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“I’m sorry,” I said. “Elena, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please.”
“Oh, Mark.” She turned off the vibrator. The silence in the room was awful. “That is the first thing you’ve said tonight that you meant, and I’m afraid it’s too late.”
“Too late?”
“You smirked. I gave you a chance. You made your choice.” She unbuckled the cuffs, one after the other, with a gentleness that was somehow worse than anger. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, naked and glorious, and picked up the pink vibrator, and I understood.
She used it on herself while I lay beside her. She didn’t touch me. She didn’t let me touch her. She stroked her breasts with her free hand, pressed the toy against her clit and rolled her head back against the pillow. I watched her fall apart, shuddering and gasping, thighs squeezed tight, saying my name, my actual name, in a voice that made my balls ache.
When it was over she kissed my forehead, switched off the lamp and rolled over.
“Night, Mark. No orgasm for naughty boys. Ask me nicely in the morning.”
I lay awake until three, hard as stone, listening to her breathe. At seven I woke to the smell of coffee. She put a mug on my bedside table and said, without looking up from her phone:
“You may begin asking.”
I did. For a very long time.
Ending 4 of 16: Too Late. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.