Content warning: Intense BDSM dynamics, rope bondage, consensual non-consent play
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He didn't fuck me that night.
He tied me.
Not like before. This was something else—artistic, cruel, beautiful.
The room was dim, lit only by a row of amber spotlights aimed at the large padded platform in the center. Damien stood at the edge, wearing nothing but dark slacks and black leather gloves.
"Tonight," he said, voice calm, "you learn what surrender really means."
He gestured.
"Come. Crawl."
I moved to him on hands and knees, heart pounding. He took my chin between his fingers and kissed me—slow, possessive.
Then he turned me around and began his work.
It started with rope.
Soft, Japanese silk rope in blood red. He bound my arms behind me in a chest harness, wrapping around and under my breasts until they were swollen and sensitive, nipples aching.
Next, he looped the rope around my waist, hips, thighs. It wasn't just restraint—it was a web. A cage. Every knot pressed against the right places, every pull of tension reminded me I wasn't in control.
And when he slid a thick, vibrating plug into me without warning, I screamed. My knees buckled, my thighs trembled.
"I want you to feel full even when I'm not inside you," he said coldly.
I was already dripping. Already ruined.
But he wasn't done.
He laid me on the platform and adjusted my body like a sculptor. Ankles tied to each corner. Wrists bound above my head. My back arched from the tension of the rope.
Exposed. Helpless.
He sat at the edge of the bed, watching me for a full minute in silence. The vibrator inside me hummed low. Not enough to make me come, but enough to torment.
"You're art," he murmured. "And art must be touched."
He began with a feather.
It danced along my thighs, my ribs, the curves of my breasts. I trembled, trying to move—but the ropes held firm.
Then came the ice.
He dragged a cube along my inner thigh. My breath hitched. Then across my nipple—sharp contrast against heat. It puckered instantly. I moaned.
"You don't get to beg," he said. "You just take it."
Then he turned on the vibrator to full strength.
I screamed.
It was too much. Too fast. I writhed, hips jerking as much as the bondage allowed. My climax crashed over me like fire and thunder.
"Again," he ordered.
The vibrations stayed. He pinched my nipples. Kissed the tattoo he'd claimed me with.
And I came again. Shaking. Crying. Mind blank.
By the time he removed the plug, my body was limp, sweat-slicked, my inner thighs soaked.
Then—and only then—he slid inside me.
Slow. Deep. Merciless.
No words.
Just the sound of wet skin, of gasping breath, of ownership.
When he came, it was with a low growl against my neck, his teeth grazing my skin.
He didn't untie me.
He held me like that. Still bound. Still trembling.
And whispered in my ear, "You were made to be mine."
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That night, I didn't dream.
I floated.
Bound to him.
In body.
In soul.
And maybe… even in love.