The centerpiece dominates the space: a platform bed, raised, wide, reinforced. Restraints are built into the frame itself: steel D-rings flush with the corners, additional anchor points along the sides that can be revealed or concealed with sliding panels.
To the right, a St. Andrew’s cross waits. Tall, X-shaped, designed to spread the arms and legs. Solid wood, but padded for comfort, with soft, adjustable cuffs fixed at the end of each limb.
Nearby, there’s a low bench with a gentle curve. Along the wall, a recessed cabinet glows softly when I pass my hand over the sensor. Inside are implements arranged with surgical neatness, resting on red velvet or hung against dark mahogany. Leather cuffs lined with suede. Rope coils—natural fiber, the color I asked for, meticulously wound. A selection of paddles and crops. Whips. Nipple clamps. A simple collar.
Basia’s breath catches invitingly.
But it’s the far wall that makes her stop.
A wide panel of black glass stretches from waist height almost to the ceiling. At first glance, it looks like a mirror—dark, reflective, faintly catching the outline of the room behind us.
Then it flickers. And she realizes it’s a screen.
Behind it: silhouettes. People standing, seated, leaning. Watching.
The feed is live.
Basia swallows.
“They can see in?” she asks quietly, asking for confirmation.
“Yes,” I reply.
Her fingers curl into my sleeve. I can feel her pulse through the contact.
“And they’ll see everything you do to me?”
I grunt—she’s going to be the death of me. Stepping behind her, I place my lips against her neck.
“They’ll see how good I make you feel,” I whisper. “They’ll see how you were born to submit to me.” I grab her hips and pull her against my hard cock. “But they’llneverget to touch you. You’re all mine, Basia.”
“Yes,” she moans, already in a haze of pleasure just from the anticipation. “Yours.”
“That’s my good girl,” I purr. “Now… strip.”
26
BASIA
I’m facing away from the screen where people I don’t know just watched me get naked. Caleb’s big, warm body presses me against the St. Andrew’s cross as he tightens the final cuff. His breath is calm, steady, easing my nerves.
“How are we doing?” he murmurs in my ear, running a callused palm down my side.
“Okay,” I breathe nervously.
“Okay, what?”
I clear my throat and say it louder, loud enough for the people watching to hear—I want them to know I belong to Caleb.
“Okay, Sir.”
“That’s a good girl,” he says, his praise warming my insides at the same time as it sends goosebumps skittering down my spine. “What’s your safeword?”
“Chamomile,” I reply shyly.
His chuckle brings heat to my cheeks. “Right again. You’re showing everyone what a good submissive you are.”
The reminder of an audience makes my breath catch. He somehow made me feel like we’re in our own little world.
