The ache between my legs sharpens again, worse than before. It’s a tension that has the potential to turn into madness.
And this slip? It’s part of it. A uniform for submission. A symbol of the version of myself I became when he was near.
I touch the straps, thumb grazing where the lace rests on my shoulder. If I tugged just a little, it would fall off, exposing my breasts.
But I don’t. I let it stay. Because wearing his gift feels like being his. And right now, I don’t want to stop that feeling.
He came here, touched me, and spoke to me as though I belonged to him. Made me tremble with every whisper and word. He kissed the side of my face and told me I was perfect.
And then he left.
He didn’t fuck me. Didn’t even try. The disappointment sears.
And the worst part? I wanted him to—this man I can’t see.
I would have said yes.
I was soaked before he entered my bedroom. By the time he sat on the bed behind me, I was desperate. Surrender was pouring out of me, one heartbeat at a time. My body begged in ways my mouth couldn’t voice.
And then he walked away.
His restraint… the fucking control he has… it makes me even wetter.
He is one disciplined motherfucker.
I want to scream. Cry. Throw myself against the mattress and curse him for leaving me this way. But instead, I sit frozen in the dark, thighs pressed tight, nipples so hard they ache as the slip drags across them.
His voice replays in my head.
Next time those words pass your lips, I’m going to fuck the sanity out of you. You’ll come so hard you’ll forget where you are. Who you are. You’ll scream so loud the walls will shake.
God, the way he said those words—hungry, reverent, every syllable drenched in seduction.
A slow, relentless ache coils in me, tightening every time I recall the heat of his breath against my skin. He didn’t need to touch me. Not really. His presence alone undid me. His words made my body pulse with want.
He said I had to ask for it when I’m ready.
Fuck me. I want your cock inside me. I need your cock inside me.
Those fucking words—I wanted to say them. I hate him for knowing that. I despise him for leaving me trembling in a slip andblindfold, heart pounding and pussy weeping, too full of need to even think straight.
Now I’m left here with no relief. And the hunger isn’t going anywhere.
This is insane.
I want to fuck a man whose name I don’t know. I want to be blindfolded, obedient, soaking wet, and filled by a stranger. I don’t even care what his face looks like.
That should terrify me.
But it doesn’t. It turns me on even more.
The moment he touched me, God, the moment he spoke, I stopped being logical. I stopped being careful. I stopped being myself, and I became his. My body decided before my brain had time to catch up.
Fear wasn’t curled in my stomach when he stepped into the room. It was heat and need. It was the wild, unbearable recognition that this is what I’ve been missing—a dark, unhinged thing I can’t tell anyone about without sounding broken.
I’m not broken. It’s something far darker than that. I’m wired for him… and for this.
I can’t stop picturing him. When he knelt behind me tonight, there was no mistaking his height, his strength, his precision. He’s a man who’s done damage and wouldn’t flinch at doing it again.
