Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
No.
I force my eyes open.
The world is blurry and dark around the edges, but I find his face. I find his eyes. Blue-grey and watchful and fixed on me with an intensity that anchors me when everything else is spinning out of control.
"Red."
The word comes out broken. Barely audible over the buzz of the vibrator and my own ragged breathing. But it comes out.
He stops.
Immediately. Completely. The vibrator disappears from my clit and the sudden absence of stimulation is almost as overwhelming as the stimulation itself. My body keeps spasming, the orgasm still working through my muscles even though the source of it is gone, and I'm trying to breathe but I can't seem to remember how.
I'm hyperventilating.
I recognize the pattern from panic attacks I've had before, the rapid shallow breaths that don't actually deliver oxygen, the racing heart, the tingling in my fingers and toes. But this isn't panic. This is something else. This is my body trying to process more sensation than it was designed to handle.
"The blackness," I gasp out. "The—the thing you told me about—subspace—"
I can't get the words in the right order. They're coming out fragmented, tumbling over each other in my desperation to explain.
"I was losing time again. Like before. The dissociative—the fugue—I don't want to forget—"
The magnetic restraint opens from my right wrist, then my left. He crouches to release my ankles while I slump against the cross, my legs unable to hold me.
"I want to remember this," I manage, still breathing too fast. "I want to be able to—to think about it later—to write about it—I don't want gaps—"
He catches me as my knees buckle.
One moment I'm standing, barely, and the next moment I'm in his arms. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back, and my head falls against his shoulder because I don't have the strength to hold it up anymore.
The weighted clamps are still on my nipples. I'd forgotten about them in the overwhelming intensity of the forced orgasms, but now I feel them swinging gently as he carries me down a trail. Each small movement sends a pulse of sensation through my breasts, a reminder that my body is still primed, and raw, and desperate.
Suddenly, as if time was missing, cool air hits my overheated skin and I shiver violently, goosebumps erupting across my arms and thighs. The contrast with the humid jungle air is shocking, almost painful on nerves that are already over sensitized. But the cold helps. It cuts through the fog in my head, grounding me in physical reality instead of letting me drift.
The unmasked man sits down on a couch without releasing me.
I'm in his lap again. Like before. Like Christmas morning when I woke up in this exact position with no memory of how I got there.
But this time I remember.
I remember the cross. The flogger. The cane. His cock pressing against my hip while I begged him for more. The forced orgasms and the blackness closing in and the word that stopped everything.
My breathing is still too fast, my body still trembling with aftershocks, but I'm here. I'm present. I'm conscious.
His fingers brush the hair from my forehead, gentle strokes that push the sweat-damp strands away from my face. The touch is soft in a way that doesn't match anything else that's happened today, and I find myself leaning into it without meaning to, my cheek pressing against his palm like a cat seeking warmth.
"This room was built specifically for moments like this," he says, his voice low and steady. "The temperature is calibrated to bring down core body heat gradually. The lighting mimics natural sunset wavelengths to encourage parasympathetic nervous system activation. The couch cushions are medical-grade memory foam designed to support post-scene physical recovery."
I'm looking up at him while he talks, watching the way his mouth forms the words, the way his jaw moves, the slight roughness along his cheekbones where stubble is starting to show. His eyes meet mine and something in them shifts, the clinical detachment giving way to something warmer and more uncertain.
"The ventilation system circulates air at precisely twenty-two degrees Celsius with forty percent humidity," he continues. "Optimal conditions for—"
He stops.
I realize he's describing technical specifications I'm not supposed to care about. He's giving me meaningless details about HVAC systems, and furniture materials, and lighting design because the words themselves don't matter.
What matters is his voice, the steady rhythm of it, the way it fills the silence and gives my fractured mind something to follow.
He's taking care of me.
The realization hits me somewhere deep in my chest, in a place that's been empty for so long I'd forgotten it existed. He's not expecting me to respond, or perform, or be anything other than what I am right now—which is a shattered mess of overstimulated nerve endings and confused emotions.