Wednesday? Thursday?
Does it matter when every day is the same?
Vaughn is already awake.
He's always awake before me.
Always showered and dressed before I even open my eyes, sitting in the chair by the window with his laptop balanced on his knee, working while I sleep.
Watching me sleep, probably.
I've caught him at it more than once.
Caught that intense gaze studying my face like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve, a problem that requires his complete attention.
"Good morning," he says without looking up from his screen, his voice calm and measured like always.
"Morning." My voice is hoarse from sleep.
From screaming during last night's session when he made me come three times in a row until I was sobbing and begging him to stop.
From begging—God, frombeggingin explicit detail—for him to let me come the fourth time.
He made me ask.
Made me use words I'd never said out loud before.
Made me describe exactly what I wanted, where I wanted to be touched, how I wanted to feel.
And I did it.
Hated myself for it with every syllable. But did it anyway.
Because the alternative—him stopping, him withdrawing, him leaving me empty and wanting—was worse than the humiliation of begging.
When did that happen?
When did his touch become something I need instead of something I endure?
"We have training in an hour," he says, still focused on his laptop. Business emails, probably. The rest of his life continues even while mine has narrowed to this room, this routine, this slow dissolution of self. "Shower. Eat breakfast. Wear what I laid out for you."
I look toward the chair near the bathroom door.
There's something draped over it.
Something black and delicate that definitely isn't my usual jeans and sweater.
Something else entirely.
My stomach twists with anticipation and dread in equal measure.
"What is it?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
"Something for today's session. We're progressing to the next phase."
Progressing.
Like this is a project with milestones and benchmarks.
