Instead, I maintain the choreography of the scene, following the dance we’ve begun together. I move behind her, my body close enough that she can feel my presence but not quite touching. My breath falls against her neck as I bring my lips to her ear. “You like this, don’t you?” I whisper. She responds with a small nod, her breathing ragged. I reach around and cup her breast, feeling the weight of it in my palm, the hardened peak of her nipple against my thumb. Her whimper is barely audible, but in it I hear everything—need, surrender, and a plea for release. “More?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“What was that? I can’t hear you,” I say, pinching her nipple. “And where are your manners?”
“Yes, please,” she corrects herself, louder this time.
I lick my lips as I position myself in front of her and glance down at her pussy, striking her one last time. The riding crop lands hard enough for the onlookers to flinch and for Ruby to cry out, but I keep a straight face, pretending her reaction doesn’t affect me one bit. She’s shaking, whimpering, head tilted toward the ceiling. She’s had enough and I’m going to reward her.
Normally I would use one of the many vibrators we have here but that’s not good enough. Not for Ruby and not for me. I want more.
Kneeling before her, I’m eye-level with the apex of her thighs, almost in a position of worship. Can my onlookers see I want this just as much? Can they see my hunger to taste her? Ruby’s glistening with arousal and I blow softly against her exposed flesh, watching her shudder in response.
“Please,” she whispers, the word barely audible.
“Please what?” I ask, loud enough for our audience to hear. “Tell me what you want, Ruby.”
Her cheeks flush deeper, the color spreading down her neck to her chest. She knows everyone is watching, listening, but desperation has overtaken her shame.
“Touch me,” she manages. “Please touch me. I need to come.”
Grabbing her behind, I pull her against my mouth and devour her pussy, moaning as I taste her. This isn’t part of the game and part of me is afraid I’m taking it too far. But it’s what I want and I don’t like to deny myself.
Her sharp intake of breath cuts through the room’s hushed atmosphere. I take my time exploring her with my tongue, learning what makes her tremble, what draws those delicious little sounds from her throat. She tastes divine, forbidden, delicious.
When I circle her clit with my tongue, her hips buck forward and she gasps, every muscle taut. I smile, though she can’t see it. Her breath comes faster, and I know she’s close already, wound tight from all the teasing. Her body is tensing, climbing toward release.
I increase the pressure and her response is a loud moan. Her pleasure is intoxicating—the way she yields to it, fights it, surrenders to it. I’m getting lost in her.
Her breathing becomes erratic as she approaches climaxand then she shatters beautifully, her entire body convulsing.
“Fuck! Athena!” My name tears from her throat, loud and unrestrained, and it affects me more deeply than I anticipated. I continue working her through the aftershocks, gentler now, drawing out every moment of her pleasure until she’s hanging limp from her restraints, gasping for breath. Only then do I stand and signal to Morgan to help me release her from the cuffs.
As Ruby’s arms come down, I support her weight, turning her to face me before removing the blindfold. Her eyes are dazed, pupils dilated, and she blinks rapidly as they adjust to the light. The vulnerability in her expression catches me off guard—it’s not just physical satisfaction I see there, but something deeper, more complex.
I stroke her cheek and tuck a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “How do you feel?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers, and I understand. The first time is overwhelming, a tidal wave of sensation and emotion that defies simple categorization. Tears well up in her eyes and then her arms wrap around my neck and she embraces me.
Our audience begins to disperse as I hold her in return. Morgan brings me a glass of water, then leaves us alone with a discreet nod.
“Drink,” I instruct, stepping back and holding the glass to Ruby’s lips. She obeys without hesitation, another sign of how deep her submission has taken her. I help her into her dress but don’t zip it yet. Instead, I wrap my arms around her again, pulling her against me.
She sighs against my neck, her breath warm on my skin, and I tighten my hold. “I’ve got you,” I murmur, surprising myself with the tenderness in my voice.
I told her earlier I wasn’t here to break her. But as I feel her heart beating against mine, her body softening in my arms, I’m suddenly afraid that I might be the one in danger of breaking.
THIRTY-ONE
RUBY
I’ve been staring at the same vase of roses for God knows how long, arranging and rearranging them like they hold the secrets of the universe. My hands fumble with the stems, and I prick my finger on a thorn. The small pain yanks me back to reality—my backyard, Sunday afternoon, lunch preparations.
Sarah, Claire’s niece, is coming, and she’s bringing Erik, her new boyfriend. I’d completely forgotten until the reminder popped up on my phone this morning. Since then, I’ve been in a frenzy—stripping the guest bed and remaking it with fresh linens, dusting off surfaces, and throwing windows open to air out rooms. If I’d remembered sooner, I would have asked my cleaner to do it, but my mind’s been elsewhere and she only comes in three times a week.
I rushed to the grocery store in yoga pants and sweatshirt, hair piled in a messy bun, frantically pushing a cart down aisles while trying to remember what normal people serve for lunch.
Claire was always the one who organized these gatherings. She’d plan menus weeks in advance, create elaboratecenterpieces, and charm everyone with her effortless hostess energy. I just tagged along, happy to be the sous-chef, the wine pourer. Claire could transform a simple lunch into an event people talked about for months. She remembered everyone’s dietary restrictions, anniversaries, favorite wines. I never had to worry about any of it—she handled the details while I handled the bills. Now it’s all on me, and I feel like I’m fumbling through a script written in a language I barely understand.
