Page 72 of Bought By Santa

“Perfect,” he growls, crawling onto the bed.

The midnight blue ropes glide over my skin, cool and smooth, as he expertly loops them around my wrists. Each movement is deliberate, almost methodical, as he pulls the rope tight, binding me securely but not painfully. I can feel the strength in his hands, the way he controls the tension, ensuring that the knots are firm but not constricting.

I watch him in silence, my breath catching as he winds the ropes around my torso, creating a pattern that crisscrosses overmy chest. The pressure is gentle, but it’s enough to make me feel contained, held in place by his will. His touch is confident, every knot precise, every pull of the rope deliberate, as if he’s weaving his control around me with each pass.

Running my fingers over the rope, I admire his work. “Let your hands fall to your side,” he rasps as he moves behind me.

Again, I do as he says, feeling more than seeing him tying my wrists to my ankles, forcing me to arch my back at an almost unnatural angle. It feels weird, and I almost lose my balance a few times, but he’s quick to steady me.

My heartbeat quickens as he ties the final knot, securing the intricate web he’s created. The ropes dig slightly into my skin, a constant reminder of their presence, of his presence, of how he’s taken complete control. I’m aware of every sensation—the texture of the ropes, the way they press against me, the way my body responds to the restraints.

I close my eyes, letting myself sink into the feeling, trusting him completely. In this moment, I am his, bound and vulnerable, but there’s a strange comfort in it, a sense of safety in the way he’s tied me, in the way he looks at me—like he’s claimed me, but with care, with intention.

“Trust me,” he whispers, moving around to my front. “I’d never let anything happen to you.” His lips find mine, and he delves his tongue into my mouth, stroking mine.

Just as quickly as the kiss started, he ends it, leaving me panting. A single string of saliva hangs between us, and I look at it, watching it snap as he turns away and gets off the bed. “I do,” I say, finally finding my words.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work. In his gaze, I see more than lust—I see adoration, reverence.

Much to my dismay, Nick’s still dressed. “Why aren’t you naked yet?” I pout.

“Because I’m not ready to fuck you yet,” he answers simply. “The last time we were in here, I hurt you. And I’m so fucking sorry—”

“It’s okay,” I say. It’s ironic that I now am all too eager to reassure him of what I that day refused to say.

“No, it’s most certainly not okay,” he growls. “But if you trust me, I want to build your tolerance,” he explains, brushing my hair away from my shoulders.

“I trust you. You know I do.”

He steps away, only to return with a small box and a flogger—the tails made of soft suede. Then he brushes the strands over my ribs, down my stomach, trailing the tease of pain and pleasure. His other hand finds the remote, and suddenly the vibrator buzzes to life again, a background rhythm to the new sensation.

“Nick!” My hips jerk reflexively, seeking more contact, more of everything he’s offering.

The flogger comes down with a gentle thwap against my thigh, a test, a question. Do I like this? My gasp is answer enough. Again, he strikes, a bit harder, on my other thigh, and I moan loudly.

“Good, Kitten,” he croons. “Let’s find your limits.”

Each strike builds upon the last, a crescendo of stinging kisses that paint my skin in shades of pink and red. The vibrator continues its relentless hum, a counterpoint to the sharp slaps of suede. It’s a dance of sensations, and I’m lost in the rhythm, adrift in a sea where only pleasure and pain exist.

“Look at you, so responsive, so eager,” Nick murmurs, pausing in his ministrations. He traces the marks he’s left, a proprietary glide of fingertips that sets my nerves alight. “This is trust, Carolina. This is us.”

I can’t form words, can only nod, my eyes heavy with lust and something deeper—something like devotion.

“More,” I whisper, a plea, a demand.

“More it is,” he agrees, and there’s a shift in his demeanor, a darkening of his gaze that tells me we’re crossing into new territory.

Switching tactics, he sets aside the flogger and picks the small box up. There’s a clink of metal, and I glimpse the glint of nipple clamps just before he attaches them, a jolt of pain that zips straight to my core. I cry out, not in protest but in revelation—the sweet spot between hurt and heaven.

“Shhh, you can take it,” he assures me, adjusting the tension until I’m squirming, teetering on the edge of something monumental.

“Please,” I beg, not sure what I’m asking for—to stop or to never stop. Both—neither.

His tattooed hands run up my thighs, making me squirm while fighting not to fall. Although I love being tied up like this, it’s hard work not to lose my balance. Especially with all the sensations he’s drawing up in me simultaneously. The sting from the nipple clamps, the euphoria from the vibrator buzzing deep in my pussy, and then the… whatever the ropes make me feel. I’m so overstimulated I can barely tell one sensation from the other.

I’m so lost in my thoughts I almost miss Nick undressing, which would be a waste. Like he has all the time in the world, his tattooed hands undo his cufflinks, pocketing them. Then he unbuttons each button on his dark blue shirt before shrugging it off.

Next, he unbuckles his belt, and I suck in a breath as the air swooshes when he pulls it from the loops. It’s such a small sound, yet it makes my core clench. So does the sound of his zipper being lowered, and the ruffle of his pants falling to the floor. He’s not wearing his briefs, so his cock is free and erect, jutting out from his body and pointing straight at me.

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