This feels real.
It feels like more than just a scene, more than just a game he's playing with me. It feels like he means it—the tenderness, the care, the way he's kissing me like I'm something to be savored rather than consumed.
It feels like he wants me.
Not just my body spread open on this cross. Not just my submission and my desperate need.Me. The mess of contradictions, and shame, and hopeless romantic fantasies that I've been trying to hide my entire adult life.
When he finally pulls back, I'm breathless. Dizzy. My lips feel swollen and used in the best possible way.
He strokes his thumb across my cheekbone.
"Wait here," he says, and even though I literally cannot go anywhere, the command sends a shiver down my spine.
He turns and walks toward a cabinet I hadn't noticed before—built into the trunk of a massive tree about ten feet from the cross. It's dark wood, ornate, completely incongruous with the jungle setting around it.
He opens the doors.
Inside, I can see rows of implements hanging on hooks and arranged on shelves. Metal glints in the filtered sunlight. Leather coils. Things I recognize from pictures, and research, and the video of our last experience together.
Nipple clamps.
Floggers.
Crops.
Vibrators of various shapes and sizes.
Things I don't recognize at all—strange shapes and configurations that make my imagination run wild trying to figure out what they're for.
He takes his time selecting.
I watch his back—the muscles shifting beneath tattooed skin, the confident way he moves, the deliberate consideration hegives each item before choosing or discarding it. He's building anticipation. Making me wait. Making me wonder what he's going to do to me next.
The voices in the jungle have gone completely silent. There's no sound except the distant call of birds and the pounding of my own heart.
He turns back toward me with something in his hands.
I can't see what it is, he's holding it tight in his fist as he slowly approaches me.
My body tenses with anticipation. My pussy clenches. My nipples ache.
"Do you know what these are?" He holds up a pair of clamps connected by a delicate chain. The clamps themselves have small screws for adjusting tension, and the chain has weights hanging from its center.
I nod.
"Say it."
"Nipple clamps, Master."
"Do you remember when I put these on you after the auction?"
"No, Master."
"But you've written about them." It's not a question. He knows. He's read everything I've ever posted. "Twenty-three of your forty-seven stories include nipple clamps in some form. Usually adjustable. Usually weighted. Usually applied while the protagonist is restrained and unable to protect herself."
I swallow hard.
"You're going to feel them now," he says. "You're going to understand exactly what you've been making your characters endure."
