"You like that, don't you?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"Good."
He pulls and pinches, and a small whimper leaves my throat.
"Do you want me to suck on these pretty tits, amore?"
"God, yes," I pant.
"Too bad."
His hands fall away, and I whimper in disappointment.
He steps away.
The room is silent, and the darkness is disorienting.
I have no idea where he is, but my other senses are heightened.
I can smell the scent of the candles and our food, the wine, and his cologne.
My skin is sensitive. I can feel the silk tie around my eyes, the chill of the air. The brush of my hair against the back of my neck.
My heart beats faster, and adrenaline floods my veins.
I hear him, moving somewhere in the room, the quiet rustle of clothing.
"Mario," I whisper.
"Yes, amore?"
I don't know why I called out his name.
He is here.
He has me.
And I trust him.
I swallow and shift, feeling the wetness between my thighs, the heaviness of my breasts, the pounding of my pulse.
"Do you know why I am punishing you?" he asks.
"For being disobedient," I say.
"Yes," he agrees. "And also because I want to."
I shiver.
"And because you want me to."
He is right.
I have always liked the way he touches me. The way he holds me. The way he fucks me.
But the more confident and comfortable I've become, the more I have learned about what I like.
