He moves back onto the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. He kneels between my legs, the belt still in his hand.
I scramble backward, a desperate, instinctual movement, but he’s faster. He grabs my ankle, pulling me back down the bed, positioning me as he wants me.
“I told you not to move your hands,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “I told you to keep them on the headboard. You didn’t listen.”
My mind is a frantic scramble of fear and confusion. I want to scream, to fight, to run, but my body is pinned, my limbs heavy with a strange mix of fear and a lingering, shameful arousal.
He leans over me, his face close to mine. The belt is in my line of sight, a dark, threatening shape.
“You’re going to learn to obey me, Erica,” he murmurs, his voice a low, dark purr. “And you’re going to learn it now.”
He straightens up, his gaze sweeping over me. He’s assessing me, calculating his next move. The silence stretches, a taut wire of tension.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he slides the belt under me and pulls it out from the other side. The leather is cool against my flushed skin.
"Put your arms down at your sides," he orders, holding both ends of the belt while waiting for me to comply. Never questioning whether I will or not.
I swallow my nerves, the action painful.
I place my arms down at my sides, inside the loop of the belt.
He’s not going to hit me.
He’s tying me up.
The realization is a jolt, a fresh wave of embarrassment, and a strange, terrifying thrill.
He tightens the belt, binding my arms to my sides. The belt buckle sits cold against my stomach. It’s not painful, not really. It’s a firm, unyielding pressure that holds me in place, a constant reminder of my submission, of my vulnerability.
He tests the bindings, making sure they’re secure. Satisfied, he leans back, his gaze sweeping over me.
"Much better," he says, a note of satisfaction in his voice.
He moves back between my legs, his hands on my knees, pushing them open, exposing me completely to his gaze.
I’m trembling, a constant, fine tremor that runs through my entire body. I’m naked, bound, and at the mercy of a man I barely know, a man who paid for the right to do this to me.
And a part of me, a very dark part of me, is more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life.
He lowers his head, and this time, when his tongue touches me, I’m not surprised. But the intensity of my reaction is. A strangled gasp escapes my throat, my back arching off the bed, my body moving instinctively, seeking more.
He chuckles, a dark, triumphant sound. "That's it, Erica. Let me hear you."
He’s relentless. His tongue is a weapon of pure, unadulterated pleasure, and he knows exactly how to use it. He licks and sucks, flicks and circles, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
My hips buck, my body writhing on the bed, but the bindings around me hold me captive, a constant reminder of my helplessness.
"Please," I whimper, the word a broken, desperate plea.
"Please what?" he murmurs against my skin, his breath warm and teasing.
"Please... let me come," I whisper, the words a surrender I never thought I’d make.
"You come when I say you come," he says, his tongue delving inside me, fucking me with a slow, deliberate rhythm that has me sobbing with frustration and need.
He’s pushing me, testing my limits, seeing how far he can take me, how much I can handle. He’s a master of control, and my body is his instrument, and he’s playing me with a skill that is both terrifying and exhilarating.
He builds me up, higher and higher, my body a taut bowstring of pleasure, poised on the edge of release, only to pull back at the last second, leaving me gasping and frustrated, my body aching with unfulfilled need.
