The last thing Rebekah Dee remembered was the music and the laughter of a night out. Now, she drifts back to consciousness in a world of silence and soft, slippery fabric. She is lying on a bed of blood-red satin, her body covered by a matching sheet. But something is terribly wrong. Her limbs feel heavy, unresponsive. As the fog clears, she realizes she is still dressed in her stunning outfit from the night before—the emerald green satin blouse, the short black skirt, the sheer stockings, and her leopard-print heels. But she cannot move.
Panic spikes as she shifts, the red sheet sliding away to reveal her predicament. Her wrists are bound tightly behind her back with stark white fabric. Her ankles are lashed together and pulled up, connected to her wrists in a severe, back-arching hogtie that leaves her helpless on the crimson bed. She tries to scream, to demand answers, but her mouth is filled with a large white ball gag, the black leather strap buckled tight behind her head, turning her cries into muffled, rhythmic whimpers.
Then, she sees it. The red tally light of a camera on a tripod, blinking in the corner of the room. She is being filmed. But by whom? The room is silent, save for the whir of the lens. She struggles, her satin-clad body writhing against the satin sheets, a beautiful, desperate display of color and helplessness. She is the star of a movie she never agreed to make, trapped in a satin cage, performing for an audience of one who watches from the shadows.
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