Her wrists were bare.
Her nails were perfectly manicured. Her hands were soft and smooth.
But her wrists were bare.
The invisible hand of anxiety grabbed her heart in a vice grip and squeezed. Her throat closed. She could draw naught but the shallowest of breaths. Her eyes burned and blurred.
Because her wrists were bare.
It had been years since she'd had soft yet restricting straps around her wrist as a constant reminder of to whom she belonged. It had been years since she had someone tie her wrists together and hold her tightly to chase away the paralyzing insecurities that threatened to consume her. It had been years since someone had cuffed her wrists and secured her in place to play with her, to pleasure her, to use her. If she closed het eyes, she could still feel the straps, the rope, the cuffs. If she let herself be still, she could almost feel his presence. But when she opened her eyes, she was alone.
And her wrists were bare.