muscles relax deeper into the welcomed restraints.

With eerie enthusiasm in her slowed speech, Greta politely asks, “What do we do now?”

“You my Dear, just relax and let me take care of you.”

Greta is now seated, restrained, back towards the bedroom window in her special chair. It fits her drugged muscles so well, cushioning them like a mould.

Megan heads towards the curtains and draws them closed. Specks of dust suddenly swirl into a stream of sunlight escaping through a gap in the drapes. The room temperature drops slightly.

There is a white, wooden bookshelf to the right of the bedroom door. The books are arranged by height. The dust from the curtains has clearly never reached the book shelf.

Carefully pulling out one of the thicker hard-covers, Megan settles herself on the foot of Greta’s new bed. She swivels Greta’s chair around to face her and begins to read from a section mid-way through the book, after randomly skimming a few pages.

Whilst Megan read, almost recited, Greta gazed at her lips fondly.

“He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be only half alive; and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall asleep in his; and he said he could not breathe in mine.” 

“Wuthering Heights is one of my favourite weaknesses”, Megan exclaims.

Greta sighs sweetly, smiles, but is too ‘relaxed’ to even respond. Although present in the moment she is enjoying the strange pleasure of paralysis. The sheer heaven of helplessness.

The story-time continues for the next hour, pleasantly appreciated by both.

The sounds of nearby dogs barking snaps them both out of bliss.

“How would you like a nice bowl of home-made tomato soup? I only ever make soup from scratch.”

Before Greta could agree, Megan is wheeling her off down the passage to a quaint kitchen. This wheelchair moves so much smoother than her previous one. Greta feels a slight tinge of guilt that she prefers it to the one from basement.

Neatly tucked in at the kitchen table, Megan starts to ladel some soup into a plastic bowl.

“I thought I just felt some pins and needles in my leg” Greta whispers, almost in despair.

“Not possible love, it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. Don’t you worry, you can’t feel a thing in your legs. I promise you. It’s just an idea you need to adjust to, believe that what you are feeling in your legs is nothing. Because of the drug – it is nothing.”

“OK.”

“Now try some of this soup”, as she slips a napkin from kitchen table into the top of Greta’s shirt, then places a second one over her lap.

Megan blows on a spoonful of 'just heated up' soup a few times before carefully bring it up to Greta’s lips.

“This has an extra special ingredient in it. Just… for… you. I want to help you feel as helpless as possible….”

For split second Greta hesitates as the spoon nears her mouth.

Her heart starts to race with excitement as she opens wide. 

The End

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