My back arches against the cross, my wrists straining at the metal restraints, and my mouth falls open on a sound I don't recognize. It's not a moan or a scream, but something between the two. Something animal, and desperate, and entirely beyond my control.
"Good girl." His voice reaches me through the haze, distant but approving.
The orgasm crests and breaks and I'm gasping for air, my chest heaving, my thighs trembling in the restraints. But he doesn't move the vibrator. He keeps it pressed firmly against my clit, the relentless buzz continuing without pause.
No. No, it's too much, it's?—
Another orgasm builds before the first one has even finished receding. My body doesn't ask permission. My body doesn't care that I'm overstimulated, that my clit is swollen and aching, that every touch feels like electricity arcing through my nervous system. My body responds to the vibration the way it's designed to respond, clenching and releasing and climbing toward another peak whether I want it to or not.
I come again.
This time I do scream, the sound torn from my throat by the intensity of the sensation. My vision blurs at the edges, the jungle dissolving into smears of green and gold while his face remains sharp and focused in front of me. He's watching me fall apart. He's watching me lose control of my own body and he's not stopping.
You're going to come for me over and over until you can't stay conscious anymore.
His words echo in my mind as the third orgasm hits, rolling through me like a wave I can't outrun. My muscles are starting to cramp from the sustained tension. My lungs are burning because I keep forgetting to breathe between the spasms. My thoughts are fragmenting, scattering like papers in a wind I can't control.
This is when it happened before.
The recognition cuts through the pleasure-fog with sudden, sharp clarity.
This is when I started losing time.
I remember the auction. I remember the playroom. I remember coming so hard I blacked out, over and over, waking up in his lap with no memory of how I got there. He called it subspace psychosis afterward, gave me academic citations and clinical terminology, explained it as a documented phenomenon in deeply bonded power exchange relationships.
But I don't want that now.
I don't want to lose this. I don't want to wake up tomorrow and have gaps in my memory where this experience should be. I don't want to watch footage of myself on a screen like I did on Christmas morning, seeing my own face twisted in ecstasy while my conscious mind was somewhere else entirely.
I want to remember.
The fourth orgasm crashes through me and the blackness closes in at the edges of my vision. My body is responding without my mental input now, the way it did before, the physical mechanics of pleasure operating independent of my awareness. I can feel myself slipping, feel the dissociative fog creeping in, feel my consciousness trying to retreat from the overwhelming intensity.
No.
I force my eyes open.
The world is blurry and dark around the edges, but I find his face. I find his eyes. Blue-grey and watchful and fixed on me with an intensity that anchors me when everything else is spinning out of control.
"Red."
The word comes out broken. Barely audible over the buzz of the vibrator and my own ragged breathing. But it comes out.
He stops.
Immediately. Completely. The vibrator disappears from my clit and the sudden absence of stimulation is almost as overwhelming as the stimulation itself. My body keeps spasming, the orgasm still working through my muscles even though the source of it is gone, and I'm trying to breathe but I can't seem to remember how.
I'm hyperventilating.
I recognize the pattern from panic attacks I've had before, the rapid shallow breaths that don't actually deliver oxygen, the racing heart, the tingling in my fingers and toes. But this isn'tpanic. This is something else. This is my body trying to process more sensation than it was designed to handle.
"The blackness," I gasp out. "The—the thing you told me about—subspace?—"
I can't get the words in the right order. They're coming out fragmented, tumbling over each other in my desperation to explain.
"I was losing time again. Like before. The dissociative—the fugue—I don't want to forget?—"
The magnetic restraint opens from my right wrist, then my left. He crouches to release my ankles while I slump against the cross, my legs unable to hold me.
