Part Two. If you haven’t read the first, best go back — otherwise none of this will make sense. It isn’t a standalone; it’s a continuation, a spill-over of what happened before.
His finger grazed my neck. Featherlight, almost lazy. Then dragging lower, pausing at the small of my back. Ridiculous how such a small thing made me lean into the ropes, already hot with anticipation. Helpless. Yes, tied. And yet… that helplessness felt like the most dangerous drug.
“What do you want?” he asked, low. Too calm.
I swallowed. My throat caught. “Take me,” I whispered, though the sound barely reached him.
Silence. He shifted behind me, out of sight. The absence was torture in itself. The spot he’d touched burned as if branded. My whole body strained forward for him, but nothing came.
Then—warmth. Close enough to sense him. A hand swept from hip, ribs, up my shoulder, then closed lightly on my neck. I froze. Part of me scared, part of me thrilled. Then fingers fisted in my hair, tugging back so my cheekbone brushed his lips. Intimate. Disarming.
“Tell me,” he breathed, “how much do you want this?”
“Please,” I blurted, my voice breaking. “Nothing more. Just this.”
He laughed, barely, and it went straight through me.
When he finally took control it wasn’t about force. It was the slowness, the patience. He made me remember I was bound, at his mercy. Every pull of my hair, every palm pressed at the small of my back sharpened that line between surrender and frustration. Maybe that’s why people speak with such reverence about bondage and sensual restraint — the way being denied choice makes every flicker of sensation louder.
Light spanks. Just enough to jolt me. Then steady rhythm again, ignoring my pleading, shaping me exactly where he wanted me. Denial became torture. Exquisite, maddening.
I thought of others who had walked here, who lived for control and surrender — like the tale of A Dominatrix Claims Power in Kensington. Maybe I wasn’t so different, testing edges of my own in this room.
When he finally let me break apart, I shook, my body writhing against bonds. His murmur of “Marvellous” was both praise and warning.
The second time, rougher. My breath ragged. His fingers in my mouth silenced me and — oddly — calmed me. A gag, yes, but also an anchor.
I came undone too fast, again, while he held off until the last moment. When he collapsed on me, the ropes dug into my skin and yet I didn’t care.
We lay there wordless. Only our breath. The laughter he’d let slip still echoed in my head, long after the marks faded. Maybe that’s why being a bondage escort is so intoxicating — not the ties themselves, but the surrender they demand.