15. Bastien Montclaire
Bastien Montclaire
Laurette believes I’ve kept my distance. But obsession doesn’t come with boundaries.
I’ve been in the shadows for days, listening to every breath, savoring every shift in her rhythm, memorizing the way her body speaks when it thinks no one’s listening.
She plays with her pussy more now—every morning, every night. She always starts slowly, teasing herself as if control still matters. But it never lasts. She’s thinking of me as she chases her release, chasing the promise of how I’ll make her unravel.
This much, I know.
I’ve watched every moment and waited… not out of patience but precision. I want her steeped in anticipation, marinating in the unknown.
Let her pulse race.
Let her second-guess every sound in the dark.
She hasn’t withdrawn consent or tossed the phone. She wants this.
And now… it’s time.
I sit at my desk, the black satin blindfold coiled on the wood like a sin waiting to strike. Beside it lies a sheer black slip—delicate, nearly translucent, a fabric that begs to be touched and peeled away. No panties. Just temptation.
I fold the blindfold once and slip it into the gift box. Solid black with velvet ribbon, every detail executed with care. A silent promise of what’s coming.
The notecard is the same as before. Cream linen, monogrammed with a subtle black B.
The ink flows in deep black strokes, laid down with the same precision as last time. Script that demands to be read like a command.
My handwriting is neat. Masculine. Deliberate. Controlled.
Laurette,
Tonight 10:00 p.m.
Wait for me in your bedroom with the lights off. Wear the slip, nothing underneath. Blindfold yourself. Kneel on the bed facing the headboard.
If you’re ready to play, leave your front door unlocked. That will be my signal—and your consent.
—B
I can see it already. She’ll read the message, and her breath will catch. Her fingers will tremble. She’ll hover by the front door, questioning everything, wondering whether unlocking it is a mistake—or the most right thing she’s ever done.
And if she leaves the door unlocked?
She’s mine. Completely.
I take the box and lock the door behind me as I step into the night. She lives twelve minutes away. It only takes ten.
Anticipation sharpens into impatience, but I don’t rush. That tension—tight and aching—is part of the hunger.
She isn’t home yet. I’ve been monitoring her routine all week. Home by 8:40 p.m., precise as clockwork. It’s already dark.
The cover of night wraps around me as I move toward her mailbox. She could arrive any second. I like that—the risk of being seen, the thrill of being caught by her.
At the mailbox, I slide my gift and note inside, close the door, and walk back to my vehicle.
I have my laptop open before I’m even in the seat. One click, and her security feeds bloom across the screen.
I watch as she parks and gets out. Heels clicking. Hair twisted high. Blouse tucked into that tight black skirt.
She doesn’t check the mailbox. Not yet. She grabs her bag and disappears inside.
Five minutes pass, and she comes back out.
She sees my gift the moment she opens the mailbox and stares at it for a beat. Her fingers hover before they move, but she doesn’t open it there.
I watch her through the living room feed as she steps in, locks the door behind her, and sets the box down. She hesitates before opening it.
When she lifts the lid, her expression fractures.
She lifts the blindfold as if it were a snake ready to strike. She doesn’t flinch or drop it, but her breath catches, her mouth parting.
“It’s not only a blindfold, Laurette. It’s a promise, and you already said yes.”
I zoom in. Her pulse flutters at her throat, and that flicker gives her away. She’s feeling the rush.
Mine now.
Her hands tremble as she reads the card. Once. Twice. Maybe a third time.
She clutches the blindfold, her fingers curling tightly around the satin. She presses the card to her chest, eyes closed, breathing slowly.
That’s when I’m certain her front door will be unlocked tonight.
She may fight, may shiver. She may question every cell in her body now that darkness has fallen.
But she won’t run.
She wants this.
She wants me.
Tonight she’ll kneel, waiting, offering herself not in words but in posture.
I sit in my Escalade and continue watching her feeds, the glow of the laptop a second moon. She lingers in the bathroom for a while, reappears, and disappears again. I can’t see inside that room, but I like not knowing. The guessing sharpens the hunger.
It’s 9:59 when I slip out of the vehicle and cross her lawn. The front door is unlocked.
Consent confirmed.
I move as a shadow, hoodie up, every camera angle already mapped in my head. Blind spots noted. She won’t catch my face on any feed. Not yet. I’ll be a ghost until I decide otherwise.
The door yields beneath my hand, my invitation inside, and I step in. The smell in the air hits me first. Undeniably her. Something soft and floral beneath sharper notes of wood polish and burning candles.
Every room is quiet. I move slowly and deliberately, my footsteps soft and measured.
I already know this space. The couch faces the north wall with a throw draped over the arm. Law journals are stacked on the coffee table. The hallway is to the left of the console table.
Her surveillance gave me the blueprint, but being here gives it flesh.
The hallway stretches ahead, a corridor to something sacred. Dim light from a nightlight slants across the hardwood, and the bedroom waits at the end.
Each step is precise, but my pulse doesn’t follow suit. It pounds behind my ribs.
This isn’t nerves. It’s need.
Not caution. Hunger.
At the edge of her doorway, I stop. Shadows cloak her bedroom, touched only by the spill of a full moon through the curtains.
She’s there.
Kneeling. Still. Waiting.
I don’t step inside yet. The sight I’ve craved is already laid bare—the curve of her spine, the elegant slope of her shoulders, the black satin blindfold in place.
She kneels on the bed, legs folded beneath her, arms relaxed at her sides, palms resting on top of her thighs.
She’s still and silent, listening for me.
She hasn’t worked out that I’m already here.
This is what consent looks like, stripped bare. A woman, blindfolded and exposed, choosing to trust a monster with no name. Only an initial.
The sheer black slip clings to her. Thin. Translucent. It betrays the curve of her breasts, the line of her waist, the tension coiled tight in her thighs. She’s wearing exactly what I told her to and nothing else. This is the kind of obedience that drives men insane.
My cock throbs behind my zipper.
The door shuts behind me with a soft click, sealing us in shadow and breath. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t flinch, but I see it—the ripple that dances across her skin the moment she hears my footsteps.
She knows I’m here. And she’s ready.
I move closer, each step slow and deliberate, letting the weight of my presence coil around her, a noose of breath and nerves.
“Good girl.”
She jumps, just a twitch, but it’s enough.
I stop at the edge of the bed and watch her breathe. Her shoulders rise and fall, waves on the verge of breaking, held back only by sheer will… or submission.
“You followed my instructions beautifully.”
The words curl around her, and God, the way her body responds is fucking art. Her thighs tense. Her lips part. Her head tilts slightly, not in fear, but in hunger.
She likes my praise.
“Look at you, Laurette. So still. So ready. Your body already knows who it belongs to.”
A soft sound slips from her lips. Nothing coherent, but it’s there—the sound of submission wrapped in arousal.
I don’t touch her. Not yet. I want her to ache for it and crave the weight of my hands before they land.
“You like hearing that, don’t you?” My voice is a whisper. “Being called good. Being told you did well.”
She nods.
God, she’s exquisite. And this is only the beginning.
I move closer, a predator slowly closing in on its prey, until I’m standing behind her.
She tenses. Not from fear, but from anticipation. I know the difference. My line of work has trained me to read every kind of terror. This isn’t that. It’s desire, coiled tight and begging to be unwound.
My hand lifts, hovers, and I trace a single fingertip along the delicate curve of her neck.
She exhales and leans into my touch.
I trail lower, gliding down the slope of her shoulder, along the length of her arm, then across the edge of her back where her spine dips.
Her breath stutters.
I allow my palm to flatten and move it upward, pressing lightly between her shoulder blades. “You’re trembling for me.”
She doesn’t speak or move. But her body answers for her, shivering beneath my touch.
I lean in, letting my words drip hot into the shell of her ear. “I like that.”
Another shiver—beautiful and controlled.
My fingers sweep from her neck again, this time gliding across her collarbone until she bites her lip to keep from making a sound. Her jaw tenses beneath my knuckle as I trace along it.
“Your thighs are clenching,” I say, voice thick with heat.
She gasps, and her body betrays her in the best way. I catch every tell—the hitch in her chest, the subtle sway of her hips, the way she leans ever so slightly toward where she thinks I’ll be.
God, I bet she’s soaked, and I haven’t touched her where it counts.
But I already fucking know.
I graze her waist, ghosting along her side. I want her mind unraveling and the space between her legs aching with anticipation.
“You like this—not knowing what comes next, not being able to see me.”
She nods, barely, but it’s enough.
“You’re such a good girl, Laurette. If I touched your pussy right now…” I lean in, voice a growl. “I bet I’d find it soaked for me. So fucking wet.”
She shudders, beautiful and helpless.
I could make her scream, have her begging, unraveling, breaking in the sweetest way. But I won’t. Not tonight.