He steps close enough that his bare chest nearly touches mine. His cock brushes against my hip—still hard, still wet at the tip—and I make a desperate sound that I can't control.
"Shh." He brushes his lips against my forehead. "Hold still."
His fingers find my right nipple.
He rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, working it until it's even harder than before, until it's a tight peak aching for more contact. The sensation shoots straight to my pussy, making me clench.
Then he attaches the clamp.
The pressure is immediate and intense—not quite pain, but close. A sharp bite that hovers right on the edge of too much. My breath catches in my throat and I arch against the restraints, but there's nowhere to go.
"Color?" he asks.
For a moment, I'm confused. Then I realize, he's asking if I need to safe word. He's asking if he can proceed.
"Green," I gasp. "Green, Master."
Keep going….
He moves to my left nipple.
Same treatment. Rolling and pinching until it's almost unbearably sensitive, then the bite of the clamp closing around it. The chain connecting them pulls taut across my chest, and the weights in the center swing gently with every breath I take.
Each swing tugs at both nipples simultaneously.
I whimper.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."
He returns to the cabinet.
This time when he comes back, he's holding a flogger—soft-looking leather falls attached to a braided handle. He runs the falls through his fingers, letting me watch the way they separate and come back together.
"You know what this is."
"Yes, Master."
"You've written about it."
"Yes, Master."
"Seventeen stories." He drags the falls across my stomach, the leather cool against my heated skin. "In seven of them, the flogger is used on the protagonist's breasts. In ten, it's used on her pussy. In three, both."
The leather trails lower.
"What do you want?" he asks.
I don't know how to answer. I want everything. I want nothing. I want him to make the choice so I don't have to be responsible for whatever comes next.
"Tell me," he commands. The falls brush against my inner thigh. "Be specific."
"I—I want?—"
"Where do you want to feel this?" The leather traces the crease where my thigh meets my hip. "Here?"
I nod.
He brings the flogger back and swings it forward in a gentle arc. The falls connect with my inner thigh—not hard, just a soft thud of sensation that makes my skin tingle.
