Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 66074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Decision made, I quickly attach the spring hooks to the metal loop beneath the table and adjust the straps so that they’re taut.
I stand back up to my full height, fill my hand with oil that I heat up between my palms, then calmly, I reach over her to place one right in the center of her chest. I stare down into her face, her expression pained, but I know this position isn’t physically hurting her. I could tell by the ease in which I pulled her legs back that her muscles aren’t strained and her joints aren’t aching. It’s purely mental, or possibly partly emotional. This position is one of the most vulnerable, her most intimate parts not only totally exposed but spread open, and her hands being bound above her head means she has absolutely no way of covering herself. She’s completely at my mercy.
“Doll, look at me,” I order, my hand moving up and down from the power behind each of her breaths. When she doesn’t do as I command, I get close to her ear and lower my voice to a purr. If she wants to be able to hear what I say, she’ll have to take control of her breathing. It’s the technique I’ve always used when she’s frozen in fear, only it’s the first time she’s not swaddled in my lap with my entire body acting as the blanket.
“Breathe, my pretty toy. You’re safe with me. Come out of your head and feel my hand on your heart. It’s only me—the man you’ve entrusted to bring you pleasure. You know I’d never do anything to truly hurt you.”
I see, hear, and feel her take a purposefully deeper breath before it stutters on its way back out.
“That’s my strong girl. My brave little doll. Look at you. You make your Dom so fucking proud, my perfect sub. Do it again for me. Deep and slow,” I murmur, and she does, this breath not as choppy on the exhale. “Good girl.”
But as proud as I am that she’s gaining control over this moment of fear, I don’t want her to slip all the way back into the completely surrendered state she was in before quite yet. I needed her responsive now for what I have planned for the rest of our scene.
So instead of continuing to lull her with soft praise, I stand back up as she keeps working on smoothing out her breaths and move my hand from the center of her chest to massage her breast. I reach the other one farther down her body to rub up and down the inside of one lifted thigh, then switch and continue on with the relaxing but arousing manipulation.
When her breathing is back to normal, I look up to see her right foot make a circle in the air. A sign of discomfort she might not even realize she made. Without a word, I head to the opposite end of the table, my nostrils flaring as I force myself to focus on the task at hand instead of the incredible sight before me.
I undo the buckle of one chunky-heeled Mary Jane, then slip it off her pink-sock-covered foot, hearing her sigh. And it’s no wonder—the shoe is heavy as shit. The pressure on her ankles with them weighing her feet down as they were forced to hover in the air would definitely be uncomfortable. I undo the other shoe, watching her face this time as I reverse the infamous Cinderella moment, yet her expression shows the same as the princess’s when her foot slipped into her perfect-fitting glass slipper.
Pure relief.
“Better, pretty dolly?”
“Yes, Master,” she says on an exhale, rolling her feet, and her ankles crack loudly.
I quirk an eyebrow as I watch for what I know is coming, smiling to myself when I see the blush steal across her cheeks.
Fuck, I love her.
I carry the heavy-ass shoes over to the trunk and set them on the floor in front of it, then return to the foot of the table. And I finally allow myself to take in the fantasy come to life that’s bound before me.
Bent legs open wide and all the way back so that her knees reach the outer sides of her breasts, the position is in stark contrast to the implied innocence of the pink socks that stretch from her pointed toes to where they now stop just above the bend. And farther up, the added visual of her arms stretched high above her head, bound together by black leather cuffs around those fragile little wrists…
“If only you could see yourself through my eyes, pretty toy. You’d never again worry that you’re not enough,” I say, reaching over to grab my phone and hoping she doesn’t open her eyes before I have a chance to snap a photo. She looks utterly vulnerable but so at peace about that predicament, and the juxtaposition, the vision she makes, is something I don’t think will ever be topped for the rest of my life. My flash off, I capture what will now be my most prized inanimate possession. I glance at the photo, seeing it’s perfectly lit thanks to the auto adjust feature, and I already know I’ll be printing it small enough for my wallet and large enough to fill an entire wall of our playroom at home.