Chapter 7
SIMONE
The blindfold steals everything except sensation. I can't see Luc, can't track his movements, can't anticipate what comes next. My world narrows to the sound of his breathing, the floor beneath my knees, the vulnerability of being naked and kneeling for him.
"Color?" His voice comes from somewhere to my left.
"Green." The word comes out steadier than I feel.
"Good girl." Footsteps circle me slowly. I fight the instinct to turn my head, track his location. "Stay there. Listen. Don't interrupt."
"Yes, Sir."
"I’m binding your wrists. Then positioning you on the bed." He pauses. "See how well you follow commands when you can't negotiate."
My pulse kicks up. This is different from anything Vincent ever did. Vincent let me direct, let me control the parameters, let me stop when the endorphins hit their peak and I'd had enough. Luc's not offering that option.
"Pain. Pleasure. Whatever breaks through the act." His hand settles on my shoulder, warm and certain. "Use your safeword only if you need to. That is the only control that still rests with you. Clear?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Stand."
I rise on shaky legs. The blindfold throws off my balance, makes me hyperaware of my nakedness, the cool air against my skin. Luc's hands guide me forward—not roughly, but with absolute certainty that I'll follow where he leads.
"Stop." His hands leave me. "Arms behind your back. Wrists crossed."
I obey, feeling the vulnerability of the position. My breasts are exposed, thrust forward by the arch of my spine. My body is completely open to whatever he wants to do. The air conditioning raises goosebumps across my skin.
The rope slides against my wrists—soft, well-maintained, the kind of quality equipment Dominion stocks in every private room.
He wraps it with practiced efficiency, each loop deliberate and controlled.
The rope whispers against my skin as he creates the column tie, cinching my wrists together without cutting off circulation.
I can feel the shift as the rope tightens—not painfully, but securely enough that I know I won't be freeing myself. Each pass of the rope reminds me that I chose this. That I said yes. That I'm giving him control I've never truly given anyone before.
"Too tight?" His breath is warm against my ear, his body close enough that I can feel his heat.
"No, Sir."
His hands skim up my arms, across my shoulders, fingertips trailing over skin in a touch that's both possessive and assessing. Testing my reactions. Mapping my body. "Walk. Three steps."
I take three careful steps, trusting him not to let me walk into anything. My shins bump against something soft—the bed.
"Kneel. Edge of the bed. Face the headboard."
The mattress dips under my weight as I climb onto it. I position myself facing what I assume is the headboard, though without sight I'm navigating purely by his commands.
"Spread your knees wider. Show me what's mine tonight."
Heat spreads through me, settling low in my belly. I shift my knees apart on the mattress, feeling the cool air against my most intimate parts. The vulnerability is almost overwhelming—bound, blindfolded, kneeling with my legs spread wide enough that I'm completely exposed to his gaze.
I've performed this position dozens of times.
But without the ability to see Luc's reaction, without the visual feedback that usually lets me calibrate my response, I'm adrift.
Exposed in ways that have nothing to do with physical nudity.
I can't see if he's pleased, can't track his movements, can't anticipate what comes next.
His hand trails up the inside of my thigh—slow, deliberate, callused fingers dragging against sensitive skin. My muscles jump at the contact. He takes his time, tracing patterns on my inner thigh while I wait, breathing faster, hyperaware of how wet I already am.
When his fingers finally reach the apex of my thighs, sliding through my folds, I'm already slick with arousal.
"Fuck. Soaked." The words come out low, almost a growl.
"Yes, Sir." Because what else can I say? It's true. My body is responding in ways I can't control, can't perform my way through.
"For me? Or just another scene?"
I freeze. I've spent years performing submission, convincing myself that the rush was enough, that chasing the high meant I was actually surrendering. But kneeling here bound and blindfolded, feeling Luc's fingers slide through the evidence of my arousal, I can't pretend anymore.
"I don't know," I admit. "I don't know the difference."
"Let me show you." His fingers withdraw. "Lean forward. Chest to the bed. Ass in the air."
I fold forward, pressing my face against the cool sheets. My bound wrists rest against the small of my back. My ass is raised, completely vulnerable to whatever he wants to do. The position makes my face burn, makes my breath come faster.
His hand strokes down my spine. "Perfect. Bound. Blindfolded. Waiting for me to decide."
I search for a response—some witty comeback that maintains my control. But all I can manage is a shaky breath.
Something trails across my ass—soft, multiple strands.
The flogger. I recognize the sensation from scenes with Vincent, from dozens of negotiated sessions where I knew what was coming.
But my body's already responding differently.
No mental checklist of what comes next. Just waiting for whatever Luc decides.
"Warming you up. Light, then harder until your skin's burning." No question. No explanation. "Color after every tenth strike."
"Yes, Sir."
The first strike lands across my ass—gentle, barely more than a caress. The soft leather strands kiss my skin, warming without real impact. The second is the same. Then the third. By the fifth strike, I'm relaxing into the rhythm, my breathing evening out.
Then he changes everything. The flogger lands higher, catching the curve where my ass meets my back, and the force behind it makes the strands bite. Sharp sting that pulls a gasp from my throat.
"Better." His voice is dark. "I want to hear you break."
"Count. Out loud."
The flogger strikes, harder than before. "One." Again, the sting sharp and deep. "Two." The third lands even harder. "Three." My voice is already shaking.
He's not building slowly anymore. Each strike lands with deliberate force, the leather strands wrapping around the curve of my ass, catching the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. By seven, my skin is burning. By eight, I'm gasping between counts. Nine pulls a whimper from me that I can't suppress.
The tenth strike bites across already heated flesh. "Ten."
"Color?"
"Green, Sir." Though my ass feels like it's on fire, the burn settling deep into my muscles.
"Good girl. Pink and marked. Darker. Ten more."
This set lands harder. The flogger's strands bite into already sensitized skin, each strike building on the last until the pain is sharp enough to steal my breath.
The first strike pulls a gasp. "One." The second makes me flinch. "Two." By the third, I'm not calculating how much more I can take anymore. Just feeling. The sting. The burn. The way my whole body is pulled tight and trembling. "Three."
I lose track of the individual sensations somewhere around five, each strike blurring into the next wave of burning pain.
The seventh strike makes me whimper before I can force out the count. "Seven—" The eighth pulls a sharper cry. "Eight—" I'm biting my lip hard enough to hurt. "Nine—"
The tenth strike lands across both ass cheeks and wraps around to catch my hip. I cry out, the sound raw and unfiltered. "Ten."
"Color?"
"Green." I'm shaking. "Green, Sir."
The flogger drops. His hand smooths over my heated skin, and the contrast between his cool palm and my burning ass makes me shudder. Then his fingers trail down, ghosting over the welts I can feel rising on my skin. Lower, sliding between my legs.
"Fuck. Dripping." His voice goes rough. "You liked the pain. Liked having no control."
I can't answer. Can't form words when his fingers are sliding through the evidence of how much my body responded.
"Answer me."
"Yes, Sir." My voice is wrecked. "I liked it."
"You'll like this more." His fingers push inside me, two at once, and the sudden fullness makes me clench around him. "Wet. Ready. Your body knows what it needs."
I can't stop the moan that escapes when his fingers curl, searching, then finding that spot deep inside that makes my back arch involuntarily.
"Real response. Not the act." He works that spot with brutal precision, hitting it again and again until my breath stutters. "This is you finally feeling it."
I can't argue. Can't defend myself. Because he's right. My body is betraying every lie I've told myself for years.
"Fucking you now." His fingers withdraw, leaving me empty and aching. "Every inch. You're going to take my cock exactly like this. This pussy is mine."
I hear the rustle of leather, the sound of laces being pulled. Then his hands grip my hips, fingers digging in hard enough that I know I'll have bruises tomorrow.
"Spread wider. Open."
I obey, my thighs trembling as I shift position. The movement makes my ass burn where the flogger marked me, another layer of sensation I can't escape.
The blunt head of his cock presses against my entrance. He's big—I can feel that immediately, the thick pressure that promises a stretch I'm not entirely prepared for.
"Breathe."
I inhale, and he slams forward. Not slowly. Not giving me time to adjust. One brutal thrust that splits me open and forces my body to take all of him.
The stretch burns. He's thick enough that I feel every inch as he sinks deeper, my body clenching reflexively around the invasion. It borders on too much—the fullness, the pressure, the way he doesn't stop even when I gasp.
"Fuck. Tight." His grip on my hips tightens. "Squeezing my cock."