I lose track of time.
He keeps me in that space—between instruction and sensation, between reward and denial—until I’m shaking and sweating, my body drawn so tight I don’t know how I’m still upright. My knees ache. My breath is shallow. And I still want more.
When the blindfold finally lifts, I blink hard against the light and meet his gaze. He looks calm. Too calm, like this hasn’t just been an exercise in unraveling me one inch at a time.
“You ready to stand?” he asks.
I nod, but my legs say otherwise.
He smiles, soft and smug, and hauls me to my feet without any effort at all. I sway a little, and he steadies me with one hand at my waist, the other braced under my arm.
“Lean on me,” he says.
I do. Because at this point, I’d probably walk into traffic if he asked nicely enough.
He unbuckles my cuffs slowly, massaging each wrist after, and I melt under the pressure of his thumbs. It feels unfair, how good it is. How tender.
“Color check?” he asks.
“Still green,” I whisper.
“Even with what’s next?”
I frown, but he doesn’t explain. Instead, he gestures toward the center of the room, where there’s a steel structure anchored to the ceiling and floor. Not sharp or brutal, but elegant—like a sculptural cross, with wide arms and solid rings at each corner.
“Up,” he says, guiding me toward it. “Hands over the top bar.”
I hesitate for only a second then do what he asks.
He doesn’t rush. He runs his hands along my arms, kisses the inside of my elbow, then clips a soft leather restraint around each wrist.
He steps back and lets me feel the weight of it. The pull of my own body, stretched just enough to feel bared and open. I’m still standing, but only just.
“Spread your legs.”
My ankles shift. He doesn’t even have to touch me. My body’s already anticipating him.
He watches me with a kind of reverence that makes my throat tighten. It’s not lust alone—it’s something heavier. Like he’s cataloging me. Memorizing every flicker.
“You’re mine in this moment,” he says. “Not because I took you. Because you gave. Do you understand that?”
I nod. “Yes, Sir.”
He strips his shirt off as he walks behind me. I hear his belt fall, then the sound of foil and the rip of a condom wrapper.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
When he presses in close, his chest against my back, I go still. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs grazing the clamps stilllocked on my nipples. The pressure sends a jolt straight through me.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs.
Then he moves lower. His cock rubs against me through the soaked fabric of my panties.
“Feel that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You know what I’m going to do now?”
