His blue balls, these red sheets, My black heart. That's all he knows. After back-to-back ruins and far too much spillage for it being so early in (what should be) his year of denial, he's aching, throbbing, twitching to submit and get back into My good graces, back underneath Me, back in between My thighs.

He asked for a night of scissors and nothing but. I obliged, as long as he's caged in his tiniest device for the entirety of it. His suffering is so much sweeter when I catch his gaze drifting down to the key hanging around My neck ... and I relish the wince when he realize... Show more