“You’re going to feel things one at a time. No rushing. No guessing. Just reactions.”
I nod, but he waits.
“Yes, Sir,” I whisper.
The first touch is silk—literal silk, a ribbon maybe, dragged across my breasts and down my stomach. I arch into it without thinking. The second is firmer, leather maybe, tapping each thigh in turn. I don’t flinch. I brace.
“That’s it,” he says. “Stay in it. Let me learn you.”
He tests me—light pressure here, firmer there, a slow stroke between my thighs that doesn’t linger but leaves heat behind. He praises everything.
“Good.”
“Like that.”
“Beautiful reaction.”
When he slips something cold against my nipple, I jolt. It clamps tight and holds. I gasp and he steadies me with a hand on my shoulder.
“You’ll thank me for that later.”
There’s a second one, then warmth as his mouth closes over the sensitive skin just above. I moan, throat tight.
“You feel that?” he asks.
“Yes, Sir.”
“You’re doing perfectly.”
I don’t even know what’s next. He keeps me guessing, keeps me waiting, keeps me strung somewhere between desperate and adored.
Then something vibrates between my legs—low, steady, and nowhere near enough.
I groan.
“Say thank you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He turns it up one notch. My hips roll. I can’t stop them.
“You’re not allowed to come,” he reminds me gently. “But you can beg.”
I want to. God, I want to.
“Please,” I manage. “Please let me?—”
“No.”
The toy disappears. I cry out before I can stop myself, and then he’s there again, kneeling behind me, fingers stroking my inner thighs like he’s soothing something wild.
“You want to earn it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then we keep going.”
And we do.