Tools of destruction.
"Last chance," he says, closing the door behind us.
The sound of the lock clicking is the loudest thing I've ever heard. "Once we begin, you're mine until I decide otherwise."
I answer by reaching for the zipper of my dress.
"Stop." The command freezes me in place. "You don't do anything without permission. First lesson."
"I'm sorry, I?—"
"Don't apologize. Just obey."
He circles me slowly, like a predator deciding where to strike first. I stay perfectly still, barely breathing.
"You're not new to pain," he observes. "But you're new to this kind of pain. The kind you choose."
How does he know?
How can he possibly?—
"I can see it in the way you hold yourself. Trauma survivor, but not recent. Childhood? No. Adolescent. Something that changed you fundamentally. Made you crave what others fear."
My breath hitches. It's like he's reading my soul.
"Am I right, little lamb?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good. Then you'll understand what I'm about to do to you."
He moves to the cabinet, selecting items with deliberate care.
When he turns back, he's holding rope.
Black silk that looks soft, but I suspect will mark me regardless.
"Strip."
This time, I have permission.
I reach for the zipper, pulling it down slowly.
The dress pools at my feet.
I'm left in black lace that barely covers anything, my heels, and nothing else.
His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes darkens. "Everything except the heels."
My hands shake as I unhook my bra and slide off my panties.
I've never been this exposed, this vulnerable.
David and I had sex with the lights off, partially clothed, under covers.
This is something else entirely.
"Beautiful," he says, but it sounds more like a threat than a compliment. "Turn around. Hands behind your back."
