6. - – Sera
CHAPTER SIX
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SERA
It’s been several weeks since I was brought into this hellhole, but I’m slowly adjusting.
I’ve been granted access to the full house now instead of being trapped inside the dreadful cell, and I’ve taken full advantage of it.
Tonight is different, though. Sir calls it a special night.
Once we arrive, I’m ordered to kneel as someone removes the cloak from my shoulders.
The air kisses my bare skin as Sir steps out, leaving me alone for the first time.
The concrete beneath my knees is too cold, but I don’t move.
When the door opens again, I don’t look up.
I don’t need to because I know it’s him.
“Stand, little captive.”
My legs aren't steady, but I rise slowly.
“Turn.”
The leather brushes the inside of my wrists as he fastens something there, then at the other, the weight balanced like a sentence. A strip of satin settles over my eyes, and the world dissolves.
“Why the blindfold?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Some things are better felt in the dark.”
His fingers skim my shoulders, settling me in the center of the room.
I hear him moving behind me, but another sound captures my attention–the dull scrape of a chair being dragged.
Then another. And another. Two more…three…
I lose count. The room expands in my mind, filled with people cloaked in shadows I can’t see. Panic flutters through me.
“Are there other people here?”
“The truth won’t matter to your body,” he murmurs near my ear.
“I don’t want?—”
“Careful.” A soft warning. “Remember the rules.”
I bite down on the rest. The blindfold feels warm against my cheekbones; the air tastes metallic, like the inside of a battery. A slight tug on the restraints rolls my shoulders back, chest opened and exposed in a way that terrifies me but excites me.
“Kneel, Sera.”
The words land low in my spine as I sink. Somewhere across the room, a chair creaks as if someone shifted to watch more closely. Shame circles my throat like a hand.
“Listen,” he says softly.
There’s a hiss from a vent, a low hum in the wall, my own uneven breathing, and beneath it, a softer sound, a presence I can’t name.
So I tell myself it’s just the room settling.
A fingertip touches beneath my chin, tilting my face upward towards nothing.
The pose feels like both a prayer and an execution.
He moves behind me again, tugging the bindings to align my body the way he wants.
Somewhere to my left, another chair creaks.
“Are there people here?” I ask again, the words spilling free before I can catch them.
“Will that change what you are about to do?” he asks back.
The answer startles me with its clarity. “No, Sir.”
“Honest girl,” he praises softly, stepping in front of me. “Let’s begin.”
He speaks through different commands and silence.
Open your mouth is just a breath. Stay is a hand at the back of my neck.
Good is a hum low in his chest when I hold still the way he wants.
He doesn’t have to tell me what I’m performing or how well I’m doing.
The blindfold does it for him. It hides the audience, the judgement, the shame that blooms hot and confused beneath my skin.
Somewhere in the middle of everything, shame slips its mask.
The heat crawling over my body isn’t terror anymore.
It’s something uglier to admit. But my body draws a conclusion that my mind refuses to sign.
———?———
By the time he drags me over the edge again, the fall becomes its own gravity, one I crave without understanding why. I shiver, dizzy, hating how relief feels when he lets me rest there, balanced on the cusp.
“Sir…” I breathe before I can stop myself.
He pulls away, slow and deliberate, as the buzzing fades, leaving me trembling. A desperate cry escapes me when his tongue presses against my core, collecting everything he’s done to me.
“You were such a good girl for me, Sera.” His voice is quiet between licks, before he sucks my oversensitive clit, drawing another cry from my throat.
Then he releases me and crawls up my body to remove the blind fold.
Light burns my eyes, leaving spots before my vision clears.
When I finally focus, it’s only us. No audience.
He studies my face for a moment before pushing to his feet. “Stand.”
My legs wobble as I rise. His hand catches me, steadying me with a palm at my waist.
“Look at me, Sera.”
I lift my eyes. The words escape before I lose my nerve. “You were right.”
He raises a brow. “About what?”
“That it wouldn’t affect me.”
A beat of silence. Then the corner of his mouth tilts into an almost smile. He unfastens my wrist. The leather falls away, blood rushing back. He doesn’t let go immediately. He stays close enough that I can feel his breath.
“Tomorrow,” he says, “we’ll see how you perform without the blindfold.”
“Will there be an audience?” I ask, unable to help myself.
“Maybe,” he says, turning for the door. “Maybe not.”
And for the first time, the word performance doesn’t sound like punishment. It sounds like a possibility.