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Lydia’s sharp inhale fills the void the second she spots me exiting the closet with my bag in hand. Her eyes flick to the mask, then trail down and down, locking onto my throbbing cock. She licks her lips, adjusting herself until she’s leaning back against her palms. Her head tilts, her legs opening a fraction wider.

A deep groan rumbles within my chest as I come closer, stopping when I meet the edge of the mattress. I toss the bag beside her, and neither of us bothers to glance over as it tumbles from the bed and falls to the floor. I drag my gaze over her, marveling at the way the leather and chains cling to her form like it was fucking made for her. Her hard nipples pebble against the top as she swallows, making the little bell around her collar jingle ever so slightly.

Fuuuck.

She tracks my gaze all the way down to her center, the middle of the outfit opening up to her already glistening pussy. She spreads her legs wider, giving me a better view, and I have to fist my hands at my sides to stop myself from devouring every inch of what lies before me. Patience, I tell myself. Shibari is slow and deliberate, never rushed.

“What’s in the bag, sunshine?” she asks, her eyes fixed on mine. She lifts a hand, trailing her fingers down the center of her chest, over the fabric, and all the way down—

“Stop,” I order, my voice thick like gravel as I reach out and grab her wrist in my hand.

She gasps, arching her back and pushing her tits forward. She lifts her gaze to mine, pinning me with a glare that lets me know she enjoys being dominated as much as I enjoy dominating her.

Lydia Thorne isn’t exactly a submissive woman, but in this room, she allows me to be everything that I need to be. She submits to me in every way, willingly. Dropping her wrist, I reach over to grab the bag in question, placing it on the mattress beside her.

“I’ve been studying a new technique,” I say, reaching into the bag to remove the hemp rope.

Her eyes drop to the rope, studying it with inquisitive curiosity. I smirk and feed the line through my hands, letting the coarse fibers drag across my skin so that I can imagine what she’s going to feel. Her lips part as she watches, her breath shallow as the anticipation settles between us.

“Do you trust me, love?” I ask, needing her consent before I begin. Shibari is as much about trust as it is about dominance.

“With everything in me,” she responds, her voice nothing more than a breathy whisper.

I nod, placing a finger over the mouth of my mask to show that this is a nonverbal exercise and disobedience will result in punishment. The air around us seems to stand still at my silent command, leaving behind only the slow thrum of trust as she nods back in utter surrender. Her eyes darken with the kind of understanding that borders on desire, though I don’t miss the hint of defiance that’s always present. Leaning forward, I lift her up and onto her knees.

“This looks fucking amazing on you,” I say, running the rope over her body to let her get used to the feel of it before she’s restrained within it.

She shivers as I run the fibers over her breast, rubbing harder once the rope finds her nipple. She moans, leaning into me as I continue to drag the rope down over the perfect curve of her hip. I drag it across to the apex of her thigh, pausing to catch a glimpse of the way she bites hard on her lower lip to stop herself from speaking.

A dark chuckle escapes me as I nudge the rope to the left until the abrasive fiber hits the exact spot I want. I know it when she lets her head fall back, and her lips part on a moan that fills the air with her sweet sounds of pleasure. I run my opposite hand up her body and over her throat, turning her forward roughly until her eyes are on mine.

“I want your eyes only on me, little siren,” I say, releasing her throat on a tight squeeze as I run my hand back down her body and toward her pussy. Sinking two fingers deep inside of her, I continue to rub the rope in slow circles over her sensitive flesh.

“That’s it, love,” I say, watching to make sure her eyes stay locked on mine. “I want to watch you come apart for me.”

I pump my fingers faster, flipping them until I find what I want. The whimper that fills the air lets me know I’m exactly where she needs me to be.

“That’s it,” I say, tracing the letter “C” followed by “A” right over her G spot. “Scream it for me, love.”

The rope slips from my hand as I continue to spell out my name with my fingers until she’s coming all over them and screaming it to the canopy overhead. That’ll cost her, but I allow it, because there’s truly no sweeter sound.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” I say, drawing out every drop of pleasure before pulling my fingers from inside of her.

I bring them up to her mouth, smearing them over her lips. She parts them, and I shove my fingers to the back of her throat until she gags. Her bright eyes water as her lips snap shut and she sucks hard.

“Fuck, Lydia,” I groan.

Her lips pull upward as she circles her tongue and runs it over my fingers at a painfully slow pace while I watch with fervent desire. She releases my fingers, and I have to grab my cock in my opposite hand and fist it a couple of times to resist the urge to take her now. If anything, this whole experience is testing my patience.

Ah, fuck the patience. Reaching up, I rip the Jason mask from my face and toss it to the floor. I need to see her clearly. She got a taste of the mask, now onto the main course.

“Lean back on your heels,” I order, reaching over to grab the rope.

The specific tie I want to use for this is called the butterfly tie, for its resemblance to the beautiful winged creature. Gripping the rope between my palms, I move toward her like a moth to a flame. Her eyes widen briefly as I loop the rope over and under her breast, and up and over her shoulders.

She shivers as her skin comes alive beneath my touch, each pass of the rope hugging her body in precise geometry. She watches in silent surrender as my fingers thoughtlessly form the perfect knot over her sternum, the final touch to the chest harness. Her gaze turns molten as my fingers trace the roped pattern across her back and over the soft curve of her hips.

“Beautiful,” I mutter, my eyes flicking to a pattern of light filtering in from a small window on a nearby wall, the soft glow catching the rope like spun gold.