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There was satisfaction at the pleasure he gave her—because his tongue was inside of her as he made her orgasm—but also a delicious dread, because he was earning the very thing he hated: His binds, his imprisonment, his at-the-mercy, which was what he feared and what he needed—
All at once, the veil of the unbuttoned skirt was gone, and so, too, was his mate’s glorious sex. As the cooler air hit his hot face, he looked wildly at her. His Jane was flushed and breathing hard, her breasts spilling out of the open uniform, her nipples pink and hard.
He smiled at her, knowing he had done his job well.
She did not smile back.
But she didn’t fuck with him. Down at his feet, she drew the straps over his ankles and tucked them into their buckles. After she cranked them tight, she did the same with the ones at his wrists—and also the torso restraints that crossed his chest and locked into a belt she drew across his waist.
When she was finished, he bucked against the bed, yanking, pulling, the terror multiplying until it choked him. He fought hard and got nowhere, his torso locked to the mattress, his arms and legs the same. Sweat poured out of him, running into the come on his stomach, at the same time his mouth dried out from his heavy breathing.
Jane stood by the side of the bed and played between her legs as he tested his binds, that white plane of latex over her face fucking with his mind—
Extracting her fingertips from between her legs, she brought them over to his mouth. Slipping them inside of him, he nursed desperately at her taste.
And he was still sucking as she reached over for the first clamp.
She locked it on the skin that covered his ribs, the bite of pain making him gasp. The second, she bit into the flesh over his belly button. The third clipped onto a pull of skin at his pelvis.
Removing her fingers from his lips, she came back and leaned over, letting him suckle at one of her nipples as she—
“Fuck!” he cried out as she clipped one and then the other of his own tips.
She let him lap at her as she continued to clamp him, the points of pain merging into one great grid of sensation, his body held in place as much by the compass formed by the grabs as by the straps and buckles—
She took her breast from him and looked him over. Punching the toggle on the bed with her foot, she lifted his head up so he could see what she had done. There were twenty of the clips, nipping at his skin, the pinched portions stinging, turning red.
Jane toyed with the clamps, flicking at them with her fingertips.
And now the work began. The pain was his foe. No more of him trying to beat emotions he didn’t give a shit about, no more feeling an existential weakness but a physical one, no more preoccupation with things that made him jealous for no good reason—instead, he focused on the pain, on getting the best of it, on triumphing with his mind so that he could—
A syringe appeared right in front of his left eyeball.
As a fresh load of adrenaline rocketed through him—
Jane captivated him as she took the sharp tip of the needle and pressed it vertically into her nipple, the pink nub giving way, yielding around the tiny intersection.
Vishous stared to pant again.
Removing the syringe from her breast, she put it to his sternum and drew it down the center of him.
When she got to his cock, which was straining and hard and about to explode again, she took the sharp tip and drew a circle around his pierced head. Then she went lower, to his one remaining ball.
The other had been cut off long ago—but in his brain, his wires got twisted. Sharp things in that area opened up a floodgate of pain, old pain, the kind that was so toxic, you gagged.
This was where he had to go, he realized.
He’d thought it was about simple restraints and submission tonight, but . . . no, it was deeper than that. He had to go to the seat of his weakness, further down from being possessive over his roommate, further still than anything that had to do with conventional masculinity.
He had to go back to the beginning.
The origin story of his pain.
Only by glimpsing at the core of the hurt could he rebuild his strength. And maybe not get so fucking rattled over what was really nothing.
Jane in the white latex mask turned her head to him, nothing but lips and eyes and a skull. In the back of his mind, he recognized what the pause was all about. She was giving him a chance to say the word that would stop all of this . . . the three-syllable word that would get him out, no more restraints, no more mask, his beautiful female holding him, soothing him, as she removed the clips one by one.
