The cuffs are tight around my wrists and ankles, secured beneath the bed. I test them, feeling the resistance, and a quiet hum of satisfaction escapes him.
"Good," he murmurs. "You're mine to play with now."
I swallow, my breath unsteady, that now familiar mix of fear and excitement curling in my stomach. The city glows beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, lights flickering like distant stars, but my world has shrunk to this bed, these bindings, and him.
He pulls a blindfold from the drawer, and I gasp at the sight. We've talked about it but never used it. He lifts a brow in silent question. I nod.
"I want you to feel everything as it happens tonight. No anticipation. Just sensation."
He fastens the blindfold over my eyes, plunging me into darkness. For a long moment, there's nothing--only waiting, my body taut with expectation. Then, something soft. A whisper of sensation against my collarbone, so faint I almost imagine it. Again--delicate, teasing along the dip of my throat. A feather.
He moves it slowly, tracing lazy, unpredictable patterns. Down my sternum, swirling over my ribs. I arch, searching for more pressure. The teasing touch sends shivers across my skin, every nerve on edge. I try to predict its path, but he never lingers where I expect.
A low chuckle. "So responsive."
The feather trails along the inside of my arm, the soft skin of my elbow, then lower--circling my stomach in slow, widening arcs. A flicker of sensation over my navel, my hip bones. My breath catches as it drifts between my thighs, never quite where I need it. I moan, the frustration thick in my throat.
"Sensitive?" he asks, amusement lacing his voice.
I nod, my body trembling with need, but the feather continues its torturous path, dancing close--too close--without giving me relief. The contrast is maddening. Such a small thing, such a soft touch, yet it leaves me aching, desperate.
I whimper, hips tilting instinctively, but he pulls away.
Then--nothing. Just waiting. The weight of anticipation is unbearable.
And then--
Cold.
I gasp as ice glides over my stomach, the shock stealing my breath. It trails up between my breasts, leaving a chilled path, then circles each nipple, drawing them into hard peaks. I bite my lip, twisting in my bonds, the need spiraling higher. The ice travels lower, melting, a single droplet slipping over my navel.
"Still with me?" His voice is smooth, entertained.
"Y-yes."
I whimper, twisting, but there's no escape. No relief from the slow, deliberate torment.
The ice slides lower--over my ribs, my stomach--its path erratic. Sometimes smooth, sometimes pausing just long enough for the cold to seep deep into my skin. He presses it against my hip, holds it there until it begins to melt, a single drop tracing an agonizing path downward.
Then--lower still.
I gasp as the ice skims the inside of my thigh, traveling higher, higher--only to retreat, leaving only cold and longing behind. I let out a frustrated sound, my body arching instinctively, silently begging.
A low chuckle. "So eager," he muses. "But not yet."
The ice disappears.
Then--warmth.
His mouth replaces it, his tongue smoothing over the same path, chasing away the cold with heat. The contrast is electric, sending a fresh wave of sensation through me. He takes his time, retracing his teasing, his touch firm, knowing, possessive.
He plants slow, deliberate kisses along my inner thigh, following the path of the melted ice. I strain against the restraints, desperate for more.
I feel his breath, a breeze of warmth against my aching center.
"Oh, were you hoping I'd kiss you... here?" he teases, brushing a single knuckle over my clit.
I shudder, a sharp cry escaping me. "Yes. Please."
Another chuckle. "I don't think you're ready yet."
His tongue retraces its steps--up my thigh, to my hips, over my navel. Then, higher, circling my nipple. I arch up, seeking more, only to be met with withdrawal.
"No, no," he murmurs. "I decide what you can have. You have to be patient."
