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“You,” I said. “In charge.”
“Good boy,” Vivienne said, and something in my stomach flipped over completely.
She made me undress while she sat in the armchair with her legs crossed and watched. She made me kneel. She walked around me slowly in her heels, trailing the riding crop across my shoulders, and told me the rules. I was not to touch her unless she told me to. I was not to come unless she told me to. I was to say thank you.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Thank you, what?”
“Thank you, Miss.”
“Better.” The crop tapped lightly under my chin, lifting my face. “Colours?”
“Amber to slow down. Red to stop.”
“Good.” She stepped out of her dress. Underneath she was wearing a black leather harness over bare skin, straps crossing her breasts and hips, and I made a sound I’d never heard myself make before.
She tied my wrists behind me with silk, not tight. She blindfolded me. Then for ten minutes she did nothing but tease: her breath on my neck, the tip of the crop along my thigh, her nails on my nipples, her hand wrapped round my cock and then gone again just as I started to push into it.
My brain was a white hum. I was harder than I’d been in a decade.
Then she untied my hands, which was a test, and I knew it was a test, and I wanted very badly to fail it.