“You want to cum so badly you’re willing to pay for it with pain. That’s good, Tinkerbell. That means we’re getting somewhere, means you’re learning what it takes to belong to someone like me.”
Then he slaps the remote from my hand with casual violence.
It clatters across the hardwood floor like a curse, like evidence, like the weapon I used against myself.
He stands slowly, rising to his full height, towering over my kneeling form.
“On the bed,” he commands. “Face down. Hands on the headboard. Now.”
I don’t move, frozen in place.
I blink up at him through tears and smudged mascara.
“Now, Tahlia. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
My knees crack as I stand, joints protesting the movement.
Not from weakness, not from fear.
From rage that still burns beneath the need.
From shame that tastes like copper on my tongue.
From the sick, melting heat between my thighs that won’t dissipate no matter how many times I tell myself I hate him, hate this, hate what I’m becoming.
I do hate him—I do, I do.
I obey anyway.
Each step towards the bed feels heavier than the last, like dragging chains behind me, like walking towards something inevitable and terrible. The mattress is still wrecked from earlier—creased from struggle, from denial, from the way he made me sob without ever letting me fall over the edge. I climb onto itlike I’m walking to my own execution, like I’m the sacrifice being offered to something ancient and hungry.
Face down as instructed.
Hands gripping the headboard with white-knuckled intensity.
Exactly how he told me, exactly how he wanted me and the worst part, the thing that makes shame burn hottest in my chest?
I hate that it feels like relief, hate that some twisted part of me is grateful for the clear instructions, for knowing exactly what’s expected.
Behind me, the room hums with silence and something sharper, more dangerous—his presence filling every corner, every shadow. That magnetic pull that poisons the air, coats my skin like oil, makes my breath catch like I’m already being touched even though he’s feet away.
Even though he hasn’t touched me yet, not really, not since he made me press that button.
“You gave yourself permission,” he says from somewhere behind me, voice carrying across the space between us. “You thought you could steal your own release, thought you were clever enough to outmanoeuvre me.”
The floor creaks under his weight, old wood groaning.
My spine tenses, muscles coiling in anticipation.
“So I’m going to steal something from you in return—something precious, something you won’t get back.”
I flinch as something cold and leather wraps around my wrists with practised efficiency.
He tightens the cuffs without a word, without asking permission or checking if they’re too tight, clipping me to the ornate iron bars at the head of the bed like he’s done this a thousand times before, like this is routine for him. No flair, no unnecessary flourish. Just certainty and practised ease.
He doesn’t ask if it’s too tight, doesn’t check for circulation.
He knows exactly how tight to make them—tight enough to restrict, not tight enough to damage.
