Page 80 of Carrick
Her eyes lifted, wide and glassy. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered, voice trembling with need. “Use me.”
My cock pulsed hard behind my zipper, blood surging thick through every vein.
“Beg for it.”
A flicker of surprise crossed her face, followed by something deeper—an unraveling. Her pulse beat fast at her throat. She swallowed, then leaned into it.
“Please, Sir,” she breathed. “I need it. I need you to take it. All of it. Make me forget. Make me feel. Use me until there’s nothing left but your hands on my skin and your voice in my ears.”
“Goddamn right, I will,” I growled, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep.
But I didn’t touch her. Not yet.
She’d already given herself to me when she walked through that door and shut the world out behind her. That silence had screamed devotion. Now it was my turn to meet her offering with precision; not reckless hunger, not brute force, but deliberate domination. Every move from here was earned. She was mine to guide. Mine to command. And I would take her apart like a symphony, every note struck with care.
I circled her slowly, letting the air bend around us, letting her feel the energy shift with each measured step. She held still, but I knew what was happening beneath that stillness. Her breath quickened. Her pulse climbed. Her thighs clenched and relaxed as my footsteps padded around her bare skin. I didn’t touch. I didn’t speak. I let my gaze linger, heavy and exacting—dragging down her spine, across the curves of her hips, between her thighs where slick glistened, soft and shameless. She felt it.Every second of it. The restraint. The ache. The heat of what I hadn’t done yet.
“You want pain tonight, baby?” I murmured, voice like velvet stretched taut over a blade.
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, her hands twitching at her sides.
“You want the kind that makes you cry?”
Her breath caught again, body tightening just slightly.
“Yes,” she said, stronger this time. “Yes, I do.”
“You want to sob for me?”
A shiver ran down her spine. Her knees shifted—just a fraction—but enough to betray the urgency building beneath her skin. “Yes,” she said again, voice breaking open like a confession. “I want to sob for you.”
A curse broke from my chest, low and thick. I stepped in close enough to let her feel the heat of my body, but still didn’t touch her. My voice came rough and dark in her ear. “Then get on the bench.”
She moved like she’d been waiting for the order her whole life, bare feet soft against the hardwood, each step controlled, reverent. It wasn’t seduction. It was surrender.
The bench waited in the center of the loft, its black leather gleaming, wiped clean like something holy. She knelt first, then bent forward, arms stretching into place, hips lowering with practiced ease. Her spine arched naturally, beautifully—not for praise, not for show. Just for me.
I moved behind her, heart pounding steady and low, and fastened the wrist cuffs—thick leather, padded, snug enough to hold her without restraint becoming the point. Then I knelt, brushed my knuckles over the backs of her calves, and secured her ankles in silence. She shivered at the contact. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull. Didn’t ask what was coming next. She didn’t need to. She already knew.
“Color?” I asked, my palm braced lightly against her shoulder blade—just enough to anchor her, not enough to press.
“For this, I’m green,” she whispered.
She was calm. Controlled. But beneath it, I felt the flicker—that subtle tremor just before a wire takes the charge. Not fear. Not hesitation. Readiness. That deep, electric ache that settles into your bones when you need the hurt to make something quiet. When pain isn’t the punishment—it’s the balm.
I let my hand hover, then slowly brushed her curls aside, exposing the pale line of her neck and spine. Vulnerable. Unflinching. That curve was a map, and I planned to follow it—inch by inch, breath by breath—until her body forgot the world and remembered only me.
“You’ve got two safewords tonight,” I said, keeping my voice low, even. “Yellow, if you need me to ease up. Red if you need it to stop. You say it, I stop. No hesitation. No questions.”
She nodded once, but I didn’t accept that.
“I want to hear it.”
“Yes, Sir,” she murmured.
That did it. That voice—soft, obedient, already breathy—cut through me like a live wire. “Good girl,” I murmured, letting the praise rumble from my chest, low and deliberate. I circled her slowly, just close enough for her to feel the heat of my body, to let her nerves fire with the ache of anticipation. Her breath hitched as I passed behind her, her body strung tight in the most perfect way. Exactly where I wanted her.
At the table, everything was laid out in careful order: the wand, gleaming chrome under the light; the electrodes—glass, metal—the grounding pad, the Tesla coil. Every piece was placed with intention. Ritual. But I didn’t reach for any of it. Not yet. You don’t start with fire. You start with breath. With pressure. With presence.
