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I stripped. Jumper, jeans, socks, everything but my boxers, which were already doing a poor job of hiding how I felt about this. Then I knelt on the rug at her feet and said, “I’m all yours, Elena.”
“Good boy.” She said it softly, like she was testing the words, and I felt them land low in my stomach.
She stood, walked a slow circle round me, and trailed one finger across my shoulders. She was in her grey leggings and my old university hoody, dark hair loose, bare feet, and somehow she’d never looked taller.
“Hands behind your back. Eyes down unless I say otherwise.” Her fingers hooked into my waistband. “Look at you. Hard already, and I haven’t even started.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be useful.” She slid the boxers down, and my cock sprang out, flushed and ridiculous in the lamplight. She wrapped her hand round it, one slow stroke, then let go. I whimpered. Actually whimpered.
“Bedroom,” she said. “Crawl.”
I crawled down the hallway behind her, watching her hips sway. On the bed sat the black holdall she keeps at the back of the wardrobe, the one I’d never been allowed to ask about. The zip was open. I could see leather cuffs. A bottle of lube. And something long, purple and silicone, coiled in its harness.
Elena sat on the edge of the mattress and crooked a finger at me.
“Choose,” she said. “Cuffs first, or do you want to ask me about the rest of the bag?”