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I obey, impatiently waiting, writhing on the bed. The wax drips against my inner wrist, and there’s heat, along with a burst of brief pain. The sensation is enticing, it’s simply exhilarating.
It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced.
“How’s the temperature for you, Sasha?”
“Hot.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Too hot?”
“No. It’s fine, Sir.”
Without saying a word, he places the lit candle into a holder, keeping it upright. Jaxon unzips the long, black pouch, and slowly unfolds it. My chest tightens, and a small gasp escapes my lips. My initial reaction is shock, and thenfear.
Surely, my mind must be playing tricks on me.
It must be.
“We’ll also be playing with knives,” he announces, his eyes guarded, showing not even the slightest hint of emotion.
Or, not.
My heart hammers. Everything around me becomes a blur, my vision, my purpose. My life.
“Knives?”
He cocks his head to the side, and observes my reaction. This time, his eyes are cold, uninviting.
He’s upset. I can feel it, radiating off him.
“That’s right,” he says, slowly sliding the tip of his finger against the flat surface of the blade. “Knives.”
“Why?” I ask.
There’s a sparkle within his icy, blue irises. He appears intrigued, entertained by the horror I’m now engulfed with. I’m drowning before him, entirely submerged.
Finally, Ifeelsomething.
“Oh, Sasha,” he breathes, twisting the knife between his long, lean fingers. “Are you frightened?”
Yes, I mentally scream. I’m more frightened than I’ve been in years, but I can’t admit this.
For some reason, he doesn’t mind my silence.
“Don’t be.” He lightly places the knife back onto the tray. “Remember to use your safe word if you believe it’s needed.”
Squirming against the satin sheets, I am breathless.
Watching him stride across the room to a wall, he retrieves several ropes of different sizes, and I am a quivering mess. Resting the rope on the bottom of the bed, Jaxon becomes still, eying me attentively.
“Do you consent to this, Sasha?”
Without thinking it through, I nod. “Yes, Sir.”
Staring at me blankly, he nods once.
Jaxon fixes the loop of the rope around my ankle, and ties it tightly to the bedpost. He does the same to my other leg, before collecting the last two ropes. Within minutes, my arms are secured as well, the rope cutting into the sensitive skin on my wrists.
“You will use green, yellow, and red,” Jaxon states, with not a shred of empathy. “Green ensures it’s a safe zone. When you say yellow, I will lighten up, and slow the pace. And then, there’s red.”
