The mattress dips under my weight as I climb onto it. I position myself facing what I assume is the headboard, though without sight I'm navigating purely by his commands.
"Spread your knees wider. Show me what's mine tonight."
Heat spreads through me, settling low in my belly. I shift my knees apart on the mattress, feeling the cool air against my most intimate parts. The vulnerability is almost overwhelming—bound, blindfolded, kneeling with my legs spread wide enough that I'm completely exposed to his gaze.
I've performed this position dozens of times. But without the ability to see Luc's reaction, without the visual feedback that usually lets me calibrate my response, I'm adrift. Exposed in ways that have nothing to do with physical nudity. I can't see if he's pleased, can't track his movements, can't anticipate what comes next.
His hand trails up the inside of my thigh—slow, deliberate, callused fingers dragging against sensitive skin. My muscles jump at the contact. He takes his time, tracing patterns on my inner thigh while I wait, breathing faster, hyperaware of how wet I already am.
When his fingers finally reach the apex of my thighs, sliding through my folds, I'm already slick with arousal.
"Fuck. Soaked." The words come out low, almost a growl.
"Yes, Sir." Because what else can I say? It's true. My body is responding in ways I can't control, can't perform my way through.
"For me? Or just another scene?"
I freeze. I've spent years performing submission, convincing myself that the rush was enough, that chasing the high meant I was actually surrendering. But kneeling here bound and blindfolded, feeling Luc's fingers slide through the evidence of my arousal, I can't pretend anymore.
"I don't know," I admit. "I don't know the difference."
"Let me show you." His fingers withdraw. "Lean forward. Chest to the bed. Ass in the air."
I fold forward, pressing my face against the cool sheets. My bound wrists rest against the small of my back. My ass is raised, completely vulnerable to whatever he wants to do. The position makes my face burn, makes my breath come faster.
His hand strokes down my spine. "Perfect. Bound. Blindfolded. Waiting for me to decide."
I search for a response—some witty comeback that maintains my control. But all I can manage is a shaky breath.
Something trails across my ass—soft, multiple strands. The flogger. I recognize the sensation from scenes with Vincent, from dozens of negotiated sessions where I knew what was coming. But my body's already responding differently. No mental checklist of what comes next. Just waiting for whatever Luc decides.
"Warming you up. Light, then harder until your skin's burning." No question. No explanation. "Color after every tenth strike."
"Yes, Sir."
The first strike lands across my ass—gentle, barely more than a caress. The soft leather strands kiss my skin, warming without real impact. The second is the same. Then the third. By the fifth strike, I'm relaxing into the rhythm, my breathing evening out.
Then he changes everything. The flogger lands higher, catching the curve where my ass meets my back, and the force behind it makes the strands bite. Sharp sting that pulls a gasp from my throat.
"Better." His voice is dark. "I want to hear you break."
"Count. Out loud."
The flogger strikes, harder than before. "One." Again, the sting sharp and deep. "Two." The third lands even harder. "Three." My voice is already shaking.
He's not building slowly anymore. Each strike lands with deliberate force, the leather strands wrapping around the curve of my ass, catching the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. By seven, my skin is burning. By eight, I'm gasping between counts. Nine pulls a whimper from me that I can't suppress.
The tenth strike bites across already heated flesh. "Ten."
"Color?"
"Green, Sir." Though my ass feels like it's on fire, the burn settling deep into my muscles.
"Good girl. Pink and marked. Darker. Ten more."
This set lands harder. The flogger's strands bite into already sensitized skin, each strike building on the last until the pain is sharp enough to steal my breath.
The first strike pulls a gasp. "One." The second makes me flinch. "Two." By the third, I'm not calculating how much more I can take anymore. Just feeling. The sting. The burn. The way my whole body is pulled tight and trembling. "Three."
