A dozen minutes later, the bed above me began to rock in a steady rhythm.
Seven years together, and Tamara had always told me she was saving herself for their wedding night.
So I had never touched her. Not once.
But today, through the security camera feed on my phone, I watched her writhing beneath someone else, her face flushed and coy.
My stomach churned violently.
Wave after wave of sounds drifted down from the master bedroom, and I doubled over retching, again and again, with nothing to bring up.
I fought desperately to break free.
But every time I struggled, the ropes only bit tighter.
The coarse hemp cord, thick as two fingers, shredded my skin. A searing, stinging pain tore through my entire body.
That was when I realized the ropes had been soaked in salt water beforehand.
The sounds from upstairs never stopped all night.
Again and again, in the throes of her pleasure, Tamara let slip truths I'd never heard before.
"Jarvis, I love you. These seven years, I never loved that broke loser. I never once actually planned to marry him..."