I left them at the entrance to the guest wing and retreated to my library while I still had the sense to do so. But even in the space I considered sacred, I couldn’t escape the feeling of them beside me on that ridge. The way I’d begun to relax in their presence.
I was walking a tightrope, but for the first time in years, I didn’t care.
The storm broke shortlybefore midnight when I made the decision to visit my club. The tunnels sometimes flooded in weather like this, so I drove. However, the rain was coming down so hard I could barely see the road.
The Thorned Thistle was busy tonight despite the weather. I parked in the private lot, made my way inside, and found Callen in the observation gallery overlooking one of the main performance spaces, a glass of whiskey in hand.
“You look like hell.” He didn’t glance away from the scene below as I joined him at the railing. “How’s Vanguard recovering?”
“Well enough.”
He raised a brow. “At Greymarch.”
“As you’re well aware.”
“Why, Kier?”
“He needed somewhere quiet. I had the space.”
“Of course.” His tone said he didn’t believe a word of it. Not that I expected him to. Sometimes, it seemed he knew me better than I knew myself.
“Come.” He gestured toward the front of the viewing area. “Gus is doing rope work tonight.”
We claimed chairs with an optimal view. Below us, two dozen members had gathered in the space that had been configured for the evening—a wooden-frame structure in the center, soft lighting, and seating for observers.
Gus was one of the founding partners of our club, and rope work was his specialty. His submissive for the evening was a woman I recognized—a regular who enjoyed being displayed. She knelt before him, wearing nothing but a silk robe that wouldn’t stay on her body for long.
“We begin with conversation,” Gus announced. “Before a single strand touches her skin, I know her limits, her desires, and her fears. This isn’t about binding a body. This is about earning the gift of surrender.”
He spoke to his submissive, words meant only for her. She nodded, and the robe fell away.
What followed was artistry. Gus worked with hemp dyed deep burgundy, creating intricate designs across her body—functional and beautiful. He narrated his process as he checked her circulation, placed knots to avoid pressure points, and adjusted the tension to create different sensations.
His technique faded into the background. My attention was on the sub’s face when the binding tightened around her. Most compelling was the moment when she stopped fighting and yielded to his control.
In my mind, her face became Ophelia’s.
I imagined her in that space, kneeling before me, with her hair unbound and her eyes full of trust. I’d start with her wrists, wrapping the rope in deliberate loops as the color rose in her olive skin. She’d tremble—not from fear, but from the anticipation she didn’t know she possessed.
I’d bind her with aching slowness, savoring every gasp, every shiver. The rope would frame her breasts, create diamonds of exposed flesh across her stomach, and force her shoulders back and her chin up. She’d be beautiful in her surrender—more beautiful than she’d ever allowed herself to be. And Oliver would watch.
The image seized me. Oliver on his knees beside her, aroused and waiting for my commands. He wouldn’t bebound—not yet. He’d be free to touch her, to taste her, but only with my permission. Only when I told him where to put his hands, his mouth, his cock.
“Kiss her neck,” I’d say, and he’d quiver as he obeyed. “Lower. I want to hear her moan.”
Ophelia would arch into his touch, restrained and helpless to do anything but receive the pleasure I orchestrated. Oliver would look up at me for approval, for direction, for the next command that told him how to worship her body.
“Use your tongue,” I’d order, and he’d lower himself between her spread thighs. I’d witness her pleasure building under his mouth, his submission displayed in every movement. I’d tell him to speed up or slow down, when to add his fingers and make her scream.
Then, as soon as she was close, trembling and on the edge, I’d make him stop.
“Please,” she’d beg. “Please, sir, I need?—”
“You need what I give you.” I’d circle them, running my hand along the rope that held her, gripping Oliver’s hair to tilt his face up toward mine. “You come when I allow it. Not before.”
I’d position him behind her, still on his knees. “Inside her,” I’d command. “Slowly.”
He’d obey. He’d always obey. And they’d look at me as their bodies joined—seeking my approval, my permission, my control over their pleasure.
