She complies, lowering herself onto the crinkling paper. I'm already moving to the end of the table before she's fully settled, my hands reaching for her knees, pulling her bent legs down toward the stirrups, then spreading them open.
She gasps, her whole body tensing. "What—what are we doing?"
I don't answer. Don't waste words on explanations she doesn't need. Instead, I cup the heel of her left foot in my palm and guide it firmly into the waiting stirrup, the cold metal a stark contrast against her warm skin.
"Oh, god," she moans, the sound half terror, half arousal.
I allow myself a small smile as I guide her right foot into the other stirrup, spreading her legs wide, exposing her completely.
Because she knows exactly what we're doing.
She's written this scene six times, in six different stories.
The vulnerable position, the clinical setting, the loss of control.
She knows, and the knowledge is already making her wet.
Now she just has to live it.
