Pink She hated pink. She had told him this the first day they had met, with the kind of vindication

Pink She hated pink. She had told him this the first day they had met, with the kind of vindication that belied how much of her personality hinged on that one fact. It was a conscious decision, a wilful distaste that she’d acquired, enjoyed, and could now savour with ever the chosen object came up.  It wasn’t so much the colour as the connotations. The association with femininity, with softness, with all the pink and cute and stereotypes that were as negative as they came. Pink was for little girls, the little girls society shoved down your throats, rather than the little girls that existed. Pink was why women were paid less. Pink was why gender dysphoria existed.  He’d taken his time with the ties, made sure they weren’t only tight but solid, the kind that wouldn’t let her wiggle, let alone slide free. Her whole body became a single cylinder, one long line that he could fold and manipulate. The white was new, but she didn’t think all that much of it. She just slipped into that beautiful space between consciousness and un, let herself get carried on the wave of his actions. And he carried her. Through the bedroom, past the living room. Into the spare room, transformed into pink. A distillation of the colour, splashed on the walls, covering the floor. A conversion into that putrid, hateful colour, until she felt like she was in some kind of focus-grouped womb. She squirmed. Tried to wriggle free. But the binds were too tight, too well made, and as he set her down on the floor, the smile on his face was too sadistic and far too resolute for her to try to appeal to his better nature. The tape over her mouth didn’t help all that much, either. He stepped back, saw the pleading in her eyes, and closed the door behind him. She was left in her own pink nightmare, plush and petrifying.  -- source link

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